Chapter Text
Chapter FIFTEEN
- - -
Sasso, Italy, April 12th, 1492
The dull tolling of church bells cut through the thick silence. It was cool, the air smelling of cold smoke, wet earth; Desmond's eyes slid open. He lay on his side on the floor, his hip and shoulder vaguely aching from sleeping on hard ground, with only a blanket beneath. From his vantage point, the room looked larger. Still as joyless and bare as it had before, though. The lack of curtains in front of the single window showed a stretch of morning sky of the palest blue.
It took him a moment to recall where he was. Sasso. A tiny town, somewhere between Tuscany and Emilia-Romagna. Italy. Geese were gabbling, outside. Between that, the dull clop of hooves against grass: Menace and Ezio's nameless horse on the meadow behind the house.
The church bells rang four, five, six times, the sound fading back into silence like the cadence of a dirge. Desmond thought about the old priest, alone in his desecrated church with its slashed-up painting, felt a sting of sympathy. He remembered Masyaf, the long procession of white-clad Assassins standing with their heads bowed whenever a brother was brought home dead, through the gates of the ancient fortress. He had not witnessed it often, that silent, respectful mourning, but he'd felt back then as he did now, thoughtful and a little sad.
Different times. Different countries. Different lives, really, but some things remained the same.
An arm snaked around him, a gloved hand slipping over his hip onto his belly. He and Ezio lay back to chest, against the wall behind the door. Jokingly, Ezio had suggested they try cuddling up to overcome Desmond's problem of sleeping in close quarters, giving the whole thing the shock treatment; Desmond, recalling vividly the sleepless night before, had given in warily, convinced it was only going to compound his problem.
He'd slept like a baby, instead.
Now Ezio fingers were slowly working the shirt out of his waistband, warmed, supple leather against skin. Ezio's lips lazily explored the back of Desmond's neck. It was a pleasant, lulling sensation, overriding the lingering reservation that had brought things to a stop, the evening before. Desmond made a sleepy, appreciative sound to let Ezio know he was awake, and rolled onto his back.
“Hey,” he greeted softly.
Ezio leaned over him. He brushed his lips against Desmond's, as he had that first time. “Hey.” He drew idle circles around Desmond's bellybutton, glanced at the window, and cleared his throat. “We should be on our way.”
Desmond reached up, finding purchase at the back of Ezio's neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He wished there was more time – wished they had met under different circumstances. He wasn't in love with Ezio, but this felt like something he could get used to, regardless of their fight, regardless of Ezio's obvious approach to this being a pleasant way to pass the time, nothing more. It felt like something worth holding on to, in a world that had been an assembly of temporaries, for so long now.
Ezio pulled away first, though not without a sigh of regret. He patted Desmond's belly. “Come on. Before I forget why we're here.”
It was probably better to leave, before the wistfulness that had overtaken him took firmer root. This wasn't the first time a feeling like that had overcome Desmond; he truly hadn't wanted to leave Masyaf, there at the end. It had been his home. Only a sense of duty toward destiny had allowed him to let Altaїr send him forward in time.
He supposed Ezio was right, in a way. His intentions were noble. Some might even say his intentions were heroic; Desmond was going to save the world. Yet with no other options yet than to activate the shield device the Apple of Eden had shown him, he was going to die.
What kind of goal is that?
He went through the motions of getting up, of gathering their supplies, pondering that.
You, and what army?
Ezio had been right about that, too. Unless he managed to get the Apple of Eden to drop him right on top of the shield device, at the right time, he was going to need help. He needed to locate the shield, in the first place. Depending on where it was, he would probably need support to reach it. He needed to find people who knew about the history of Those Who Came Before; surely, Altaїr, Desmond and now Ezio – in a rather more limited fashion – weren't the only people on earth who knew about them.
Ezio watched him from the doorway. “Is everything all right?”
Part of Ezio's criticism had aimed at Desmond's habit of keeping things to himself. Thinking about it, Desmond supposed the man had a point; he did tend to work things through in his head, before he shared them with anyone, if he ever shared them. That, he guessed, was something he'd picked up from Altaїr, master of playing things close to his chest.
Stepping back and watching things from the outside, for a while, had allowed Desmond to stay abreast of the rather tumultuous upheavals in Masyaf, time and again. Granted, nine times out of ten Altaїr had waltzed right over Desmond's internal resolutions, or even Maria and Malik had, but that old safety mechanism was so deeply ingrained in Desmond now that he found it hard to behave differently.
“I'm just woolgathering.” Before Ezio could ask, Desmond added, “About what I'll do when I get home.”
Ezio nodded, but gave no response. Together, they left the house, leaving the door open, and retrieved the horses from the meadow behind it. Menace affectionately bumped his nose against Desmond's cheek as he saddled him. The geese in their corral were silent once more, watching them.
Desmond looked back over his shoulder as they rode down the street leading out of Sasso, northward. The little town lay silent and empty under a peacefully blue morning sky; from this point, Desmond couldn't see the market place and the stakes there, but he could see the church's bell tower, taller than the other houses.
He turned back around, focusing on the road ahead. As far as last impressions went, this had to be among the saddest he'd ever seen. Part of him wondered what would become of the old priest now; another part was glad he didn't have to stick around to find out.
He drew up to Ezio's side. “Did you find anything yesterday, at the mill?”
“Empty rooms. Nothing more.” Ezio pulled his hood up.
They were approaching the front of trees separating Sasso from the forest that covered the rest of the valley. Mist lingered above the grass and clung to the trunks, and it was cooler under the thick canopy of leaves. It felt like riding into a fairytale forest. Desmond had no attention to spare for the beauty of the scenery. He was watching the road, looking for signs of Sasso's inhabitants by the wayside. Here and there, it looked as though a great many pairs of feet had trampled over a patch of grass, or bent the small twigs of the bushes at the side of the road.
There was nothing that told him if the inhabitants of the town had gone this route, however. Those tracks could have been left by anyone. Desmond soon gave up, but not without throwing a surreptitious glance upward, into the crowns of the trees, now and then.
They had been going for an hour or so, keeping their pace at a light canter, when Ezio broke the silence. “I know you said you cannot tell me anything about the future. But can you tell me about the past?”
“Which parts of it?”
“I am curious about Altaїr.” Ezio glanced at him, lips curling. “The real Altaїr. I realize that what I do know about him is rather limited.”
Desmond hesitated. He almost preferred it stayed that way, for several reasons. He could hardly claim an impartial view of Altaїr, for one; the things he could tell Ezio, the things that had mattered when Desmond stayed in Masyaf, would put a scratch in the heroic shine surrounding the figure of Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad in this time.
“Think of it as a way to pass the time,” Ezio coaxed, when Desmond remained quiet. “The next village is a three-hour-ride away, and I don't think we should put the horses through another race, like yesterday. We might miss clues, like that corpse in the tree.”
Desmond automatically looked up into the tops of the trees again. “Why do you want to know?”
Ezio gazed at the road before them, silent for a moment. “He built us up, and then he set us free. Desmond,” he looked over from under the seam of his hood, serious now, “do not think me so shallow as to pretend none of us are without fault, myself included. I am well aware Altaїr was a human being, not just the Mentor of the Levantine Order. But it started with him. All we are now, it began with him.”
It was startling, to think about it that way. Desmond mulled it over for a while, riding silently next to Ezio, thoughts turned inward. Perhaps he had been too close, and perhaps things had been too personal for him, to spend much time pondering the changes Altaїr had introduced to the order, when they didn't concern him directly. He could think of one occasion only, when they had – the days after Altaїr left for Cyprus, leaving Malik in charge of the order.
How things had been prior to that. . .Desmond's knowledge of that time was limited to what Altaїr and Malik had told him, and Altaїr especially had only parted with information when prodded. The order under Al Mualim had been a thing of the past, by the time Desmond arrived in Masyaf, most of the vital changes already underway.
Those changes were inextricably linked to Altaïr's personal history, the events leading up to him taking up the position of the Mentor.
Desmond remembered an afternoon at the top of the Mentor's Tower in Masyaf, crawling into Altaïr's lap after an earlier argument. Desmond had been surprised to learn that the man who'd pulled him back through time was quite different from the one who had gotten involved with the Apple of Eden for the first time, just a few years prior.
That man was dead now. They were all dead. Cyprus had fallen. Altaïr's Codex, parts of it, had been scattered, and the might of Masyaf was a meaningless phrase, in this time, this place. Yet some things had survived, echoing into the Assassin order of Italy, and perhaps into other orders, in other parts of the world.
Desmond felt his throat tighten. If only he had more time. If only he wasn't chasing a mad monk all over Italy. If only he didn't have a job to do, hundreds of years into the future. He could not imagine Masyaf gone, and the desire to go there and find out what had happened, to see for himself, was overwhelming.
Ezio steered his horse closer. He was frowning, and now reached over to touch Desmond's arm. “I did not mean to sadden you. Forgive me.”
“No, it's. . .” Desmond laughed a little, annoyed at himself. He felt like a crybaby, but he couldn't help it. For Ezio, Altaїr was a figure from the past, long dead. To Desmond, Masyaf and everything that had mattered to him there was recent, a life reluctantly abandoned six days ago. “I lived there for 16 years. Now they're all dead. And it's hard for me to accept that.”
Ezio said calmly, “I know what that feels like.”
Desmond took a breath, striving for calm. Ezio would know all about that. He had, after all, seen his brothers and father executed right in front of him. Compared to that, Desmond had had it easy: Ezio's mother was a ghost, living a life of sad memories in a villa somewhere in Italy, mourning her lost loved ones; Ezio's sister had not been favored by much luck, either. A small, guilty part of Desmond was glad the chances of meeting either woman were slim.
He cleared his throat. “Let me warn you, I'm not much of a storyteller. Where do you want me to start?”
Ezio lifted one shoulder. “At the beginning? What do you know about his childhood?”
They had only briefly touched upon that, in Masyaf.
“He was born in 1165. I don't know a lot about his childhood, but I do know he was born to a Christian mother and an Assassin. Umar. That was his father's name.” Desmond looked over at Ezio and saw him listening intently. “Umar was executed when Altaїr was just a little boy, and. . .”
- - -
Desmond talked until he was nearly hoarse. It felt like a trip down memory lane, Altaïr's memory lane.
They were still going at a light canter, following the gentle twists and turns of the road through the forest, no other soul in sight. The mist hanging between the trees vanished with the rising sun; the forest turned from something out of a fairytale into sun-dappled, friendly woodland scenery, fragrant with the scent of leaf and flower.
They found no more corpses, neither hanging from the trees nor littering the side of the road.
Aside from an occasional question, Ezio had been quietly listening. He offered no comment on Altaïr's past, not even the parts that had made Desmond protest in anger, surprise or doubt, back when he had been the one listening, sitting there on Altaïr's lap in the Mentor's study.
It wasn't a sad tale, or even a very disturbing one. It was a tale of redemption, of a man slowly learning to think beyond himself and his needs, his deeds; it was a tale of the Holy Land and the Crusades, of war, of the Templars and how Al Mualim, Altaïr's predecessor, had attempted to gain power through the Apple of Eden.
Ultimately, it was a tale of changes. Necessary ones. Changes that had dictated everything that came afterward.
“. . .and then, sometime after that, he must have seen me in the Apple's visions.” Desmond reached for his water skin. He was parched. “And you know the rest.”
He drank thirstily, stealing a glance at Ezio. He'd expected more of a visible reaction from the other man, especially when they came to the parts when Altaїr, no two ways about it, acted like an asshole. He had been an asshole, sanctimonious and convinced he could do no wrong, before he'd done everything wrong and dragged Malik right along with him, nearly to both their ruin. Frankly, even the Altaїr Desmond eventually met, changed for the better by some degrees, had retained many traces of that young, cocky Assassin sent out by Al Mualim, to retrieve the Apple of Eden.
“Well, now,” Ezio said finally, “that is quite a tale.”
“Disappointed?”
Ezio made a gesture as if he meant to chop something off. “No. Everyone has a past.”
Desmond eyed him. “But?”
“I hadn't expected him to be quite so human,” Ezio admitted. “That man you told me about is not the man I saw, reading the Codex.” He chuckled under his breath, looked over, and smiled. “But, thank you. For telling me.”
'Human' was the nicer way of putting it. Desmond had left out the really interesting parts about his stay in Masyaf when he recounted his tale in Leonardo's workshop; not even at gunpoint was he going to share the details of how Maria had gotten involved.
He couldn't tell if Ezio was disappointed, after all.
“I regret I cannot tell you what ultimately happened in Masyaf,” Ezio said, a few minutes later. “I -” He trailed off, sitting up in the saddle, alert, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you -?”
Desmond had heard the faraway sound. “I hear it, too.” His nose twitched. “And I can smell it.”
They exchanged a glance. Ezio gave his horse the heels, urging it to a faster pace.
They were coming up on a gentle hill. Somewhere behind it, out of their line of sight, people were singing.
Smoke hung in the air, again.
By unspoken consent, just before they reached the peak of the hill, Ezio and Desmond slid out of the saddle and tied the horses to a tree at the side of the road. On foot, ducked low and using the trees as cover, they quickly ran up the rest of the way.
The sight that greeted them was arresting, and disturbing.
The road took a sharp dip down the other side of the hill, across a small stream, over a pair of tree trunks laid down as a makeshift bridge. On the northward side of the stream, the forest abruptly lightened, trees giving way to a small clearing, perhaps 200 hundred yards in width. An old, tiny, shabby-looking house, its roof straw-thatched and sagging, stood to the left side of the road.
“A hunter's lodge,” Ezio whispered. “No one lives there.”
No one had, until recently. Crouched at the foot of a tree and carefully leaning around the trunk, Desmond counted at least six groups of people camped in the meadow surrounding the hunter's lodge. They were sitting around campfires, men, women and children, old and young, huddled into blankets and cloaks. They were singing, voices raised in a low chant; Desmond strained to understand the words of the song but couldn't. They were too far away, still.
He cut a glance at Ezio. “Recognize anyone?”
“No.” He paused. “Maybe. A few here and there look familiar, but I can't be sure.” One tree over, Ezio was avidly watching the people. He pointed suddenly. “Look.”
Desmond saw it. “Savonarola?”
“Yes.”
At the far side of the clearing, almost at the edge of the forest, a larger group had assembled around a black-robed man seated atop a small cart, like a king presiding over his court. He stood out from the others, clothed in black like that, holding himself regal. Both arms raised, face turned toward the sky above, the man was speaking, and the people sitting at his feet were listening, enraptured.
Desmond's gaze immediately honed in on a lump of gold on the man's lap, nestled into the folds of the black robe.
Even from this distance, he recognized the Apple of Eden. It wasn't Altaïr's Apple of Eden – at least, Desmond assumed it wasn't; Ezio hadn't been able to tell him where, exactly, this Apple had come from, only that he'd taken it from the Templars – but the unnatural glow surrounding the sphere was unmistakable.
The man on the cart now lifted the Apple in one hand, raising it toward the sky. The people sitting on the ground around the cart lifted their arms, rocking back and forth, raising their voices higher. As if in answer, the other people around the campfires joined in.
It was a strange, dissonant song, off-key and haunting and in a foreign language. Probably Latin. Tearing his attention away from the Apple, Desmond focused on the people and felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Even the youngest ones, clinging to their parents, were opening their mouths and joining the chant. A baby, cradled in its mothers arms, swaddled in mere rags, was waving its plump arms in the air.
Desmond flicked his hand, releasing his hidden blade.
Ezio swiftly crawled over to him. His hand landed on Desmond's wrist, restraining him. “No.” He jerked his chin at the clearing, at the singing people. His eyes were narrowed. “Are you mad? There are children.”
“I'm not interested in the children.” Desmond shook himself loose.
Ezio glared at him. “We need to plan.”
“No,” Desmond said, “we don't.” What they needed to do was to put a stop to this, now.
Before Ezio could grab him again, he pushed to his feet and slid out from behind the tree. Ignoring Ezio's heated curse, he jogged down the hill, crossed the stream in two strides, and headed into the clearing. The people closest to him, seated around the campfires, ignored him as he approached, caught in their singing, beatific smiles on their faces, their eyes empty. A chill raked Desmond's spine at the sight; this was the Apple's doing.
He remembered Swami, wide-eyed and terrified, staring into the golden glow, unable to look away. He remembered Altaїr, cautioning him about the effects the Apple could have. This was like a mass hypnosis. Hurrying through the seated, rocking and swaying people, Desmond focused on his goal, pushing aside the unease that crept up on him.
His approach did not go entirely unnoticed.
Across the clearing, the black-robed man, the Apple of Eden in hand, pointed at him. His mouth moved, but whatever he was saying was lost in the din of the singing as the people now approached rapture, some of them shouting the words while others sang wordless, long, ululating cadences.
Desmond had one goal, and one goal only. He headed straight for the cart and the man standing in it, and made it as far as the middle of the clearing before someone blocked his path.
A little girl stepped into his way, moving jerkily. She was filthy, malnourished and pasty-skinned, her clothes in rags, her feet bare. She could have been 10, or 15 – it was hard to tell. Beneath a mop of tangled, matted hair, her eyes burned with intention.
Desmond stopped, eying her. She had no weapons.
She pointed at him, like Savonarola did. Her voice, sweet and young, rang out clear. “Stop.”
Desmond stared past her, at the man on the cart. Savonarola stood tall and imposing, as if in challenge. He was older than the monk he'd tried to rescue from the guards in Florence, his face lined and hard. His robe was similar to the one worn by Sasso's priest, more elaborate, black hemmed with white stitching, layered. Tucked behind a leather belt, he carried a wooden cross with a tiny Jesus figure.
Desmond looked at the Apple in Savonarola's hand. It was glowing; worse, it was making noise. A thin, hair-rising sound, like an out of tune string instrument, began to drown out the chanting people, becoming louder and louder.
Savonarola shifted, making a grand, mocking gesture of welcome. Then he pointed the Apple at Desmond, and lifted his other hand toward the sky, as if to call down judgment from above.
The last time anyone pointed that thing at him, it had been Altaїr, and Desmond had spent three days in a dazed stupor, puking his guts out. Altaїr had never pointed the Apple at him with malicious intent, however; there was no telling if he was susceptible to the thrall Savonarola held the people here in.
He wasn't going to wait around to find out.
Desmond shoved the girl out of the way and sprinted forward. He had to dodge quickly, as more and more people stood and ambled into his path, moving jerkily like dolls on strings. A man, there, making a grab for him. A woman, here, dragging a vacant-eyed little boy, pointing an accusing finger at him.
Almost there.
Thunder cracked across the clearing.
The people stopped chanting, as if cut off.
Savonarola jerked woodenly, teetered off balance atop the cart. The Apple of Eden fell from his grasp and plunked noisily against wood, still emitting that ear-busting noise. Flabbergasted, Desmond watched the mad monk stumble back, watched him already bend to retrieve his fallen treasure.
A renewed crack of thunder rang out. Savonarola fell backward out of the cart, booted feet for one, comical moment treading air.
Desmond turned around.
Ezio came striding across the clearing, an expression of annoyance plastered on his face. He was fiddling with his left bracer, and his wrist was smoking.
“That was your plan?” Desmond asked, incredulously. “Shooting him?”
Ezio walked up to him. Without warning, he smacked the back of Desmond's head, hard, “It was better than yours,” and strode on, toward the cart.
Around them, the people were waking up. They looked at each other, and then at their surroundings, with widening eyes. A faint murmur began, swelling quickly to noise as men, women and children began to talk all at once, asking where they were, why they were here. The little girl Desmond had shoved out of his way sat on the ground, crying, holding a skinned knee.
Within seconds, tension was thick, and there was still that awful sound coming from the Apple.
Desmond hurried to catch up with Ezio. They rounded the cart. One of the men who had previously sat at Savonarola's feet with a rapt expression was leaning into it, reaching for the Apple.
Ezio shouldered the man out of the way. He grabbed the Apple, teeth showing between his lips as the Piece of Eden suddenly gave off a loud noise, like a screech of protest, scaring the people still clustered around the cart into a fast retreat. Ezio clenched his eyes shut in concentration, and the noise dimmed.
With an audible 'snap', the Apple fell silent.
Desmond crouched at Savonarola's side. The monk lay on his back, limbs akimbo, dimming eyes fixed on the sky above. Two small holes in the front of his robe showed where Ezio's bullets had found their marks. The one in his left shoulder wasn't lethal, but blood was bubbling at the corners of Savonarola's mouth, bright red.
Desmond tugged down the monk's wide collar. A big chunk of the side of Savonarola's throat was missing, the torn wound edges showing cartilage and raw, red flesh.
“Nice shot,” Desmond commented. He'd been hoping to ask Savonarola questions, to find out how the monk had known about the Apple of Eden and, more importantly, how to use it, but as he leaned over the prone man, Savonarola's eyes widened and lost focus.
“God,” he whispered, wetly and nearly unintelligibly, and died.
“Rest in pieces, bastard,” Ezio muttered. He was shoving the Apple into a pouch, glancing at the people.
Rising back to his feet, Desmond realized the people in the clearing were gathering around the cart. Children were crying, clinging to the hands of their wild-eyed parents. The tension tripled, and the muttering got louder, more hostile. Desmond caught sight of a young woman at the front of the crowd, bending to pick up a stone.
“Devilry!” an old man shouted. “You brought us here!”
Trying to explain to these people how, exactly, they had arrived at this clearing was a waste of time. Even if Desmond or Ezio could figure out which villages they came from, it wasn't going to appease the crowd that was now a hair's breadth from turning into an angry mob. The culprit, the man who could have shed some light on the situation lay dead at Desmond's feet; Savonarola had taken his reasons, his knowledge with him.
Desmond looked at Ezio.
“Run,” Ezio suggested.
They narrowly escaped. They were better rested than these people and hadn't spent the last god knew how many days following a mad monk in a religious trance while under the spell of an ancient artifact; still, by the time Desmond arrived back where they'd left the horses, blood was dripping down his jaw from a well-aimed stone. Ezio came crashing through the underbrush, dodging a clump of earth thrown by a burly man hot on his heels. The forest rang with the agitated shouts and the calls for blood from the crowd.
Desmond vaulted into the saddle, dug his heels into Menace's side, and bent low over the horse's neck. He looked back only once, to assure himself Ezio was right behind him, and then concentrated on holding on as they shot along the forest road, back in the direction they'd come from.
- - -
Prato, Italy, April 14th, 1492
- - -
“You again.” Suspiciously, the guard at the city gate eyed them.
“Me again,” Ezio confirmed.
“Didn't you say you were going to Venice?”
Ezio shrugged. “We changed our minds. We like Prato so much, we decided to come back.”
The guard glowered at them, looking unsure how to react to the heavy sarcasm. Next to him, his fellow guard gave them a thorough once-over, looking equally as suspicious. The two men exchanged a glance; one shrugged, the other shrugged as well. Then the guard who'd greeted them, incidentally the same man they'd come across the first time they rode into the city of Prato, harrumphed. “Yes, well. Welcome to Prato. Again. Mind your own business and -”
“- be on your way as quickly as possible, yes, yes, we know.” Ezio clicked his tongue, urging his horse past the two guards. “Thank you ever so much for the warm welcome.”
In Desmond's mind, both guards had already died a thousand grizzly deaths, all involving the creative application of the halberds they carried and those stupid, feathery plumes sticking out the top of their helmets. He bit down on the acid commentary wanting to escape his pressed-together lips, and concentrated instead on not falling out of the saddle.
He wanted a bath. He wanted food; most of all, he never wanted to sit in a saddle, ever again. He was so tired he felt queasy, and his feet hurt. Not to mention his ass, and his back, and the muscles in his shoulders and arms were screaming protest with every little motion.
It was early afternoon, April 14th, 1492, in the city of Prato, and Desmond was going to murder the next person who looked at him funny.
Even Ezio.
It was at Ezio's urging that they had made literally no stops on the way back from that cursed forest clearing. They'd ridden through Sasso as if the devil himself was on their heels, their pleasant canter and the conversational exchange of information a thing of the past. First, it had been to get rid of the angry mob undoubtedly trying to catch up with them; then, once past Sasso and on the way back toward the Apennines mountain range, Ezio had pointed out that once their ire ran out, those people were likely going to return home – home being, in all likelihood, the few settlements Desmond and Ezio had not stopped at, the first time.
As a result, Desmond had gotten maybe two hours of sleep, over the last two days. They stopped only when they absolutely had to, even when the chance of anyone catching up with them had dwindled toward zero. When the horses tired, they'd gone onward on foot. Only once they'd made it through the first mountain pass, and then the second, and then finally arrived at the one near Mount Retaia, had Ezio slowed their pace.
By then, though, the city of Prato had lain before them at the foot of the mountain, looking like a little piece of paradise following their strenuous trek. Nevermind their unfriendly welcome the first time, or even this one: Desmond was looking forward to a bath and a bed with a longing that was approaching single-minded fanaticism.
Now, riding behind Ezio through Prato's streets, it was all he could think of. They had the Apple of Eden. It was lodged safely in a pouch hanging from Ezio's belt. They'd caught up with Savonarola, way before their original destination of Venice, and whether or not Desmond and Ezio had changed the course of history by murdering the monk in a forest clearing and stealing back an ancient artifact was currently beyond Desmond's capacity to give a damn about.
They arrived at the brothel.
The same stable boy who'd taken their horses that night, three days ago, took them again. Madam Rosetta, in a different though no less revealing dress, greeted them once more. She clapped her hands together over her head at the sight of the bedraggled state Ezio and Desmond were in, but wasted no time on asking questions.
“A bath, food, and a bed,” she said firmly, ushering them toward the stairs. “Come. Now. You boys look like you need them.”
Desmond could have kissed her. He wondered how much she really knew, about Ezio's chosen profession.
Flora met them at the top of the stairs and stifled a gasp at the sight of them. She fussed about Ezio and ignored Desmond completely. Even before they arrived at the door, she managed to rid Ezio of his cape and the first layer of clothes, nose crinkling at the smell of 'Man, After A Long Ride'.
Ezio smiled widely, eyes half-lidded as he basked in the attention. He handed the pouch with the Apple in it to Desmond, slung an arm around Flora's waist, and let her steer him toward another door.
Forlornly, watching Ezio and Flora vanish, Desmond stood in the hallway.
Madam Rosetta cocked her head. “Do I want to know what's in that pouch?”
“No.”
“It's not someone's head, is it?”
Desmond looked at the pouch. It was far too small to contain a head, unless it was a baby's head, and that was a line of thought he really didn't want to follow. “No.”
Madam Rosetta gave him a shrewd look. “You're not his cousin, are you?”
Desmond allowed himself a smile. He aimed for 'enigmatic', but it probably just came out 'tired'. “No.”
“Fine, then, oh man of mystery. Keep your secrets, if it pleases you.” Madam Rosetta's lips were curling into a smile. Desmond hadn't realized it the first time he met her, because he hadn't paid her much attention, but she was an attractive woman, plump and curvy, her face youthful despite the graying hairs at her temples. “Follow me. We have a second bathroom, on this floor.”
She led him to a door on the other end of the hallway. The bathroom was small, but tastefully furnished in light wood. The tub in the middle, large enough to hold two people, was the best sight Desmond had seen today.
“Get cleaned up.” Madam Rosetta pointed out the fireplace in a corner, and the iron kettle in front of it. Large buckets of water stood in a neat row against one wall, waiting to be heated. “I'll have the cook fix you something in the meantime. And leave your clothes there, on that stool. It's no good, putting them back on.”
“Thank you.” Desmond deposited the pouch on a table, toed off his boots, and pulled off his jacket. He took off his shirt, wrinkled his nose at the distinct odor of sweat rising from the fabric.
When he looked up, Madam Rosetta still stood in the doorway, and she was looking at him with slightly raised brows. Her expression conveyed appreciation of the sight.
He cleared his throat.
She gave him a wink and a smile. “Old habits,” she said, leaving him to wonder what old habits she was referring to, and stepped out, pulling the door shut.
Left to his own devices, Desmond wasted no time on heating the water. He dumped his clothes on the indicated footstool, collected a few cakes of soap, and lowered himself into the tub for a thorough scrubbing. Now and then, his gaze strayed to the Apple in its pouch, but he refrained from reaching for it, too tired to deal with that, now.
He soaked until his toes wrinkled.
Wrapped in a towel and feeling wonderfully, finally clean, Desmond padded into the room Ezio and he had stayed in before. Madam Rosetta was nowhere in sight, but there was yet another woman. She was closer to Flora's age than Madam Rosetta's, and wore an apron over a floor-length dress. Her light hair was wound into a neat bun, held at the back of her neck with a hairnet.
She glanced up when he entered and said, “Ah, Ezio, you -”, halted, looked again, and stuttered, “Oh! Excuse me, I thought you were someone else.”
“I get that a lot.” Desmond's attention zeroed in on the meal the woman – most likely the brothel cook – had laid out on the table. There was bread in various shapes, ham, cooked eggs; there were triangles of cheese and a long, thick sausage, the dried, spicy kind called salami Desmond had tried first in Florence and found out he liked. Small, covered bowls gave off an appetizing scent. There was even half a round, layered cake, topped with slices of fruit. Desmond beamed at the woman. “You're my favorite person in the world, right now.”
She laughed. “I get that a lot.” She made an inviting gesture, gave him another friendly smile, and went to the door. “Call for seconds, if you need them.”
Desmond wouldn't have to, but Ezio might, if he didn't make an appearance soon. He was taking rather long to get cleaned up. Then Desmond remembered who was in the bathroom with Ezio, and he spent half a minute trying to figure out if that bothered him or not, before he gave up. Ezio's approach to who he slept with seemed to be of the 'here and now' kind; Desmond shrugged inwardly, flung the pouch and his hidden blade onto the bed, and descended upon the food.
He ate, listening for sounds from outside. Twice, someone walked by the door; no one knocked, no one entered, so he went back to eating. The covered bowls contained hot, spicy broth with a layer of thick noodles floating at the top, sprinkled with chopped vegetables and small pieces of meat. Curling up in the comfortable chair, Desmond slurped the soup, enjoying the sensation of warmth spreading through his limbs.
With the warmth came fatigue, leaden and inescapable, though without the sense of urgency that had driven them onward. The bed looked soft and inviting, despite the leather pouch making a dent in the blankets. Sooner rather than later, Desmond would have to sit down and spend some quality time with the Apple of Eden, but he decided it could wait a while longer.
Quite a while longer, considering how his eyelids were drooping as he nibbled on a slice of cake, and the next thing Desmond knew was the soft clap of the door and the patter of naked feet against carpet.
He blinked, lifted his head. He'd fallen asleep in the chair.
Ezio was crossing the room, dressed in the most garishly colored robe Desmond had ever seen. He was alone, looking as though he'd just come out of the tub, hair still dripping water.
Ezio looked at the rather severely diminished contents of the table. “I see you started without me.”
Desmond shifted to look at the window. The sun hung low over Prato's rooftops, in only a slightly different position than when he'd last seen it. He couldn't have slept for more than half an hour, at the most. Reaching up to rub his eyes, annoyed to discover he'd ended up with a crick in his neck, he startled: Ezio had come over to the chair and was sliding one arm under Desmond's knees, the other around his back. With a grunt of strain, Ezio lifted him out of the chair, bridal-style.
Desmond uttered a halfhearted protest. “I'm not a girl.”
“You're in my way. There is only one chair.” Ezio carried him to the bed and dumped him on it rather unceremoniously, then made a show of wiping his brow. His smile was warm, though, affectionate. He patted Desmond's thigh. “Go to sleep.”
The Apple poked Desmond in the belly, when he rolled over. He shoved it over the edge of the bed, punched a pillow into shape, and drifted off within seconds, to the sounds of Ezio sitting down at the table.
- - -
Birdsong woke him, chirpy and insistent. It didn't seem worth the trouble of getting out of bed, to locate the little feathery sucker and strangle it. Desmond rolled over and came up against an immovable object. A faint mutter of protest, trailing off into fainter mumbles, roused him enough to open his eyes. Ezio slept on, unperturbed; he lay on his back, his profile outlined sharply against the sunlight flooding the room.
Desmond curled up against him, nestled his cheek against Ezio's chest. He felt well-rested, the aches of that last, strenuous leg of their journey already receding to the back of his mind. Aimlessly, he let his palm wander across warm skin. Unlike Altaїr, Ezio's body bore scars of encounters with enemies gone wrong; Desmond traced them, by now knowing where they were located and what had caused some of them.
He was in the mood for sex, half-hard against Ezio's thigh, but loathed to wake the other man. Peaceful sleep, Desmond imagined, wasn't something easily come by for Ezio.
“Mm,” came the sleepy rumble from above. “Go on.”
. . .but if Ezio was awake, there was no reason to stop, was there?
He rubbed his cheek against Ezio's chest and stroked down, over Ezio's ridged belly, the curve of a hip, under the blanket. Ezio's cock firmed in the loose curl of Desmond's fingers, and when he stroked back the foreskin and rolled his thumb against the head, Ezio groaned softly.
Desmond shifted until he lay with his cheek against Ezio's belly, sideways across the bed. For a while, he watched the blanket rise and fall, lazily jacking him off, and enjoyed the way Ezio's muscles tensed and loosened, the subtle upward thrusts of his hips. Ezio's hand settled on his head, light as a feather.
It wasn't enough.
Desmond pushed back the blanket. He leaned up and watched his hand move up and down Ezio's cock, the shaft swelling; watched how the head appeared and disappeared in its sheath of skin, each time peeking out a little moister. He kissed the shaft, licked at the head; it tasted musky, and a little salty, with a hint of bitterness. Not too bad. Not too great, either. Carefully, he took the head of Ezio's cock into his mouth and swirled his tongue against it.
“Oh,” Ezio said, faintly. His fingers moved against Desmond's scalp, a motion brought on by reflex more than intent. Then he said, “Turn around. I want to watch.” His thumb traced the shell of Desmond's ear, a touch so light it tickled. “Let me see your face.”
Obliging him, Desmond shifted onto his other elbow, arranging himself comfortably across Ezio's thighs. He glanced up once, to see Ezio watch him intently, lips parted in anticipation, and felt a pang of nerves. He'd never done this before. He'd never wanted to do this before.
But now he'd started it, and he didn't want to stop.
He slid his mouth down over Ezio's cock, covered the rest of the shaft with his hand. He moved slowly, testing until he found a rhythm and angle that suited him. The tip of Ezio's cock tickled the roof of his mouth. When Desmond pressed his tongue against the shaft and sucked lightly, Ezio cursed and tossed his head on the pillow, the muscles in his thighs flexing against Desmond's weight.
It was intoxicating, to be the one causing these reactions. Desmond shifted until he could rub his own cock against the mattress, to relieve the need for stimulation. He wanted Ezio's hands on him, but Ezio was grabbing handfuls of the blanket, rolling his hips up against Desmond's grip, his mouth, and that was just as good. Ezio's balls were firming, drawing closer to his body in their soft, loose sac, and when bitterer wetness trickled over his tongue, Desmond overrode the reaction of wanting to pull away. He tightened his grip, took as much of Ezio's cock into his mouth as he could, and swallowed.
“Shit,” Ezio cursed, tersely, heatedly.
Desmond kept swallowing until Ezio had nothing left to give him, then pulled away slowly, working his jaw from side to side. That taste was nothing to write home about, but the sight of Ezio relaxing into a puddle of bliss was worth it.
Ezio released a long, deep breath. He was grinning at the ceiling. “Good morning.”
Desmond didn't answer. He nuzzled Ezio's thigh, feeling restless. The mattress was no substitute for a warm body, so he shifted again, sprawling over Ezio's prone form, kissing and licking every bit of skin within reach, scraped his teeth over a pert nipple. It was a little strange, to rub against the man when Ezio was all but motionless under him, but then Ezio's arms wound around Desmond and pulled him up higher. They ended up face to face, lips locked in a sloppy kiss. Ezio wormed a hand between their bodies, taking Desmond's cock in a firm grip. A few thrusts into the snug warmth of Ezio's hand were enough to bring him over.
He moved just enough to the side so he didn't end up squashing Ezio, threw a leg over him, and relaxed into the afterglow.
They lay quietly for a while, silent.
Then Ezio rolled onto his side, facing Desmond. “What will you do if you cannot get the Apple to send you back?”
Desmond groaned and buried his face into the pillow. He'd successfully avoided thinking about that, up to now. “Way to ruin the mood,” he complained. “You suck at pillow talk.”
“It bears thinking about,” Ezio said. He dragged his palm down Desmond's side, over his hip, down his leg.
“I guess I'll be stuck here.” Opening his eyes to slits, Desmond glared up. “I'll grow old and die. Maybe I'll die in a fight.”
Ezio was quiet for a moment. “Would that truly be so terrible?”
“Dying?”
“No. Staying here.”
It wasn't like the thought hadn't crossed Desmond's mind, before. It wasn't like he hadn't seriously considered pleading with Altaїr to let him stay, in Masyaf.
It wasn't like Florence, Italy, this time, weren't fascinating, offering a thousand things Desmond had yet to discover. It was a completely different world than the one he'd come from, different than the one he planned on returning to. There were Assassins, here, and although the order of Italy was infinitely smaller than the Levantine one, he knew they would take him in. Eventually. After he'd proven himself, probably, shown he was worth it.
He thought about it, imagined it: exploring Italy, then Europe, maybe with Ezio at his side. Traveling to Syria, to Masyaf, to find out if the Levantine order was truly gone. Fighting the Templars, helping Ezio gain revenge for the deaths of his father and brothers.
He could stay. Who was going to judge him, if he did? Only Ezio and Leonardo knew where Desmond had come from and where he needed to go. No one was going to blame him if, a few hundred years down the road, the sun turned into a super-toaster and crisped the planet.
And a few billion people along with it.
“I can't,” Desmond said.
Ezio's thumb drew small circles against his ankle. Whether or not he was disappointed with Desmond's answer was hard to tell. He was smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, and then Ezio patted Desmond's calf and sat up, disentangling himself. “We should be on our way, then.”
- - -
The cook, who belatedly introduced herself as Anna, handed Desmond a wrapped, small parcel, when he and Ezio came down the stairs to say farewell to Madam Rosetta.
“Something for the road,” Anna said, and winked. “It is not very often that the men who come here appreciate my cooking quite the way you did.”
Desmond thanked her. As soon as she was gone, he unwrapped his gift just enough to discover a cake, carefully placed in a wooden bowl. Slices of almonds were arranged in a symmetrical pattern over a dark marmalade topping. After the hefty breakfast served to them this morning, the sight was still enough to make Desmond's mouth water; confections, even cakes, had not been on the menu often, in Masyaf.
He left the re-wrapped cake at the bottom of the stairs and joined Ezio in the parlor. Madam Rosetta, seated on an ornate, plush chair, was taking dainty sips from a tiny porcelain cup giving off fragrant steam. She lit up at the sight of Desmond entering, and waved him closer.
“Dear Ezio here tells me you'll soon return to your home.” Her eyes twinkled above the rim of the cup; after last night's confession that he wasn't Ezio's 'cousin', she seemed amused by the ongoing charade. “A faraway country, I imagine?”
Desmond slanted a glance at Ezio, but the man only grinned at him. “Very far away.”
“Well then, I hope you'll keep us in good memory.” Setting the cup down, Madam Rosetta rose and held her arms open. “And should your path lead you to Italy again, be sure to drop in for a visit.”
It was nothing like the good-byes he'd received in Masyaf, from Malik and Maria, but Desmond still felt a little misty-eyed when he followed Ezio out of the brothel. Why couldn't the people he met be assholes; it would make parting from them easier.
Ezio eyed the wrapped parcel in Desmond's hand curiously, while they waited for the stable boy to bring out the horses. “What's that?”
“Cake. The cook loves me.”
Ezio lifted an eyebrow, chuckled, but made no other comment. Following their 'pillow talk' this morning, he had been in a strange mood since; not a bad mood, just a strange one. Lighthearted, prone to joking. Touchy-feely again, but Desmond didn't mind that anymore.
He would miss Ezio, too.
The same guard who'd been on duty the two times Ezio and Desmond rode into the city of Prato, was on duty again when they left. This time, the man only rolled his eyes and waved them through. It was shaping up to be a pleasant day, warm, with a mild breeze blowing in their backs as they set out toward Florence.
An hour into the ride, Ezio held out the pouch containing the Apple of Eden. “Here. Give me that cake.” He nodded at the parcel Desmond had been balancing on the pommel of his saddle with one hand, for lack of another place to put it. “See if you can make that thing work.”
Desmond looked around. The area was vaguely familiar, for all that he'd ridden through it once. Trees on both sides of the road, meadows, the occasional twinkle of sunlight over a stream of water. They had a ways to go, still, before they reached even the outskirts of Florence, but this area was hardly off the map. “Here?”
“Why not?” Ezio jiggled the pouch. “I am curious to see what you can do with it.”
Reluctantly, Desmond exchanged cake for pouch. “I told you before that the Apple never worked for me. We talked about it this morning.”
“I know.”
He pointed out the obvious. “What if it suddenly does? You've seen the light show this thing can produce.”
Ezio just looked at him. “We're hours away from Florence. Why so reluctant? Or are you afraid to touch it?”
Rankled, Desmond stared at the pouch. He wasn't afraid. It was only when other people pointed it at him, that weird stuff began to happen. Currently, that wasn't Desmond's main concern: Ezio was outright ignoring the fact that anyone could see them, riding in the open like this.
“If someone sees us, I'll let you handle it. Alone.” Yanking the drawstrings of the pouch open, Desmond reached inside. The Apple felt cool against his fingertips. He pulled it out and held it up, watching the sunlight glint off the surface. “There. Are you happy. . .”
Desmond trailed off. He took a closer look. This wasn't Altaïr's Apple of Eden.
He turned it around, looked at it from a different angle. He'd seen Altaïr's Apple often enough. He had been the one to watch over it for two and a half years, after all. Back then, Desmond had thought the markings on it, if they weren't for purely decorative purposes, were a the script of a language, perhaps the letters from the alphabet used by Those Who Came Before – if they'd even used an alphabet.
This Apple was covered in short lines, and there were fewer grooves in it.
Other than that, it was remarkably dead in Desmond's palm.
How had Altaїr gotten it to work? How had Savonarola, or Ezio, for that matter? How was it that the thing apparently randomly activated for some, while remaining lifeless for others? Turning the Apple this way and that, Desmond ignored the questioning noises Ezio was making, and concentrated.
Work. C'mon. Work. Make me puke my guts out, again.
Nothing happened. Not even the hint of a glow. Not a single sound came from the Apple, no matter how Desmond held it, or how hard he concentrated on it.
He slipped the Apple back into the pouch, tied the drawstrings, and hung it from the pommel of his saddle. Ezio was looking at him with a frown deeply engraved between his eyebrows, a hint of disappointment; Desmond didn't have to be able to read minds to know what he was thinking. If he didn't get the Apple to work, he was stuck here.
What do I have to do? he wondered. What do I have to sacrifice?