asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

Entry tags:

assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

We're about to reach the posting limit on pt.1&2, this is for those who wish to continue/write on prompts on both these parts.

Writers! It is your responsibility to link back to the original prompt.

There are no request in this part of the meme.

List of Kinks
(Livejorunal) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Discussion

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

“I’m glad you are too,” Leo said hugging him back, “Just… excuse me for a moment,” and Malik let him go. He quickly went back into the living room and Malik heard him talking to Lorenzo and William but he didn’t really care to hear what they were saying. He pressed his hands up to his face, rubbing tired eyes with his palms. “Malik,” Leo was back and Malik pulled his hands away and his glasses set crookedly across his nose. “What happened?” he asked and fixed Malik’s glasses since he was incapable of doing it himself it seemed.

“It’s a long story,” Malik sighed.

“Tell me,” and Leo dragged him back to the living room where they sat. “Malik,” he said worriedly.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Malik groaned sitting back tiredly.

“Well why don’t you just start at the beginning?”

Malik nodded slowly, ““Truthfully I don’t know if I could even stay awake to tell it,” he said tiredly.

“Well just start, burdens are often easier shared,” and Leo reached out and clasped his hand. “I would happily share it,” he added when Malik hesitated.

When he said that it was like a dam broke. At first Malik didn’t know where he was going, he was just talking at first trying to get it out. Leo just sat there, listening and holding onto his hand, squeezing it sometimes almost like a reassurance. He literally told Leo everything except for what Altair had told him about the Rifters because there was to much to tell for that, to much everything he could barely understand. He barely remembered Altair’s threat that if anyone but he or Shaun breathed a word of it Altair would kill them. He thought it lost the feelings in his fingers for a moment when he told Leo about the second deal he’d made and watched his face flicker through emotions though he didn’t say anything, no accusations, no questions, nothing and Malik was grateful for it. The rest was easy then and Leo’s face only became strained again when Malik told him about why he wanted to go with the Rifters and then again when he explained the Templars who’d almost been able to kill them.

He was growing tired, he hadn’t done so much talking for so long it seemed, since you didn’t want to open your mouth to much out in the desert or sand would fly in. But it wasn’t just that, he was emotionally tired too, mentally tired. He was just… tired. He felt a bit like Altair, he wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again because to have to keep on going was almost more painful than death.

“Malik,” Leo said gently and Malik closed his mouth and the sound of his own voice ceased for the first time in what seemed like days. “I think you should go to bed,” he patted Malik’s hand. Malik just blinked at him in a slow tired way from behind his glasses, “You can tell me the rest in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep,” Malik grumbled.

“Why? Malik you’re practically asleep where you sit,” Leo squeezed his hand. Malik told him and closed his eyes and like he expected he saw the five Rifters standing there in the desert like some sort of foretoken mirage. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I can’t remember. Rest maybe, but not sleep,” he shook his head.

“I’ll be right back, you stay right here,” he patted Malik’s hand and hopped off the couch. Malik sagged into the couch and his eyes drifted closed though he didn’t see the Rifters beyond the fence, this time it was Altair. He was just… perfect and flawless and brave and strong and handsome and-

He shook his head opening his eyes and sat up strait.

He needed to stop doing this to himself.

Leo came back then and shoved a cup into his hand, “Drink,” he ordered, “You sound parched.” Malik didn’t argue, he drank and only then realized how thirsty he was and drained the contents of the cup in a few seconds.

“Thanks,” he said putting the cup on the table as Leo sat down again. “Where was I?”

“The fence I believe,” Leo said sitting in quiet, partially rapt attention. Malik just nodded and started again but he hadn’t even gotten to the part about Des before he felt his tongue become heavy, his eyelids slammed shut and he tipped forward.

He was vaguely aware of a pair of hands catching him and the words, “There there Malik,” spoken in a soft tone near his ear as a hand patted his hair, “Rest now.”

Thankfully he didn’t dream.

—

The following weeks moved at a snail’s pace for Malik. It seemed like everything had just been put on hold and everyone was just at a standstill. After life that involved the Rifter brothers everything else seemed to slow, to safe, and to lax. Normal people, Sheep really, didn’t move like Rifters did. Sheep were slow and weren’t quick to change, reactions were delayed. Looking at it now Malik understood why Altair always called them Sheep, why such a name was even needed, because compared to them it was all to slow, all to safe, secure and boring. Just how sheep were grazing in the field and they were the wolves that stalked the edges of the flock.

A surprise for him had come in the form of Leo when he’d gotten home. Apparently in the two weeks he’d been gone his friend had become famous. That painting of Des had made him a name within days and Malik thought it was funny to watch his friend try and cope with this new fame he had. The title for the piece he thought was especially fitting and brought about so much controversy Malik could cut it with a knife. After all it was a painting of a pet, the lowest rung on the human ladder in their country and he was being given a supernatural title that just eluded to the idea that not everything in the world was as it should be. It was hard not to think so though when it was called ‘The Prophet’.

It happened five weeks after Malik had returned home. He could sleep at night now, so that was a plus, he just didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. Sure he was a mover, but everything seemed so safe after what he’d done. Father he also probably didn’t ever have to work again after the share of Volpe’s money had been deposited into his bank account in ten thousand cash increments over the past few weeks. It was an obscene amount of money and he really hadn’t cared what the price had been when Daniel had called him telling him about the job; he’d just taken it with barely a thought. So to actually see it in his account was a bit of a mind fuck.

He was over Leo’s, as he often was, in his studio watching him paint. He had a million photos of the Rifters, taking them rather secretly the entire time they’d been lived with him and was painting certain ones. It had become an obsession and a passion as of late and his studio was littered with finished and unfinished paintings of the brother doing all sorts of things. The part that was probably most important though were the collars around their necks because Leo did not paint them out like so many artists did. There were some Malik especially liked, like the one of the three brothers sleeping in the bed with Des in his duel casts, or the amazingly up close picture of Altair stretching and showing off a muscular back, one covered in pale scars but Leo hadn’t painted in the wings.

Leo was currently not painting one of the brothers though, amazingly enough, but Francesco, who was being amazingly patient and still. He had to wanted to do a series of all of the children he cared for and sent to school. Malik would like to see how long that endeavor lasted before he got bored though. When Leo set out to do something he always got distracted or disinterested in it, however when it just came to him it was when he could create things that were magical.

He turned when the door opened hurriedly when Salai came into the studio looking flustered. “What’s the matter Salai?” he asked and the teen flapped his hands in a way that Malik knew was sign but couldn’t understand. “Leo,” he prompted and the artist tore his eyes away from his painting and saw Salai.

“Slow down you’re not making any sense Salai,” Leo said frowning. Salai took a deep breath and with a new deliberateness signed out what he wanted to say. “He says there’s something on the news,” Salai nodded rapidly and grabbed both their hands and began to pull. “Ah! Salai what are you doing?” Leo cried in surprise but the pet said nothing and just pulled harder. The red head dragged them out into the living room, Francesco trailing behind, and the TV screen was frozen on some news reporters face. “Salai, explain yourself,” Leo demanded sounding annoyed.

His response was to pick the remote up from the coffee table, point it at the TV and unfroze the screen. “We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you this breaking news strait from the capital. On Friday, September the thirteenth, year three hundred and fifty-eight of our Father at approximately ten this morning the Holy Father was found killed in the State House,” other than the reporter there wasn’t a sound to be heard in the entire house. “According to our sources in the police he was found by his wife lying in bed with his throat cut. Currently there are no leads but the FBC are assuring everyone that they will catch who did this and bring them to justice. This has been a breaking news announcement,” and the screen cut back to the normal program.

“Father,” Leo breathed.

“Was there anything more Salai?” he asked and the red head shook his head. Malik didn’t believe that for a second. The entire thing stunk of Rifters. He grabbed his Operator, leaving the living room to go into the side yard and quickly pinged Shaun. The man picked up on the third ping.

“Hello?” the electronic voice asked over the speaker.

“Shaun. Did you see that breaking news?”

“I most certainly did. Quite a wonderful bit of work if I do say so myself. The Holy Father killed right in his own home with all that security.”

“Does it seem fishy to you?”

“I was waiting for your call, the news is already five minutes cold and since then I’ve been looking into the situation. Indeed the Holy Father was killed in his bed and his throat was indeed cut, however, what the media didn’t say was that whoever did this left a calling card.”

“What?”

“What was that?” Malik asked carefully and looked towards the tall fence that contained the yard.

“There was writing in blood on the wall. I believe it to be his but we’ll have to wait for the police to test it.”

“What does the writing say?”

“‘The Prophet lives,’” and Malik’s mouth went dry and his eyes widened.

His mind spun, “Can you get a picture?”

“Already done, and sending… now,” said the electronic voice and almost immediately the Operator dinged and he tore his ear away from the device and looked at the new message. He paled at what he saw but there it was clear as day as though someone had used a paintbrush were those very words.

“Can you do something for me Shaun?” he asked putting the Operator back to his ear.

“Maybe. Why?”

“Put this picture out onto the Net.”

“Why?” he asked again.

“For the obvious reasons of course.”

“Which is?”

“Chaos.”

“Oh, I like the way you think Malik. Consider it done,” and he ended the conversation.

—

The next day another politician ended up dead. He was in his bed and his throat had been cut. On his chest the police had found a picture. It was first thought to be a copy of the now famous painting by Leonardo Vinci but upon a closer look it was revealed to not be a picture of the painting but rather a photo. It however captured the same heart break, the same sadness and the same fury that had made the portrait famous. After the photo was leaked and along with the photo of the room of the Holy Father with the words written in blood there was not stopping what was to happen next.

The Prophet Lived.

This has been AWESOME!!! I love this story and I love the way you write it!!!
I can't help but think 'Is this the end?' Is it?! OMG!!!!

Thanks anons, it makes my day to get your comments ;)

To the anon who suggested moar Ezio / Lucrezia, feel free to prompt in the meme if you have any story ideas.. I may pick them up if I can. I have other
ideas but I'm afraid they might seem like more of the same :)

Was this the final piece of this awesome fic? I have to say, this has been the most greatest fiction I've ever read!

Prompt Here (http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=2850296#t2850296)

It had started out innocently enough. Just a touch and a question. He had seen Altaïr do it before and come back three times more knowledgeable and to just ask one question...It surely couldn't do him any harm. It wouldn't addict him to the power like it had so many others. Not with just once touch, surely.

Of course, as irony would have it, one questions quickly spiralled out of control.

Malik ghosted his fingertips over the Piece of Eden almost reverently, lips parted and breath bated. He knew that he shouldn't be there in the office. He knew that he shouldn't be touching it. But he was. And he had so many questions that he felt no one and nothing could answer except the sphere just beneath his hand, a hair's breadth away. One questions stood out amongst the others.

Gently Malik spread his fingers down the sphere until his palm touched the crown of the cold metal. A thrill went up his arm and spread rapidly over his body, manifesting in his eyes and tongue and encompassing his entire consciousness in the space of seconds. An empowering, ancient and mysterious energy ebbed through him as the ball began to glow dimly. He wet his lips nervously. One question.

“K-Kad-” He didn't even manage to stutter the rest out. A fierce surge took place, drawing his sight from the room in which he stood to his inner self. The truth struck into him with the brutality of an enemy's blade.

Kadar could neither be happy nor sad. He was dead.

Reality was disappointing and painful, but the knowledge had been so easy to obtain.

Malik shook himself from his stupor and looked to the ball again. Imagine what one could do with this. Control an army, feed a family for a lifetime, create or restore life, heal and absolve. Even regrow limbs.

The last thought had been fleeting. But at the moment it had fluttered through a sudden weight attached itself to his mind and slowed it down, dragging it back into sight. Regrow a limb.

His mind was pried open by pinprick sleeves of light, which burrowed and dug their way into his thoughts and desired. Malik's eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as he gasped at the alien intrusion.

Yes, regrow limbs. Regrow his arm. Be Altaïr's equal. Be a cripple no longer. He could climb and leap and dress and eat and train and live differently; with an ease currently absent. Imagine if he could grow it back.

He wanted to grow it back.

He could grow it back.

He would grow it back.

What remained of the bone in his left arm began to vibrate and hum in it's socket. Quickly and painfully it shot out of the scar tissue, forming the skeleton of his upper arm. He cried out. His elbow cracked into existence and then slowly the Ulna and Radius grew out of that and into a wrist. He chocked as muscle and veins and lymph wound around the new bones, clinging tightly and corded. It was excruciating. His grip on the Apple was hard enough to quake his right arm. Tears slipped from his eyes, lids scrunched tight. Metacarpals rolled out from carpals as tendons wrapped his elbow and cartilage cushioned his joints. He sobbed loudly. The Apple still in hand he fell to his knees. His innocent question had quickly turned in the wrong direction and was becoming the reason for one of the most painful experiences in his life. He skin peeled at the join and then began to inch as fresh, sensitive sheets down the new muscle. He screamed in agony.

The Piece of Eden was ripped from his grasp. A hand slapped at his cheek. But the skin continued to slide over his elbow and the pain was making him sick to his stomach. Couldn't they see it!? Couldn't they see the half-formed limb growing where there once was a gasping space!?

A slap of cold rushed over his face. He fell to his side as icy water seeped into the collar of his robes and dribble down his neck. The pain was gone, ghosted only by his memory of nails jutting from sensitive skin on his fingers. He gasped and rolled over, supporting himself on his right hand as he vomited onto the flagstone floor. A hand soothingly rubbed his back until he stopped retching and knelt there gasping for breath. Then it slid into his soaked hair and pulled him upright. He hissed in pain and flailed his arms.

“What did you do!? What did it show you!?”

Altaïr.

“Nothing!” He shouted back, hand hitting against the thick plated leather of Altaïr's belt and throat hoarse from screaming and crying and vomiting.

“What did it show you!?”

“My arm, my arm!”

The hand let go of his hair and he fell just shy of his sick, looking blearily up at Altaïr through teary eyes. He was shaking his head slowly, hood pulled down around his neck.

Malik looked at his left side.

All remained as it had before he had touched the apple. His shoulder curved into the beginnings of an arm and then left his robe sleeve hauntingly empty, the hem pinned up. His only hand flew to grope the nub disbelievingly. It had been there; he had felt it grow back!

“It was here! It was right here!”

“Malik...”

Malik tore off his robe and hauled himself to sit upright, staring at the lump of scarred tissue where his arm should have been and feeling himself begin to shake all over. He had lost it again. It had been right there!

“The piece of Eden – it plays tricks.” He could distantly hear Altaïr say as he ran his fingers over the thick and abnormal skin. He shook his head, muttering a mantra of 'no's. Altaïr's hand landed on his right shoulder, the touch attempting to calm him. “Please, Malik.”

But wait!

Malik ran his fingers over it again.

That bump. It was new.

He brought the stub up as if extending his arm, trying his best to catch sight of the growth. He ran his index finger over it again. It was white. Smooth. He tapped it with his fingernail to try and feel the bite but none came. He pressed and tugged at it eagerly. The joint of his shoulder to arm felt the movement.

It was bone.

Malik fainted.

Oh Malik~ ;-; Way to interrupt Altaïr! It could have (maybe) worked! But I sure hope Malik's wish comes true, he deserves it.

All will be revealed in time~

This isn't the end.

Not the end?! This anon is thrilled!

I am so excite for the next part. Aboujt a million possibilities are running through my head right now on what it could be!

*flails* Oh my god, don't stop there! D: I think I've read this three times and I will probably read it a fourth and fifth while I wait impatiently for more. I can't wait!

It's-a-coming :)

Original thread: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=1952969#t1952969

Abridged prompt: Immortal Altair in Italy being sort of like a mentor to Ezio, shenanigans along the way.

Well, here's a prompt from me: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=5314196#t5314196. Though I surely would not mind more of the same. :D

WOOO! SHINEY.

No, really, discarding the hyperbole common to the meme, you've made very skillful use of a trope (careful what you wish for) and painted a really interesting look at the inside of Altair's head circa his novice days. Arrogance is a natural conclusion if you ARE better than everybody else.

*waiting*

Damnit Desmond why do you think so much? This took way to much time to write because of his pov /shot
--

The sky outside the window was wide open without even clouds to mar it’s surface except for at the horizon where the startings of one of the seasonal sand storms sat like a lion on the horizon ready to pouch upon the city. Or maybe an assassin ready to strike with blinding speed. The city before him look his breath away, as it always did because it was beautiful. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the city before recently either since so much of his childhood had been spent away from here and away from these lands and instead he’d been locked in a world where he might as well have been deaf and mute for how well he understood the language. He could barely remember his own parents, let alone this city and all he knew of them were through his brother’s eyes.

Below him stretched the city of Masyaf. It was not a city like the ones from that other country which sprawled across a vast landscape and consumed everything it touched, but instead was small in comparison and robust. It was not a jewel of a city, it didn’t glimmer in the sunset, but it was beautiful. Unlike the cities of the other country that were fragile as glass Masyaf was like a knife, efficient, beautiful and strong. It was the city of the Assassins, a safe haven from storms of nature and of steel and no one had ever found it. Much like the Assassins themselves Masyaf was invisible unless it wanted to be found like a desert oasis that when up came upon it was really just a mirage and water was still out of reach. The city spiraled out from the center piece of everything, the proverbial center of their existence, the great fortress of Masyaf with it’s many levels and winding hallways and vast grounds where you could constantly see novices training. At the highest levels you could hear the true howls of the wind, especially during a storm. You could also hear the hum of the Animus which was a constant drone like a prolonged bell tone.

On the other side of the room there was a knock at the door, a quiet and polite knock making Desmond turn away from the glass window and the beautiful city and the storm that was coming in from the west. He padded quietly over to it and opened it just a bit, as wary as ever. One of the black garbed guardians stood there, his hood up and it shadowed his eyes and upper part of his face. They were the protectors of prophets who lived at this high level and tended the Animus. “Yes?” he asked holding the door so he could close it if need be.

“Divinus,” the guardian bowed his head politely to him when he spoke, “your Sicarius has returned from his mission,” he said, his tone measured, reserved, and respectful.

Desmond fought a moment to keep his composure, “Thank you for telling me,” he said managing only that before he closed the door and finally that smile broke across his face. He threw himself down onto the rug covered floor and pulled on his shoes tying up the laces quickly and grabbed his coat from where he’d left it on the floor. It was not cold out but the fabric was light and represented his rank since he did not chose to display his full sleeve tattoo to the world. Once he’d taken the time to at least button one button he left his room, he couldn’t be bothered with the rest.

Outside in the corridor it was quiet with only the distant hum of the climate controller to be heard and the just as distant throb of the Animus which permeated every inch of the upper floors and if you put your hand on the walls you could feel them vibrating. The walls at these upper levels were made of sandstone and lined with large glass windows that let in so much light the normal beige stone was practically white. As he made his way to the stairwell he passed a few of the dark robed guardians and as he did they uttered a soft greeting and dipped their heads in respect before he was already out of sight of them and climbing down the warm stone staircase that led to the lower levels.

The levels of sandstone were the oldest in the great fortress, though technically built last they had never been touched but severe alterations or renovations out of fear that they would somehow disrupt the Waters of the Animus. When he left the staircase a few floors down he was greeted by the darker stoned hallways where the warriors lived and trained and worked. There was far greater activity down here than in the halls of the prophets with people moving in and out between rooms and down the hallways. As he walked the halls he received very different reactions from each level of warrior. The pale gray robed novices shoved themselves up against the wall, heads down barely able to look at his shoes and whispered a subtle greeting that Desmond could have barely heard even if he had been paying attention. There were also the regular warriors who gave a poised greeting as they stepped around him as well as a dip of the head their own white robes marking them as above the novices. Their greetings, though loud enough to hear, also went unnoticed, they just went right through Desmond’s head because he was intent on his task.

Then of course there were the few and proud warriors who from their very existence and near perfection gave their entire people their names: Assassins. They wore the same white as a normal, winged, warrior, but wore a mix of leather and metal armor that did not accompany usual warriors who simply traveled the desert. They all wore beaked hoods up, hiding their faces but not their intent and the few that passed Desmond looked at him with the greatest respect but also desire because of what he was. The assassins were the takers of feathers, the strong arm of the prophets, who ventured out beyond the borders of the desert to kill those deemed punishable by them and they all strove for the same thing, for the same glory, to become a guardian of the sandstone stories. When Desmond passed them they did not offer words, merely a bow of the head, though he still felt their eyes on him, coveting him and all others like him.

When he stood for one of the elevators everyone gave him room and no one got on with him. Only the uppermost stories were not connected to the rest of the fortress in this way because to do so would cut strait through the Animus. But in the lower floors there was this connivence. Below the dark halls was where the rest of the fortress worked, where the city was run and where the normal populous was allowed to go. It by far was the largest part of the fortress though not nearly important as it might have wanted to be. Yes it kept Masyaf running, yes it ensured that the city was always well defended and stocked with food, water and luxuries, but no one doubted that those of the higher levels responded to a higher calling, ones closer to God.

On the first floor was the grand foyer from which everyone had to pass through to get anywhere in the fortress. The foyer was by far the largest open space in the entire building with a huge golden mosaic that depicted desert flora and fauna and covered most of the floor between the two large winged staircases made of green and white marble and gilded silver that ran in curved arcs along the side of the room. Desmond stopped at the landing at the top of the stairways and leaned against the cool banister watching people walk in and out of the building or across the foyer. Now he had to wait. The guardian had said he was here, of course that just meant he’d come home to the city, that wasn’t literally here.

He drummed his fingers across the stone, ignoring the people around him as best he could as they passed and spoke quiet greeting. He could still feel them though, watching him, their eyes fixed to him like glue and he repressed a shutter of dislike. Then he perked up when a familiar figure crossed over the threshold. “Altair!” he called as he scrambled down one of the stairways.

His brother’s name made people turn and look, it was hard not to. It had been five years since they’d come home and their story had already become legend with the names of his brothers carved into history by the tip of a knife. Five years spent in a hostile country, at their mercy and treated as slaves and still his brothers had returned in form, as though their skills had never dulled. It was truly an amazing tale that became more fantastic with each telling and reached across their entire country even touching the clans that rarely came to Masyaf or even into contact with others.

Desmond didn’t need such a story to make his own name though, he was making one without them and without ever drawing a blade, not an easy thing to do when prophets were rarely remembered by name but rather what they had seen. It couldn’t be overlooked though that he was only twenty-two and already prepared to sit upon the Council of Five, the ones who held the whole of the Animus practically in the palms of their hands and who answered to no one except each other. The only way that was possible was because of his own skill, his own abilities and it was widely believed to be the most powerful prophet that had been found in longer than any of his brothers could remember, and when a prophet could not recall something that was a long time indeed. All that remained was his Sicarius, a personal guard and one who was unerringly loyal and if need be be their strong arm to get what needed to be done and push their weight around. They were above the Assassins, above even the black robed guardians who walked the sand stone halls, they were the eyes and the blade of their prophet and their skills were surpassed by none. It was especially important for Desmond to have a capable Sicarius since he was so young and he needed to show that he simply could not be pushed around because of his age.

Altair turned as well to the sound of his own name and a brief smile flickered across his visage as Desmond ran into him. A pair of strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him up a few inches before setting him back down. Altair was to be his Sicarius, Desmond would have no other since he could trust no other like he could his brothers and Ezio did not have the skills to take up the mantle. He'd gotten better since they’d returned to Masyaf, but what the Borgia had done, in such a short period of time... it wasn't something that was easily fixed or even could ever be truly fixed. But Altair was his big brother and had always protected him and kept him safe and even when he'd wished to just finally die in that cellar Altair had appeared like some sort of miracle and saved him. There was no one else who he could think of to do what he needed to do.

“Hey Des,” Altair said once he let him go, his face serious but eyes light. Desmond had since grown out of his childish nickname but to Ezio and Altair he would always be their kid brother, always Des.

Desmond grinned at him, “You completed your mission,” he said, it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, because Altair would not be here unless he had finished it. This was after all his last mission, the final stroke that proved he had the skills to become more than just an assassin.

Altair bowed his head slightly and reached into a side pouch that hung around his waist, “As you commanded Divinus,” he said and if he hadn’t produced the feather Desmond had sent him for the younger man would have frowned and scolded his brother for using his title. That was the one thing he hated, Altair calling him that. He tried not to get too upset though since his brother was so traditional and unlike Desmond had lived, sweat and killed by the laws of their people before he'd even been marked as a prophet. Desmond hadn't, a quarter of his life had been spent in a country not at all his own and he was still struggling to make up the difference. However Altair did produce the feather, the primary of a harpy eagle and stained the color of rust from the dried blood. Anyone who had been looking now looked away, for a feather was not for their eyes, not down here.

Desmond took the feather and held in gently between his fingers, careful of the dried blood on it. He turned it slowly in his fingers and could already feel the pressure building up between his eyes like a bubble settled inside his nasal cavity. Before it reached a bursting point he handed it back to Altair. “Good,” he said as Altair slid the feather back where it belonged. “Show me,” and Altair gave a slight nod before following Desmond back up the green and white marble stairs and up towards the warrior halls. As they left the elevator they came upon a great group of novices who immediately looked away as the doors slid open and parted like the sea in the old stories as Desmond left it and found the nearest stairs.

Up in the pale halls of the prophets one could see the whole of Masyaf and the desert beyond as quickly the storm that had been on the horizon was now much closer and if Desmond had cared to look down he would have seen the novices who’d been outside the elevators leaving the fortress to spread the news to those who weren't aware and ensure the city properly braced for the storm. But Desmond didn’t look, he didn’t need to, because he knew, he could feel them, like he could in some way feel everyone in the fortress, their life beating to the same pulse as the Animus.

Inside Desmond’s room there was no worry of the encroaching storm. The place was pristine with walls painted the color of copper and floor covered in comfortable rugs and pillows with great windows that allowed for an uninterrupted view of the desert. There was no bed in the idea that he'd had for those five years away from here, just a mat on the floor and a hammock which had been confusing to get used to. The most important feature in the room though was the Wellspring, the source of the Animus in Desmond's room and from which the Waters flowed. They were set under a clear glass floor that churned with icy fog which was why up here the climate controller blew hot air instead of cold. Over the glass were more pillows, mainly to separate those who sat upon it and did their work so they didn’t get cold.

Altair sat on the pillows over the Animus as he pulled his hood down revealing his face in full. He'd shaved his head recently, not a big surprise, and less than an inch had only grown back. Desmond could still remember when both Altair and Ezio's hair had been longer, especially Ezio's. But that had been the style there. Here warriors wore it short, almost bald, and usually more than not had it long enough to be a buzz. It made them look fierce, but also was practical as of kept their heads cool under the hoods and didn't allow for whoever they were fighting to grab hold of their hair and pull on it.

Before Desmond himself sat he plucked the golden Apple from it’s place near the Wellspring. It was a large thing with special geometric grooves cut into it’s surface and when he held it the metal seemed to breath in his hand, or maybe pulse like a heart, and like the Animus the Apple seemed to be alive. He rolled it between his fingers in a familiar way as he sat across from Altair. This was why trust was required between a prophet and his guardian, because their relationship was more intimate than any Desmond had ever seen. Prophets just didn't see the future, or remember the past, they recorded history and passed what they knew through their memories and their Apples. They weren't strong though and didn't leave the city of Masyaf often, instead they sent their most trusted allies, their personal guards, and through them they lived important moments, critical to history, including the deaths of people who warranted a feather. Nothing was secret and nothing was sacred between a prophet and his Sicarius, they needed to trust each other and Desmond trusted no one save for his brothers anymore and Altair knew that.

“Ready?” Desmond asked as he shifted a bit to get more comfortable. He’d learned to sit still since he’d come home, to find that perfect quiet within himself, the stillness unlike his brother’s which was more like a barely contained storm. Beneath the surface of the glass the Waters of the Animus roiled and the icy fog rolled lazily against the floor like ethereal clouds. Altair only nodded and closed his eyes, reaching a hand out. Desmond took it and threaded their fingers together before putting them both over the Apple. He could feel Altair’s heart beat, his breath, as if it was his own breath and it hardly took any time before for the cold of the Animus and the darkness behind his own closed eyelids to fade away into the white rivers of the Animus.

When he opened his eyes again he was looking through Altair’s eyes. His breath was Altair’s breath, his thoughts Altair’s thoughts, but he had no control here. He was just a bystander, someone who could only watch history unfold yet remember it as if he himself had lived it.

He recognized where he was immediately. He’d seen it many times in Altair’s memories and as well as his own. A long, quiet, street lined with large, fine, homes where the front lawns were kept perfectly trimmed. But this was not truly the street he’d left five years ago. It was to quiet, far too quiet and several of the houses were abandoned, their lawns forsaken and the words ‘The Prophet Lives’ scrawled in spray paint across their stucco walls. His eyes narrowed reading those words. When the idea had come from the higher ups Altair had been the first to protest, of course he had been, since he’d spent so long ensuring that his brother was safe and wouldn’t have to be used like that only for them to come around and spit in his face. It had enraged him and if it hadn’t been for Des he would have done something stupid and probably ended up dead. He’d been nothing then, something broken, something useless, like a dull blade, even with his skills he was nothing of what he had been when Federico was alive.

Altair turned his eyes away from the graffiti scrawl and looked at the house before him. He was here in the capital for a specific reason, and that reason lay heavy in his pocket like it was made of lead but really was something so fragile a child could snap it right in half. It was just a feather, but it was his last feather, and it had been given to him by his brother and he had a mission and he couldn't let his brother down. He'd only ever let him down once and it had cost them all, he'd never allow it to happen again.

Besides that though he had another mission, one just as important. It involved the house before him, untouched by the swarming darkness that plagued the so called pristine nation under the Father of Understanding. People were unhappy, they were angry, there were riots in the streets and kennels were being destroyed by movers at a much swifter pace than any time before. As the old world and way of life was coming another was being born, a renaissance if you would. But here, on this street, this house was untouched. For good reason too since everyone knew who lived there, it was a famous house now. The so called “Father of the Renaissance” lived in that house and though the government wanted to arrest him they couldn’t since he’d really done nothing wrong.

All he’d done was paint.

The house was familiar, two story, white washed with an angled roof you didn't see in Masyaf. He'd been here a few times over the last five years though had never seen its main occupant. He could see the high fence that hid the side yard with it's soft grass and hammock in the shade of a tree and the house itself. But now this was his last mission as simply an assassin and when he returned home he'd be above that and above even the other guardians of the uppermost floors. His brother was going to be one of the Five who answered to no one except each other. Currently they were only four when one of them had passed away about two years ago. All that was needed was for Altair to prove himself worthy through examples of his kills because Desmond would take no other Sicarius but him and everyone knew it.

That all meant little here though and he swallowed down a set of slight nerves before walking up to the house and knocked on the door. He didn’t have to wait long before the door opened. It was Salai and he was both surprised and happy to see him as the few times he’d returned here it had not been to see Leo, it had been to see him, for his brother.

From within the memory Desmond smiled. He liked the red head. They'd both been through a lot, more than they could explain and more than anyone really wanted to know. Before Salai had ended up in Leo's care he'd been hurt, badly, and traumatized by his previous owner who'd cut his tongue out. The mute was surprisingly easy to relate to and the language barrier had lasted only as long as it took Desmond to pull the knowledge of his sign language out of his head as well as put his own into Salai's, so Desmond had a perfect understanding of the signing and through this sharing with Altair so did he. It had been helpful to talk to someone who wasn't his brothers then, who knew exactly what it was like.

For a moment the memory wavered and seemed to glitch, falling out of sync. Altair could feel what he was thinking and there was guilt. There was always guilt. Desmond smoothed his emotions over as a reminder that everything was all right now and that he’d done what he could. The memory righted itself once more.

“Hello Salai," Altair said not even bothering to speak the nation's tongue, he knew the pet could understand him.

'What are you doing here? Leo is home,' Salai was obviously confused since Altair had always told him he couldn't be here when Leo was, it was safer that way.

"I know."

'Are you here to see him? Why are you here?' Salai’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Salai, who’s at the door?” they both heard Leo from inside and startling the pet.

‘What do you want?” Salai asked confused and didn’t know what to do.

“May I come in? I’m here to see Leo,” he said gently.

Salai blinked before moving out of the way and letting him inside. "Salai!" Leo called again knowing the mute wouldn't actually answer but at least show his face. Salai reached out and grabbed Altair’s hand pulling him towards the living room where he could hear Leo talking as well as another that made him react stiffly. Just who he didn’t want to see. When they entered the living room Altair saw the two there talking to each other and he could imagine their faces. They sat close together, shoulders almost touching and seemed polar opposites of each other despite their apparently closeness. Salai cleared his throat and they turned. Leo fell off the couch with a frightened yelp. Desmond snickered but Altair didn’t even offer a facial twitch.

“By God,” Malik said and distinctly he recognized the change from ‘Father’ to ‘God’, though he didn’t want to think to deeply upon the change.

“Salai, who did you let in?” Leo demanded finally finding his feet under him and standing, he looked warily at Altair, not knowing exactly what to think of the oddly dressed stranger in his house.

It was then that Altair smirked, “Hello Leo, it’s been a long time,” he said in a language they knew, his accent twisting the words roughly, it had been a long time since he’d really needed this language as well.

At those words recognition flashed through the both of them and they wore mirrored expressions of shock. “A-Altair?” Leo croaked, his eyes huge in his head as if a ghost had just appeared in front of him.

“Yes,” he dipped his head as he lowered his hood. The cool air conditioned air made his newly shaved scalp break out into goose flesh and the two Sheep seemed even more shocked than before.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 4 of 27

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

Re: Clipped (20b/?)

Re: Clipped (20c/?)

Re: Clipped (20d/?)

Re: Clipped (19c/?)

Re: FILL: Comfort [6/6]

Re: Clipped (20d/?)

Skelegrow, AltMal

FILL [1.a/?]

FILL [1.b/?]

Re: FILL [1.b/?]

Re: FILL [1.b/?]

Writeanon

Re: Writeanon

Re: Clipped (20d/?)

Re: FILL [1.b/?]

Re: FILL [1.b/?]

Two Eagles

Re: FILL: Comfort [6/6]

Re: 2; The wound [1/?]

Clipped (21a/21)

Re: Clipped (21b/21)

Re: Clipped (21c/21)

Re: Clipped (21d/21)

Re: Clipped (21e/21)

Re: Clipped (21f/21)