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.
Re: Clipped (21c/21)
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.