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 A lost angel is following him.

 A gentle creature, really. Quiet and harmless. He lacks wings upon his back and a halo above his head, but Altair has no doubt – there are no such gentle people in this world.

The angel does not touch the ground as he carefully trails behind, leaves no footprints, and no one sees him except Altair himself. At first, he seems frightened—hunching his shoulders, often wrapping his arms around himself. His gaze is always bewildered, as if he struggles to grasp where he is or what is happening. And his reactions are nothing like those of the assassins who witness the ruin Altair’s pride has wrought.

Appearing as a faint shadow in Solomon’s Temple, the angel timidly followed him. He watched as an innocent old man was slain, as Kadar’s stomach was split open by a blade — because of him — and as Malik screamed in despair for his lost brother. Something so pure should have turned away from such cruelty, should have withdrawn its soft presence… And for a moment, it seemed he would.

But the angel follows him all the way out of the temple. Then flickers, dissolving into the air like a shadow, leaving him alone. It’s for the best. Altair has no desire to see condemnation for every mistake born from his hand today.

Burning anger, frustration, and guilt do nothing to improve his temper.

He returns when Altair stands before Al Mualim, head bowed, admitting his failure through clenched teeth. Silently, he watches as Malik appears, as they are attacked, as Altair is stripped of his rank, his weapons—even his life, if only for a moment.

The angel’s stomach is bloodied in the same spot when Altair wakes.

Even his own humiliation is less shocking than the realization that every misstep of his taints this quiet being. And yet… the angel’s gaze never loses its gentleness, as if he doesn’t even feel what’s happening.

But once he reaches for him with trembling hands, the figure fearfully melts away, only to return minutes later. He does not seek conversation or attention, as if unaware Altair can see him at all. Eventually, the Eagle of Masyaf trains himself not to turn toward that soft, watchful presence. 

The angel is curious. Peering over his shoulder, studying their surroundings, always stopping his hand mere centimeters from walls — too hesitant to touch. He doesn’t need food nor water, and when his feet brush the earth, the grass remains undisturbed, bearing no weight. Sometimes, Altair could swear that sometimes he feels breath against his neck — light and cool as morning dew.

Personal space seems a foreign concept to this presence. Then again, do boundaries even matter to something as pure as an angel? Shame, after all, is such a human thing…

When Al Mualim orders him to trade his life for nine deaths, the ephemeral presence drifts through the room, hovering unseen behind them. The angel remains silent, watching, his head tilted slightly. He always watches, and Altair would give a lot just to know what he’s thinking.

His purpose is unclear, and no one can explain why something so otherworldly would fixate on him. Their creed speaks of no guardians shielding them from evil, and ibn-La'Ahad himself never claimed to be a man of faith. He did not believe in Paradise’s gardens or the fiery hills of Jahannam. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted"—religion was but a tool.

Yet when his gaze falls again on the silent angel, certainty slips through his fingers. How else could such a presence be explained, if not by divine influence?

Altair feels he’ll drive himself mad this way. These thoughts and doubts are making him distracted, hinder his mission. So he resolves to ignore the presence at his shoulder. The angel will leave on his own once he sees how much blood stains these hands. Once he realizes Altair cannot be changed, he’ll vanish, dissolving into thin air as suddenly as he appeared.

He repeats this to himself while gathering supplies, ignoring the other assassins’ taunts and the warmth of brown eyes watching beneath a hood.

"You have no business here," Altair hisses under his breath like a mantra as he leads his horse through Masyaf’s gates. "Turn your gaze elsewhere—"

When he glances back, the fortress behind him, the angel is gone. Not a trace remains.

A relieved exhale escapes him, and he turns to the road, urging his horse onward. Ahead lies a long journey and a list of nine names. He cannot afford distractions.

The walls of Damascus rise in the distance when the ephemeral presence returns, settling quietly behind him on the horse. The animal doesn’t notice the added weight, but Altair feels the coolness of a smaller body against his back.

In a burst of frustration, he tries to throw him off — swings an arm, twists sharply — but his hidden blade slices only air. At the barest hint of attention, the angel flickers, dissolving like a mirage. The same happens when Altair shouts at him, tries to drive him away or call him out — as if some deity master was shielding its messenger from his wrath.

And still, the angel watches. Softly, curiously, like a lost soul who’s inexplicably taken a liking to him.

Altair has no choice but to ignore him again.

Gathering intel and killing Tamir pass with a constant prickle beneath his skin from that attentive gaze, but Altair was Al Mualim’s finest student for a reason. His hidden blade finds its mark as always, blood blooming bright against the steel. It’s a familiar sight—brutal in its innocence, beautiful in its complicity.

Lives end as easily as spider’s silk. One sharp motion, and the intricate pattern is gone.

Tamir claims to have done the right thing as he dies. His words are full of desperate confidence, almost insane in their intensity. He speaks of grand purposes, far beyond him and his petty schemes, his throat gurgling with blood.

Altair leans down to close his eyes — and nearly flinches when the angel mimics him, gently guiding a hand over his own. The touch is barely there, just a whisper of otherworldly coolness, and… it’s strange.

Did he follow just to guide souls beyond death? What a peculiar choice — to trail a violent, cruel man, when his hands should cradle very different lives. Tamir may have been a ruthless arms dealer, selling loyalty to all sides, but even he deserves peace without judgment.

A last breath should be released with dignity, whether it’s yours or one you’ve stolen.

Yet the angel doesn’t spare the dead target a second glance. He leaves Tamir lying in blood with odd indifference, turning instead to Altair with that same quiet curiosity. As always, he seems dazed, utterly detached. The corpse lying in its own blood interests him little, and soon, he’s back at Altair’s shoulder, the eternal observer.

Altair closes his eyes and prays for patience. He doesn’t need this angel. He needs no one. And it won't be long before the unearthly being realizes it.

He slips past guards, delivers a curt report to Rafiq at the bureau, and catches a faint movement from the angel in his periphery. The unseen presence shakes his head, turning to study the patterned cushions in the corner. There’s no judgment from him. It looks more like the air of a weary mother humoring a child’s tantrum.

Naturally, this does not improve Altair’s mood. 

He leaves with a scoff, heads for the city’s edge, and leads his horse from the stable. The angel, as ever, lingers nearby, reaching for the animal, then stopping just shy of contact. His lost expression doesn’t change as he waits by the gates, letting Altair go without him.

Like before, the otherworldly presence fades into smoke when the assassin turns to look.

The Hospital of Garnier de Naplouse sounds like weeping and screams, smells like filth and sickness. Rats huddle in the corners, gnawing on scraps of flesh, and the uneven stone floors are clogged with rot. This is no place of healing. This is a torture chamber.

In Acre, people speak of it with poorly concealed fear — a grim fairy tale whispered to frighten children. Men and women talk of the hospital as if it might come for them in the night, dragging them from their beds into the dark. And when townsfolk pass the stone fortress, no one dares to speak above a murmur, their eyes cast downward.

Despite the thick walls, the cacophony of pain is always louder than Garnier’s assurances that this is for their own good.

Altair watches the angel from the corner of his eye. Bewilderment tinged with sorrow tightens his shoulders, his arms wrapping around himself in that familiar, fragile gesture. But he does no more. The cruelty here sparks no anger in him — only resignation, as if he’s long grown accustomed to such sights. Sometimes, he seems to waver, as though he might turn away or shut his eyes… yet he never does.

He keeps watching. Warm brown eyes trailing after the assassin with quiet devotion.

The angel does little else, and his muted reactions offer no distraction. So Altair turns his head, furrows his brow, and focuses on his target.

The hospital reeks of blood and the sick are being mutilated to prevent escape. Some scream that Garnier steals their souls, shatters minds, that his hands birth a madness which will never let them go home again. Bones are broken, flesh carved — promises of healing but they brings only pain.

Disgust and pity clot in Altair’s throat like bile. He doesn’t know what he wants to do more — to flee or to vomit. The smell of death clogs his nose, sweetening with decay until it’s all the prisoners can smell, their sobs raw with the knowledge that they’ll never breathe clean air again.

In the shadows, children wail. Filthy, wretched, hungry — unwanted. Orphans snatched from the streets, trembling and inconsolable. Garnier speaks to them softly, sweetly, as a father would… but his words cannot hide his horrifying, incredibly cruel actions.

Altair closes his eyes. Comes as close as he can and thrusts the hidden blade into his body up to his wrist, letting all the pain of the place guide his hand.

Yet Garnier dies without remorse.

His last words are full of confidence as he speaks of taking those who had no home, those who were broken, ridding the world of the filth.

What he claims does not match what Altair sees… but doubt takes root anyway.

How could a man speak with such certainty while inflicting such suffering? With such admiration when only death blossomed beneath his fingers? For what? For more pain?

Altair’s soul writhes. Unease coils in his chest as he mounts his horse, reins gripped too tight, stays motionless too long. The angel settles behind him, a cool, weightless press against his back. Whatever deity sent this creature gave him no solid form, but when Altair closes his eyes, it's not hard to feel his touch.

Fingertips brush his shoulders — feather-light, barely there — then pause. The angel lingers for a moment then leans closer, pressing his temple between Altair’s shoulder blades, still silent. The comfort he offers is as timid as he is, but for a moment, the coolness against his spine pushes back the stench of blood and rot. At least for a while.

Just long enough to dig his heels into the horse and turn toward Masyaf.

Altair barely feels the hands at his waist. They’re smaller than his own, weightless, but he still notices when the angel dissolves into mist, leaving him alone with only the phantom sensations of touch.

He’s losing his mind. Sanity slips through his fingers like sand, when those brown eyes are watching, always watching, and he can do nothing.

One day, he’ll be as mad as de Naplouse, and won’t even realize it.

Perhaps it’s because of the treasure from Solomon’s Temple. Perhaps they disturbed an angel’s slumber without knowing. Or perhaps this is his punishment for Kadar’s death, for Malik’s lost arm.

Altair searches for explanations, desperate to fend off thoughts of his own unraveling and sleeps starts eluding him when he tries to rest. Regrets could sometimes wear a ghost’s face for a tormented soul… but the angel feels nothing like guilt.

His gaze stays gentle, his confusion fading as he grows familiar with the world. Without thinking, Altair begins nudging scrolls slightly to the right, to make it easier for the angel to peer over his shoulder. Perhaps when his curiosity wanes, he’ll leave.

But as days pass, Altair knows it won’t happen. The angel is curious about everything: the weave of clothes in different cities, weapons, food, even the way incense is burning in bureau halls. He always observes everything with a strange restraint, cocking his head around like a small bird trying to see if the surroundings are safe, and never gives away his reactions with more than glances.

Or so Altair believed… until Jerusalem.

On the rooftops near the bureau, his boot slips on bird droppings. With a yelp, he tumbles into a haystack below.

And the angel laughs.

A soft, unpracticed sound, like someone unaccustomed to joy. Heat floods Altair’s face, embarrassment tangling with irritation. A Master Assassin shouldn’t make such mistakes — least of all with an audience. He tries to turn his head for a glare, willing the angel to disappear, but stops when the unearthly creature only kneels beside him, covering a smile with one hand.

Fingers reach for Altair’s hair — trying to brush strands from his forehead or plucking hay, he can’t tell. The touch is cool, fleeting. The angel’s eyes glow with amusement, and despite himself, Altair hesitates.

In the end, he says nothing. Pulls his hood low, hides his flushed ears, and stalks toward the bureau, soothed only by the thought that no one… almost no one witnessed his shame.

That laugh lingers in his mind, disarmingly tender in its sincerity. The first sound the angel made turns out to be as ephemeral, almost elusive, as his form. Altair doesn’t know how to respond. So he lifts his eyes to the sky and prays for clarity. He has never been pious, but now, with his sanity fraying, he’ll take any help, no matter how false.

Except that the angel is no longer smiling when they reach the Jerusalem bureau. He freezes. Brow furrowed, hands outstretched toward Malik — close, but never touching. His gaze flicks between them, troubled, before he retreats behind Altair, withdrawing into shadow.

"Safety and peace, Malik," ibn La’Ahad grinds out. The new Dai bares his teeth, fury sharp in his glare.

"Your presence here deprives me of both." The words are a snarl. The inkwell trembles in Malik’s grip, as if he might hurl it.

Defiance rises in Altair’s chest, eager to retaliate by attacking back. Kadar is gone, guilt gnawing at his ribs, and no bridge remains between them — too much blood stains his hands for forgiveness. He bristles, venom pooling on his tongue—

"He’s in pain."

The angel’s voice is quiet, hollow. The unearthly creature has never once broken its own silence with speech.

"Let him adjust to it. At least a little."

Altair turns around sharply, but finds only melting shadows in the air and nearly begins to growl. His fingers tighten around his sword’s hilt, and though he doesn’t look at Malik, the Dai takes it as a threat.

Barbs fly. A quill snaps in Malik’s grip, ink bleeding across parchment. His shoulders are raised high, and his gaze jumps back and forth to Altair's hands.

It would be so easy to hurt him even more. Some part of Altair still believes Malik should choke on his accusations, should just shut his mouth and never again remind him how badly his mistakes were at Solomon’s temple. Kadar’s death drags him under, the memory black and suffocating, unnecessary, and only the new Dai keeps bringing it to the surface—

Then coolness brushes his back. Morning dew against his spine.

Altair bites his tongue. Lets Malik rage.

He’ll take his fury out on the next target. The angel will return to silence, to his role as observer, and the assassin will ignore him until he has his life back again.

Talal’s death is not a quiet affair.

Amid the cages where filthy, terrified slaves scream, his men lie in wait, blades ready and hunger in their eyes. Above, arrowheads glint, aimed at Altair’s skull. The trap has no exits, and the next few minutes are spent maneuvering between multiple attacks under the angel's watchful, worried gaze.

Altair  doesn't have time to keep track of everything. He leaps back to evade a sword, and an arrow grazes his shoulder. It’s like a dance — deadly, yet intimately familiar — where every movement syncs with his breath, every sense sharpened to a razor’s edge. One by one, Talal’s men fall, until only the slaver remains.

For a fleeting moment, he thinks he sees admiration flicker in the angel’s eyes but he doesn't have time to think about it as he rushes off in pursuit to the deafening ringing of bells that send the entire city into a panic.

He follows like a starved hound, always keeping Talal in his sights. Altair allows himself a twinge of irritation — with his throwing knives he would’ve ended this sooner. They race across rooftops until the slaver’s quiver empties, until his mistake sends him scrambling downward. Ibn La’Ahad strike from above like a hawk, plunging his blade into the chest and then the throat.

Yet even dying, Talal shows no remorse. The stench of old blood clings to him, but his voice is so… terrifyingly proud. He speaks of saving the world — of culling the leprous, the helpless, the useless.

And with a slow, creeping dread, Altair recognizes that arrogance. That contempt for lives deemed unworthy. If it weren't for the face... it could have been himself, always insisting on being right.

The angel's cool hand weightlessly brushes over his shoulder. Whether it was a gesture of support, or a sign that the ethereal being also sees his fears, Altair didn't know. He silences Talal with a stroke of his blade, watches blood bloom crimson, and leaves.

He should report to Malik. Instead, he lingers in a rooftop garden, hoping for a moment to calm his thoughts, still wrestling with the image festering in his mind. The image that one day Al Mualim will send assassins after him to slaughter him like a rabid dog. And he'll sound just as unbearably proud, frightening in his madness, as Talal.

The angel sits quietly beside him. The space is cramped, but the unearthly creature folds into it, shivering as if cold. His eyes linger on Altair before dropping to his own knees.

Taking advantage of the angel not noticing his attention, the assassin slowly raises his eyes to the strange clothing of the otherworldly presence. There is blood on it — echoes of Altair’s own wounds — but it is unlike any fabric he has seen before. It feels strangely... whole. No extra seams or pockets, and there's nothing on it where a weapon could be attached. Altair cautiously allows himself to examine the angel's palms, half-hidden in the sleeves, carefully going higher with his gaze, trying not to give away his attention.

When that doesn't force the angel to disappear into thin air, he continues looking, exploring the face piece by piece. The angel has the same scar on his lips as he does, but that's where the similarities end. Smooth lines of his cheekbones, a straight nose, and the shape of eyes that give him a friendly, kind look, even when he seems so weary.

The assassin has time to notice very short-cropped hair, but then the angel raises his head and immediately vanishes fearfully, most likely before he realizes what's going on. For a couple moments Altair sits alone in the garden, until the angel reappears moments later when Altair turns, as though whatever protects him refuses to let him know he’s seen.

Ibn La’Ahad exhales through his nose, scrubbing his face hard. His thoughts don't want to calm down when someone he doesn't trust is sitting next to him. Though…, truthfully, is there anyone he does trust?

Malik yells at him again when he returns to the bureau, calling him a disgrace to the Brotherhood and trying his best to hurt him. And when Altair retreats to a corner to rest before the road back, they both fall silent and look away like miserable, troubled souls.

The angel behind whispers quietly that everything will be okay. That they just need time.

Altair isn't sure he believes him.

The angel never stays around when the assassin rides out of the cities, always appearing once he reaches his destination, and it begins to feel like something expected, unchangeable. He always watches in silence — Al Mualim weaving his verbal tapestries without answering questions, the novices training in the fortress courtyard, even the cooing messenger pigeons by the window.

He’s easy to ignore when he doesn’t try to speak, and Altair doesn’t know why he ever thought these appearances would remain constant. Some part of him is still certain the otherworldly being will vanish the moment he finishes hunting the nine Templars on the list.

And it was all the stranger to arrive in Damascus and see blood on the angel’s face. Red, human — it stains his lips, drips down, marking him far more than any of Altair’s own wounds. His first reflex is to check his own face, but his palm comes away completely dry when he touches his mouth.

For once, the ethereal being did not mirror what was happening to his body. The blood keeps flowing from the angel’s nose ¹, and when Altair instinctively reaches for him, the figure flinches away like morning mist between his fingers, only to return the moment he turns his head. As if he exists solely at the edge of vision, not in the real world.

It doesn’t drip to the ground, evaporating before it can fall, and it doesn’t stop — not while the assassin gathers intel on his new target, not while Abu’l Nuqoud poisons his guests, not even as he dies beneath Altair’s blade, speaking of how his actions heralded a more equal world.

It unsettles him more than he wants to admit.

Was this his fault? A sign that he was failing at something?

And most importantly… the angel doesn’t even seem to notice it. Still shadows him, still peers curiously over his shoulder. The only difference is how often he joins him now on the cushions in the bureau, when Altair rests between journeys or prepares for them. Curls close, hesitantly pressing against his back, seeking warmth he can never truly feel.

The ethereal being’s touch is ephemeral, and no matter how long the assassin endures these phantom sensations of coolness — the angel’s hands never grow warmer.

There is nothing human in the chaos created Abu’l Nuqoud has wrought. Poisoned men and women scream in panic, choke and sob, but death has always been deaf and blind — it takes everyone without distinction. What was once a lavish courtyard swiftly becomes a scene of disorder: wine cups shatter, the floor smeared with vomit as people desperately try to get rid of the poison.

People destroy themselves in their fear. Dying, they lash at others, clawing and gasping, as if that could save them. And if not for the angel’s ephemeral nature… with blood on his face and clothes, he could pass for just another victim of Abu'l Nuqoud’s delusions. Something inside Altair twists unpleasantly at the thought.

While the guards and the master of the house watch the suffering below, Altair has no trouble scaling the wall to the balcony, to approach his target from behind. His quiet steps draw no attention, and the hidden blade slips easily beneath another man’s ribs — one who believed his power could justify any atrocity.

The angel watches silently from the balcony’s edge, blood still tracing the soft lines of his face. As it trickles down his neck, it looks as though he, too, has fallen to an assassin’s blade, his throat slit, left to drown in blood and regret.

But the unearthly being has no sins to confess. Would he stay silent if he had something to say?

Altair listens to Abu'l Nuqoud’s dying words — the man who saw no wrong in killing innocents to forge a new world — and realizes with cold clarity that the angel would keep his silence even at death’s door. Would offer soft comforts with his last breath, never the cruel truth.

Like before, the angel mimics Altair’s motion, as if trying to close the dead man’s eyes, then turns away sadly, gazing at the courtyard now littered with bodies…

He lifts a hand, touches his lips, and finally notices the blood staining his fingertips.

"Please—" he whispers, but doesn’t finish.

Altair tries not to look at him, straining to catch every sound the otherworldly being makes. It doesn’t help. The angel dissolves into the air with another stifled plea and does not return.

No more cool morning dew at ibn La’Ahad’s back. No one peering over his shoulder when he returns to the bureau. No phantom touches when he rests on the cushions before a journey.

This should feel like relief, a long-awaited release. Instead, Altair has never felt so alone in this vast world — and he doesn’t even understand why.

Al Mualim sends him after the next target, and Altair barely hears his words. Masyaf has never felt so vast and so empty — despite the bustling residents and Assassins scurrying everywhere, turning training into games. The angel is no longer at his back, and when his attention isn’t occupied by that otherworldly presence, the weight of others’ gazes becomes unbearable.

Once the Master’s golden pupil, now fallen from grace — the fortress’s inhabitants see an opportunity and refuse to let it pass. Some smirk poisonously, others taunt him outright, eager to humiliate, but nothing cuts deeper than Abbas’s barbs and actions.

Trust, however fleeting, brings the sharpest pain. Long ago, they had been friends, sharing fears and doubts, but time eroded that bond. Abbas chose pride and envy over loyalty, leaving Altair to gather the shattered remnants of good memories.

Why let anyone close if trust isn’t worth enough to make betrayal insignificant? Family, friends, lovers — each inflicts pain in their own way, and ibn La’Ahad no longer wishes to endure it. His father died for the safety of the Assassins, Abbas tried to kill him, and every flower in Al Mualim’s garden bore sweet words and such venomous fangs…

If they gave their hearts, they tore them away with such cruelty after that all he could do was bare his teeth in return, hiding the hollow void in his chest. Because Altair had carved out his own emotions, leaving only skill and no excess feeling, unwilling to suffer further. Perhaps that was why he became the Master’s finest pupil.

After all, it was so easy to control those who are attached to no one…

He catches the traitorous thought and shakes his head, forcing it away. Heaven knows, now it will only make his situation worse…

Abbas seeks to humiliate him, urging others to do the same. He talks about everything that was once a secret — where Altair went wrong, what he feared, who he slept with. Everything. Even memories of his father are now twisted into insults, and he no longer wishes to hear of his mother at all.

They are so eager to push him into despair, where his only recourse would be rage, that even his own mind betrays him. Seeking comfort, he turns again and again, searching for those cool touches and freely given solace — but finds only emptiness.

So Altair flees to the next kill, gathering more of his gear, thrown at his feet by the Master like scraps to a dog. That thought, too, he strangles violently, refusing to let it linger.

He rides to Acre in grim silence and nearly falls from his horse when, alongside the chill of morning dew, the angel returns — wailing and weeping, absolutely shattered.² The ethereal being howls heartbreakingly with a grief Altair cannot understand, inconsolable and miserable, drowning in its loss.

Confident that he was neither seen nor heard, the angel allowed himself to be sincere in his feelings, pressing his hands to his chest and clutching his fingers to the fabric of his clothes.

Altair does not turn. He halts his horse, closes his eyes, and forces himself to stay still, uncertain what to do. His soul writhes with unease, but any attempt to face the angel would be intercepted by the deity looming over its ephemeral presence, shielding it from all things that are… human.

So he waits. As long as it takes for the pain to dull before heading to the Bureau.

The angel’s sobs subside only as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the world in orange, then violet. Finally, he tries to wipe his tears, wraps his arms around himself, and sinks into sorrow.

Altair passes through Acre’s walls, catching glimpses of the angel being pulled along behind him, even when he’s too distracted to follow on his own. He exchanges brief greetings with Rafiq upon entering the Bureau and immediately retreats to the corner with cushions.

The Assassin lies near the edge, back to the table where the man quietly works, deliberately leaving space between himself and the wall. He waits, eyes half-lidded.

The angel hesitates only briefly. Timidly, he settles beside him, curling tightly into himself, not even noticing Altair’s turned posture. Instead, he buries his tear-streaked face in his hands, still hiccuping softly, looking so small and broken…

Just curiosity, nothing more, ibn La’Ahad tells himself as he shifts closer, extending a hand as close as he can so that the angel won’t startle and vanish. And when the unearthly presence reaches back, desperate for shelter, Altair lets him press against his chest, ignoring the unnatural coolness of his form.

Through slitted eyes, he watches as the angel hides his face in his robes, arms wrapped around himself again. After long minutes, the trembling stops, and he finally stills in his hold. It feels so right that Altair can’t remember why he was ever angry. He won't be lonely if the angel continues to return to him faithfully.

Now he just needs to figure out what he can offer in return.

After Acre, only four targets remain on the list. And Altair knows he’s stalling, yet he refuses to change anything.

Even Malik remarks on his strange patience when he returns to Jerusalem for Majd Addin’s life. The angel behind him still peers curiously at the scrolls and maps from the Dai, trying to make out their contents.

This brings a little smile to his face—a smile he tries to hide in the shadow of his hood. Judging by Al-Sayf’s narrowed eyes, he fails. Still, Malik offers no unnecessary remarks. The angel had been right when he said time was needed — his open hatred and hostility had dulled, turning into something painful but far less volatile.

Now, he doesn’t erupt into shouting. He scowls, rolls his eyes, answers with the sarcasm of an entire city, but keeps his curses to himself. Altair lets him voice every grievance anyway, if only to see the angel’s cautious gaze lingering on him, waiting for his reaction.

The ethereal being rewards him with small, proud smiles whenever he reins in his temper.

Altair feels like a dragon from children’s tales, hoarding its treasure in the deepest caves, for some reason.

But no matter how much he drags out his missions, delaying the inevitable moment when he must end the hunt with Robert de Sablé’s head… he can’t ignore how the angel grows paler. Thinner. No one cares for him, and he withers like a rare flower each time the road separates them.³

Altair helps people in the cities, saving them from the Templars. He gathers every scrap of intel on his targets. He plans, consults Malik, acts with such care and methodical precision that even the Dai is surprised. But if it buys the angel a few more hours away from his cruel god, then ibn La’Ahad is willing to oblige.

Besides, this slower, subtler approach to his mission lets him see all the mistakes he once made, blinded by arrogance…

"Majd Addin executes one of our brothers tomorrow," Malik says sharply, eyes locked on him. "Do what you will, but he must survive."

Honestly, it shouldn’t be funny. But the angel stares at Malik just as intently as the Dai himself, and the resemblance to children’s staring contests forces Altair to turn away hastily. No need to test Malik’s patience further, not when he’s just begun letting go of the past.

Instead, he retreats to the corner of the room, settling onto the cushions, leaving space between himself and the wall again — and waits.

The angel steps forward timidly, more cautious now when not driven by emotion, almost as if embarrassed — though closeness had never troubled him before. He watches Altair for a long moment, hands resting on his knees, before finally, after several tense seconds, lies down, pressing himself into the corner.

"It’ll be alright," the assassin murmurs under his breath, shifting closer with his eyes closed.

The movement makes the angel freeze. He fidgets, turns his head as if unsure what to do, but eventually yields, shoulders relaxing as he stays put. An hour later, he nestles closer, resting his head against Altair’s chest, finally at ease.

"They call me Seventeen now…" the ethereal being whispers, burrowing deeper into his robes with unsettling trust. "As if the more I watch you, the less of me remains."

Altair frowns, not understanding.

"But it’s worth it. I’m glad it’s you," the angel smiles, fingers idly tracing the straps of his weapon sheaths.

The assassin sees the curve of his lips but feels none of the lightness that had filled his chest just minutes ago. As if a handful of words had stretched the world wider, stranger, darker. 

Seventeen. A number, not a name. But if the angel had one… why take it away?

What Altair once assumed as the reaction of a deity protecting its angel no longer seems so simple.

The unearthly being has no wings and cannot fly, but… even without them, he should be free. Gentle, curious — like when he first laughed at the assassin’s clumsiness.

He wants to protect him. Yes, Altair no longer wishes to be alone, but his angel should not feel shackled by his cruel god. Shouldn’t fade, shouldn’t lose himself. And… shouldn’t be bound to him unless he chooses to be.

Something painful twists inside him again, a reminder of the hollow where his heart should be. No one stayed with Altair when choices had to be made. What happens when he, too, must leave? 

He drifts into uneasy sleep, skin chilled. In a rare moment of calm, he dreams of the angel softly whispering his name, asking him to keep it safe.

The names on the list melt like candle wax. Swift and relentless, bringing him closer to the end. And the more tenderness blooms within Altair, the worse the angel looks.

Each disappearance drains him more than the last — nosebleeds come more often, his body weakens, his clothes hang loose, completely swallowing his frame. The ethereal being looks starved, unaware of it himself.

His wrists, peeking from his sleeves, are too thin, too fragile — Altair fears even holding his hand, if such a thing were possible.

Yet the angel seems happiest when near him. Presses against his back, offers cold touches of reassurance when another target dies in their delusions, and beams at every awkward attempt to mend things with Malik. Nothing compares to seeing his smiles, but fear taints the joy. It all began with Robert de Sablé and their clash in Solomon’s Temple. It may well end with them, too.

"Do not act rashly," Malik reminds him. "You know where vengeance leads."

Altair glances at the stub of his missing finger. The unearthly being strokes his palm gently, standing close.

"Do not fear. It’s not vengeance that guides me, but the need to know—" He cuts himself off when the angel tilts his head curiously. "I’ll be cautious, if that eases your mind."

The Dai no longer snarls. He speaks calmly, shares intel, and when Altair finally apologizes, he bears no grudge. That’s why Malik will always be the better man than him. Altair could never have forgiven something like that… At least, not without help.

Even now, he swallows his pride only to see the angel’s eyes brighten, hands clasped near his chin as if stifling a smile.

"You’re not the same man who entered Solomon’s Temple with me. There’s nothing to forgive," Malik says, releasing the past without a trace. He offers friendship, and Altair, somewhat clumsily, offers his own in return.

The angel looks like the happiest creature alive watching this. Even his frail body can’t dim the light he casts over the bureau.

The tenderness inside keeps blooming, filling the hollow where his heart was cut out. It warms him even as they leave, heading for Majd Addin’s funeral — where Robert de Sablé will appear.

The ethereal being follows with a soft smile, footsteps leaving no trace. But when the crowd gathers ahead, curiosity wins. He tilts his head, throws Altair a quick glance, and drifts closer, circling the Templars. Throughout the eulogy, he flits before Robert’s helmet, studying him, and blood trickles anew from his nose.

Altair forces himself to look away, still unsure what triggers this. Something harms him, breaks him slowly, and no one seems to care.

How much he'd give up just to be able to care for someone who had warmed him with his presence for so long…

The angel raises his gaze, alarmed, and with a soft sound, darts to his side, fingers pressing his shoulder in a futile push. Altair barely moves before a blade whistles past.

"Kill him!" Robert de Sablé orders, voice hollow and strange — and the ethereal being’s eyes widen in realization.

But there’s no time to dwell on it. Metal clashes as Altair parries the onslaught, stepping into another deadly dance.

"Don’t kill," the angel warns as Altair is about to drive his blade into Robert’s neck. "They are not the one you need."

Like a curious bird, he tilts his head and circles the Templar from the other side. His emaciated frame is a strange contrast next to the knight’s massive armor, but Altair refuses to let himself be distracted.

If this isn’t Robert… then where is he?

Altair tears the helmet off — only to reveal the scowling face of a woman. His brows rise in shock.

"Too late," she declares brazenly, taunting him with information that would have been invaluable hours ago.

A flash of anger flares and dies just as quickly. He can’t deny she was a formidable opponent — with a surprisingly heavy strike. Of all the targets he’d been ordered to kill by Al Mualim, she had come closest to ending him. And there’s something in her eyes that makes him feel like he’s staring into a mirror.

The best of the best. A golden pupil, just like him.

Altair spares her and rushes toward the Bureau, scrambling to form a plan. If the woman spoke the truth… Robert de Sablé would convince King Richard to attack Masyaf alongside Salah ad-Din. And Masyaf would not survive such an assault. It would be wiped out, burned to the ground.

An entire order, erased from history—reduced to a footnote in someone else’s victory. That cannot be allowed.

He warns Malik, ignoring his weak protests about reporting to the Master first, and sets off in pursuit, gripping the reins so tightly they cut into his fingers even through his gloves.

He leans low over the horse’s neck, urging it forward every few minutes, feeling each step reverberate through his bones. By the time King Richard’s army comes into view, foam drips from the animal’s mouth, its breath ragged and exhausted.

They surround him almost instantly. Dozens of men point their blades at him, clad in heavy armor, tightening the circle as they await their leader’s command.

Robert de Sablé stands at Richard’s right, and Eagle Vision outlines his figure in the familiar golden glow — marking his importance. One of them was meant to die today.

"I bring words, not steel," Altair keeps his hands visible, moving slowly to avoid provoking the tense soldiers.

He draws strength and calm from the cold presence at his back, lets fear fade, and reminds himself that not everything can be solved with haste and violence.

"There is a traitor in your ranks," he says evenly — but is met only with laughter and disbelief.

King Richard sees him as nothing more than a strange little threat, a surrendered liar. Robert weaves his false accusations beside him, and his words carry far more weight.

"Do not lose faith," the angel whispers, standing beside him now, not behind. "If the truth couldn’t reach him, he wouldn’t be stalling."

Altair exhales quietly and lifts his chin, meeting their doubt with unshakable certainty.

Finally, Richard begins to waver. He declares loudly that he will leave the judgment to God — to decide who is right — and steps back. His poorly concealed interest makes it seem like mere entertainment, despite the gravity of the situation, but Altair finds he doesn’t care.

After all, seeing his angel’s delicate nose wrinkle in disgust at such disrespect is more reassuring than his own anger. At least he knows the unearthly creature shares his disdain.

Altair unsheathes his sword, focuses on the morning dew, then lunges at the scowling Robert de Sablé. It was time to end this long hunt.

"...But will you take his life as eagerly as you took mine?" Robert asks, dying in his grasp with a cruel smile. "It’s your Master — Al Mualim."

His voice is almost comforting as he chokes on blood. As if speaking to a naive child, foolish enough to believe any lie.

"Impossible," Altair snaps. "He’s no Templar."

Robert lets out a wet chuckle. "Easy enough to verify. Do you truly think he’ll let you live now? You’ve done his dirty work, Assassin. And now you know too much." He smiles again, though it costs him. "With that strike, you ended not just my life — but your own, too."

Altair doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want to understand. It makes no sense—it can’t be. The Master had been like a father, raising generations of Assassins to protect the world. Why would he—?

Robert is still gasping painfully, but doesn’t say anything else. Can’t speak anymore.

"Let him go," the angel says sadly, brushing a hand over his. Obediently, Altair ends the Templar’s suffering with his hidden blade.

One motion — one severed thread in the web. Another corpse at his feet, and Altair can’t even close his eyes with dignity, his mind too much of a storm.

This is wrong. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He still has so many questions, so many doubts! The Assassins had been loyal to their Master without question — but if Robert spoke the truth… then what was it all for? Why all the blood on their hands, if it was all built on lies?

King Richard says something to him — speaking of God and peace — and Altair answers absently, his thoughts scattered, lost, even frightened by how quickly his world is unraveling.

And his father? Why had his father surrendered to the enemy if all they were was killers without cause? What of the others who grew up beside him, dreaming of the day they too would hide their faces beneath white hoods? Why had they endured their losses, obediently stepping into the path of blades?

The angel vanishes with a desperate look when Altair turns to him for answers. He bleeds from nose again.

"I have to go," the words come out drier than he intended, a lump in his throat. "The Master and I have much to discuss."

The road to Masyaf stretches endlessly. The horse is exhausted, and no one sits behind him, cheek pressed to his back. The angel does not return, and Altair slowly drives himself mad. Too much could be explained by Al Mualim’s betrayal — yet his mind still refuses to accept it.

What if this was Robert de Sablé’s plan all along? To shatter his loyalty?

Bitterly, Altair thinks the treasure of Solomon’s Temple should have stayed buried — lost and forgotten, never to bring curses and bloodshed again. He doesn’t know what it is, but he dreams of smashing the damned thing to pieces, burning it, scattering its ashes over the ocean.

Kadar died because of him, feeding the starving treasure with blood — and it still wasn’t satisfied. It demanded more, preying on human folly.

What was it? Gold? A weapon? Some ancient relic, nothing more than a rusted scrap of history?

And the angel who had followed him for so long — if he too was born of the treasure, then Altair had only brought himself pain again. The ethereal being appeared when he needed to kill — wasn’t that proof enough? The angel ensured blood continued to flow for his treasure!

The thoughts burn. Trust, carelessly given to the one who stood beside him, scalds him once more. It eats at him from within, shattering him into fragments, and he has no idea how to stop it.

The horse jerks when he yanks its mane too hard, and Altair takes a shuddering breath, trying to order his thoughts — to see with clarity, not chaos.

This… can’t be right. The angel wouldn’t have stopped his blade at the woman’s throat if that were true. Wouldn’t have held him back from hating Malik in return.

The Assassin opens his eyes and watches the setting sun. Against the empty, endless sky, it looks as lost as he feels.

The streets of Masyaf had never been so quiet. The lost souls wandering here mutter about the light their Master led them to, and the angel walks softly among them, his gaze dark as it rests upon the Assassins’ shadowed fortress. Altair observes his emaciated form and decides to believe — one last time. He allows himself to surrender the remnants of his heart, even if the ethereal being will never know about it.

Malik gives him a tense nod alongside his men when doubt is no longer possible. The Master has betrayed them all. Turned his protection into a weapon against his own disciples. They split up near the fortress, surrounding and holding back the frenzied crowd while Altair himself strides inside, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

He feels it in his skin. Promises, riches, power… Something sings at the edge of his consciousness, sweetly calling him to temptation, opening the gates of paradise before him. But the fantasies feel brittle, unstable, and Altair shakes them off with a sharp jerk of his head. The wrong attention of something inexplicable shifts — then locks onto the angel, singing louder, softer, as if beckoning him home.

The unearthly creature shrinks back, confused and frightened, trying to shield itself from the otherworldly whispers — and that is all the confirmation the assassin needs.

He moves forward with firm steps, resolute, and enters Al Mualim’s gardens, the cool air brushing his back. There are no women here anymore. All the Master’s "flowers" scream beyond the fortress walls, lost among the enchanted crowd, mindlessly throwing themselves at Malik’s blades without understanding what they do. The Dai won’t let them die — but how long can he hold back the Master’s victims if Altair fails?

The treasure’s song cuts off with a venomous hiss, and immediately, his muscles twist painfully, locking him in place like livestock before slaughter. The angel lets out a quiet, distressed sound and rushes closer.

The treasure continues pouring its alien melodies into his mind.

"I can make him yours," it whispers, coiled in the hands of the Master, who watches from the balcony. "He won’t leave again. Won’t run. He’ll stay by your side."

Thoughts tangle in the web, and Altair sags in the grip of golden light.

"Stay?" he murmurs faintly, and the treasure hums, wrapping warm waves around his consciousness.

"Yes, yes—he won’t leave, won’t vanish, always beside you… He’ll smile only for you, accept anything you give, and return it tenfold."

The whispers don’t stop. They paint vivid pictures in his mind, craft temptation itself, answer unspoken questions and promise even more.

The angel presses against his back, cool and desperate, slender arms wrapping around his chest.

"No," he says firmly, resting his forehead between Altair’s shoulder blades. "Please, Altair. Please. Don’t stop fighting."

But you won’t stay after this, he wants to say, tearing his thoughts from the golden light — only for his angel’s sake.

He lets the gentle, cool touches and the soft voice become the center of his universe, if only for now. Focuses on the hands on his shoulders and listens to the mad ramblings of the traitorous Master, weaving illusion after illusion, presenting the treasure as proof of their Order’s creed. Nothing is true, everything is permitted.

Every time the shadows of the Templars he’s slain rise, every time the treasure — the Apple of Eden — ensnares his mind again, the angel is there, sobering him with his weightless, icy presence, as if trying to shield him.

"No. You won’t have him," the ethereal being snarls at the golden sphere in Al Mualim’s hands, and it begins to sing pitifully.

"He won’t come back," the treasure sobs, pleading with Altair. "They’ll take him, hurt him — even if he will want to return, the path will be closed."

The angel bares his teeth at the Master, tries to strike, even though his hands pass through. Somewhere in the distance, Malik shouts, rallying men robbed of their will.

"And you’ll be alone, alone, alone…"

Altair scowls and keeps fighting.

"He’ll die if you let him go now. Can’t you see? They’re already killing him."

The treasure wails in his mind, but the ethereal being lends him strength where doubt gnaws at resolve. With careful touches, he pulls Altair’s focus from the horrifying future to the no less horrifying present — where nothing remains but the lies of a mad old man.

"Please, Altair. You’re stronger than him. I know you are."

He can’t afford to think about what comes after. Not when, beyond these walls, hundreds are ready to throw away their lives, their families, their very thoughts and emotions at the command of the one who should have protected them.

"Don’t fear. I won’t lose," Altair says, and lets himself slip into that state where nothing matters but the fight and his breath.

And when his blade cuts the old man’s throat, the treasure slips easily from his grasp, still singing. It sounds both pleased and unbearably disappointed, pulsing with golden light.

"You resisted temptation… yet you will gain no reward," the sphere hisses in his mind before flaring up, painting another illusion in the air — this time, something like a strange map.

The angel pales suddenly, eyes wide with horror.

He turns to Altair and, for the first time, holds his gaze directly, crumbling piece by piece. His palms feel like ice as he cups Altair’s face.

"Altair… Altair…" His voice wavers, distorts, and the angel looks down. "You des-des-des—"

A hiss bleeds into his words, repeating them in the same tone, the same cadence, down to the last inflection.

"You deserve the whole world," the angel finally whispers, barely audible, tracing Altair’s face with weightless touches. There was a strange grief in his voice — one Altair still couldn’t understand — mixed with such aching tenderness that even the golden sphere fell silent, its glow dimming.

The Assassin reaches for him, tries to catch him, pull him close — but all he manages is one last look into those warm brown eyes before the angel dissolves into the air with a sad smile.

Don’t go, lingers on his lips, desperate, but there’s no one left to say it to.

"I saw him again," Altair growls at the golden sphere, locking himself in the library.⁴

No one is here at this late hour, and peaceful sleep rarely comes to him now. The fortress, once his safest home, now hides a hundred dangers in its shadows, feeding his paranoia.

The people are frightened, discontent, even with all the proof of the Master’s betrayal, doubt hangs over Masyaf like a stormcloud. They saw what the Apple of Eden could do in the wrong hands, even if they don’t remember everything. It would be foolish to think that would stop them. Abbas, who had begged for mercy so desperately earlier, still searches for the treasure whenever they cross paths.

Loyalty must be earned, but Altair never wanted to be Master. Now, the choice is taken from him. He can’t take the golden sphere, yet he can’t leave it to anyone else. On his worst days, he isn’t even sure he should be the one to hold it.

It sings kinder now, tells him countless stories — but he can’t trust a single one. When will he fail to separate truth from illusion? When will he succumb to what cannot be and lead the Brotherhood to ruin?

"A quiet, gentle creature," the Apple answers readily, plucking the thought from his mind and reshaping it. "So hopelessly in love, yet loved by no one."

This is what madness looks like. The inability to tell where reality ends and a grieving heart’s fantasies begin.

He sees him in the crowd. Just glimpses — never enough to banish doubt — but those fleeting images of a familiar face drive him to the edge. The angel looks worse than the last time, yet his eyes remain just as warm. Unless, of course, he was just his fantasy.

"Where is he now?" It’s not the first time he’s asked, and each time, the sphere offers only fragments instead of answers.

The visions it paints are so dark he can barely make anything out. The only light comes from a strange pedestal, but blood pools around it, and faceless figures in white robes move about. Altair recognizes neither the place nor their garments.

Then everything fills with gray mist, white lightning flickering within, but the empty space has no walls, no ceiling, and no one is ever there.

"Explain," he demands, and the Apple sings again.

"So many secrets, so many calculations… Blood holds memory, but the vessel is gone. Torn apart, scattered into pieces too small for the eye to see."

Altair barely stops himself from hurling the treasure against the wall when, instead of answers, it only gives him more questions.

"Why Seventeen?" he tries again.

"Everything had to be perfect. He was meant to reach the Temple. Sane enough, yet losing himself. Less hope, fewer choices — all to push him toward the only correct outcome."

"Explain." Another futile attempt.

"Humans took so long. No risks could be taken. Sixteen tries to see if he would endure. The last before the catastrophe, shaped by millennia of caution."

Altair closes his eyes, listening to the fortress’ silence, and leans his head against the cold wall. Questions about the angel always lead to dead ends. The Piece of Eden willingly told him everything he asked — awkwardly, obscurely — and having so much knowledge at his fingertips was intoxicating… If only he could tell what was real and what was false.

But before turning to practical matters, to extracting the knowledge he could verify… Altair allows himself one more weakness.

"Please," he whispers, defeated, into the library’s darkness. "Can you show him smiling?"

The sphere’s song softens, gentler now. Altair feels it sifting through his memories, pulling out those rare moments he cherished — the angel laughing as he fell into hay, his smiles when he and Malik began to find common ground… Then it pauses, showing something new.

The angel stands behind a strange table, facing a crowd dressed in every color imaginable, some showing more skin than cloth, surrounded by loud, unfamiliar music that feels like noise. Behind him are shelves of colorful vessels, and on his face, a relaxed, alluring smile as he pours drinks for the endless requests.

He looks at ease. Confident, focused, entirely calm. Sometimes, he even sways a little to the music, and women giggle when they notice.

Altair can’t look away. He drinks in the images the treasure paints, forgetting the danger of temptation. How can he remember it when his angel is so enchanting?

"What was calculation became, for him, a stroke of luck. One of the few he ever had," the Apple murmurs as the vision in his mind begins to fade.

It melts away like the sweetest dream, but Altair doesn’t ask to keep it longer. This was already a gift, whether lie or truth, and he knows how to be grateful.

The Apple rests comfortably in his palms, still singing, and he presses it to his chest, letting the relic peer into the hollow remains of his shattered soul.

He cannot leave the golden sphere in Masyaf. He takes it with him during his journey to Cyprus, ignores the fleeting visions of his withering, dying angel, and convinces his howling mind that it is nothing more than an illusion. His blurred figure is always so far away… in those moments when Altair lunges after the mirage, trying to catch it, the angel is already gone with his first step.

He has chased him for so long that the grief of loss mixes with sparks of irritation. If he doesn’t want to be near, he shouldn’t appear at all and make it hurt even more! After such thoughts, Altair can never fall asleep, dreading the angel’s next appearance in horror. What if he heard his selfish wish and will truly never returns?

And the singing… the Apple’s playful singing whispers that it’s all true, that it’s all a lie — a possibility that both can and cannot be. 

Sometimes Altair wonders why Malik never comments on his madness. It’s impossible that the turmoil of his soul doesn’t raise questions. The assassin isn’t even sure he himself knows what he’s doing most of the time.

So he focuses on Maria, throughout his mission to liberate Cyprus. Besides, he desperately needed to escape the dark walls of Masyaf’s fortress, where those whispered about by the sphere with mocking secrecy roam the halls, nudging him toward distrust without reason…

The woman he once spared because of a few words from his angel still carries herself with the same pride and strikes with the same heavy hand. She runs, she struggles, Altair catches her again and again. It feels like a child’s game, a tug-of-war, and yet…

Maria’s loyalty can be shaken. She fell out of favor with the Templars after Robert’s death, fiercely fighting for her place under the sun, and he sees that she can be guided. Shown another reality, convinced of the importance of free will and peace.

"I have so many stories for her," the Apple whispers, and a chill of horror runs through him.

How many of his thoughts are truly his own? How many have been imposed by the golden light?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the broken figure on the rooftops again, vanishing the moment he blinks.

"You seem lost," Maria remarks when the line of enmity between them has blurred from so many chance encounters. "Was the role of Assassin’s Master too much for you?"

She smiles. He doesn’t know why it surprises him so much.

"It would be easier if they didn’t keep trying to lock me in the fortress." He sighs lightly, and his answer amuses her.

"Ah yes, the bane of all great men—paperwork," she laughs softly, and the Apple begins its song again.

"Such beautiful children… such a tragic fate. But isn’t it a gift to hold the one you love in your hands?" What is it telling him this time?

Altair longs to hide in cold hands and never open his eyes again until death, if only the angel would stay by his side. But he wasted his chance and will likely never get it back.

"I’ve been wondering…" he begins slowly, gazing into the distance. "I know I made many mistakes not so long ago. Allowed too many deaths, clouded my judgment with pride… And yet, back then, everything seemed so simple."

Maria tilts her head, and though her eyes are brown too, they’re nothing alike.

"Where are you going with this?"

Her face is stern, betraying a strong will, decisions that couldn’t have come easily, and yet… She’s still so young. In a way, they’re both just children dragged into an adult, hostile world.

"Sometimes I miss those days. No matter how terrible my actions were — back then, I wasn’t haunted by their ghosts. I never stopped to think about them."

Somewhere on the edge of hearing, a mournful "Oh, Altair" rings in the air, but he can’t tell if it’s his imagination or another of the golden sphere’s games.

Maria also looks ahead, watching the gathering clouds.

"Who would’ve thought assassins had a conscience?" She turns, placing a warm, almost hot hand on his shoulder. "But Altair, I thought you of all people would know better — freedom always comes at a price."

Even when frowning, she was beautiful. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

"Robert de Sablé paid for my freedom. For yours… maybe your Master, maybe someone else. Time passes, roles change. Now it’s our turn."

"Blood holds memories, children hold blood. All is written, not lost, preserved…" the Apple begins, ringing louder in his head.

"It won’t always feel this hard," Maria says with a faint smile, trying to encourage him. "You’ll see… even people like us aren’t doomed to misery forever."

Altair lifts his gaze to her. Memorizes the shape of her face, the way her hair is tied back, and takes a deep breath. Between the treasure and her, he’s more inclined to believe her words and hopes, for once, he’s made the right choice.

The pain of loss doesn’t fade, but Altair learns to live with it. He tells Malik he’s sorry again and again, and wakes in a cold sweat, unable to remember his dreams, nearly every night. How could the Dai ever forgive him when those he loves take such a huge part of his life with them, breaking it as they go?

Kadar is gone, but Altair still begs his forgiveness in his mind. Whether he hears or not doesn’t matter. It’s no different from praying to the sky, which changes only by its own will and no one else’s.

Sometimes he receives letters from Maria. She tells him of the cities she’s seen, the people she’s met, and promises to visit Masyaf someday.

Altair hopes her presence might chase away the fortress’s hungry shadows, even if only briefly.

The assassins accept him as their Master, treat him with respect, and trust that he will make the right decisions. The novices, especially, let go of past grievances like water downstream. They rejoice when he comes to watch their training, eager to prove themselves, filling the streets with laughter, still untouched by the seriousness that comes with death.

There aren’t enough smiles here. Not enough children who remember their parents, not enough trust, not enough feeling of home. The previous Master saw family as a weakness, the current one… desperately wants to find his own.

"Heavy doors, an empty library, and a lone skeleton. Tired, forgotten, left on the floor like trash after looters," the singing weaves into his thoughts, telling him something new.

Altair didn’t ask the Apple anything now, but was it ever easy to silence a metal sphere? It will find its way to its victim regardless, faster than one could imagine.

"Abbas didn’t believe, called you a liar, but you remember his father’s blood on your face, don’t you?"

"You need rest, Altair," Malik grumbles as they sort scrolls in the library. "You look like you haven’t slept an eternity."

"His head—so light, so heavy… His eyes were still open when he refused to betray you," the Apple shares impatiently.

If it’s trying to tell him something, it’s doing so in the most cryptic way. Altair closes his eyes and lets the singing pass through him. These are just stories. Long past or far ahead, with characters who can no longer feel anything.

But the treasure doesn’t relent.

"He burned himself for the world, and the world was ungrateful. This is no longer that time, just a branch, a copy — but wouldn’t it be sad to deny him a voice when he can give it to us?"

Altair misses his dreams. The feeling of wholeness, of rightness. He walks through the garden every morning, feeling the cold dew, and each time tells himself it’s the last. He never keeps that promise.

The days blur into an indistinct mess. New information, assigning missions to assassins, managing the fortress, complaints from Masyaf’s residents, another dawn. The shadows remain dangerous, but Altair can’t bring himself to care. Every attempt to act feels imposed, not his own.

If he attacks someone the Apple dislikes, even if they’re innocent… how is he any better than the old Master? At least he knew what he wanted…

"Sweet, naive child," the golden sphere sings to him. "You could join us. You have such a beautiful voice!"

Perhaps he should have destroyed it when he had the chance. But now the threads of its web have cut into his flesh, tangled his organs, replaced his veins. Altair is curious, hungry for greater knowledge, and yet afraid of it.

He improves the hidden blade with the Apple’s help, no longer requiring the sacrifice of a finger, studies others’ combat techniques. Often, he sees things he cannot comprehend but that horrify him to his core. He no longer sees a reason to draw lines between reality and fantasy.

Perhaps that’s why, when he finally sees his angel again, it feels like a cruel dream returned.

The ethereal being stands at the very edge of the garden in the first light of dawn, and his blood is no longer red. Golden. As befits an angel. He is smeared in it, and Altair thinks he must have finally killed that cruel god who hurt him over and over.

His right hand is blackened by a terrible burn, and his feet, for the first time, touch the ground, crushing the grass beneath. And he seems… so small. Utterly exhausted, barely resembling himself.

"I wanted to say goodbye," he smiles through tears, lips trembling, streaked with gold.

He stands unsteadily, hunched strangely, as if trying to shift his weight to his left side. Then, he fails to hold himself up altogether, collapsing like dead autumn leaves, unconscious.

Altair stares. Stares, stares, stares… And for once, the Apple is silent.

Then, he allows himself weakness again. Lies on the damp grass beside his angel, moving as close as he can without touching, closing his eyes.

"I didn’t want to let you go," he whispers, ignoring the agony of his hollow soul. "But if this is your wish… who am I to stand in your way?"

The angel doesn’t answer, and Altair listens to his quiet breathing, convincing himself he’s happy to have this last chance to sleep beside him.

He wakes to Malik’s startled exclamation. His body aches, and he absently rubs his eyes, noting the dampness of his robes. Sleeping on the morning grass may not have been the best idea.

Malik’s hand suddenly grips his shoulder and yanks him back, dragging him away with strange urgency.

"Altair? What is this?"

The Treasure hums softly in his mind, its songs bright and joyful.

He opens his eyes, and for the first few moments, all he sees is gold. It’s everywhere — on the grass blades, his fingers, his clothes, pooling on the ground. There’s more of it now, now that the ethereal body has lain here long enough to bleed out…

Oh.

His angel… His angel stayed.

Ignoring Malik’s near-frightened hiss, Altair wrenches free of his grip and moves closer to the broken body, stopping just inches from its skin, hesitating. What if he vanishes again? What if this is just another cruel trick of his fractured mind? Another illusion fed to him by the sphere?

He takes a deep breath, stares at his fingers as though they still clutch a blade, and finally presses them to the cool flesh.

Malik steps closer, wary, eyeing the unnatural presence with unease.

Beneath the skin, a faint pulse flickers. Altair traces it with his fingers for several long seconds before realizing that the body doesn’t fade. Doesn’t dissolve. Doesn’t rush to disappear. It lingers stubbornly under his touch, no longer weightless. Beneath the skin lie exhausted muscles, sluggish blood, even bones. As though the angel has severed his ties to the heavens, chosen to end his existence here on earth rather than at the edge of Altair’s vision, as he always had before.

"Angel—" Altair calls, voice choked with something desperate, something mad. "Angel…"

He gathers him into his arms, presses him to his chest, rocks him gently, and realizes — he’s still here.

"The world had been ungrateful. The world had used him without reason, broken him without cause…"

"Is this another trick of the Apple?" Malik asks, crouching beside them, gathering golden blood from the grass. "Another vision not meant for us?"

The Dai rubs it between his fingers, and Altair can’t shake the thought — this time, he isn’t the only one seeing it. The only one losing his mind. And isn’t that proof enough?

"Long-awaited, so precious…" the Apple croons, its light stretching toward the angel.

Altair rises on unsteady legs, carefully lifts the limp body into his arms, and turns toward the fortress. Even if this is just a dream… he’ll care for his angel.

The Treasure’s proximity paints glowing lines across the unearthly being’s skin, intersecting in intricate patterns. They stand out starkly against the blackened flesh of his arm, and a moment later, Altair realizes—they’re smoothing the wounds. Where charred fragments had once threatened to peel from bone at the slightest touch, now there is only unbroken surface — smooth, unnatural, still black.

"Not so fast," Malik snaps, frowning when Altair moves toward the healers wing. "Their respect for you doesn’t guarantee silence. We can’t show him to anyone. Not like this."

"Our voice, our long-awaited voice!" the golden Sphere rejoices, and Altair nods.

Frightened men were prone to foolishness. When the last Master’s death had seemed barbaric, unjust, they had reached for their blades before their thoughts.

"What do you suggest?" he asks, turning to the Dai, who still eyes the unconscious angel with suspicion. "Neither of us has a healer’s skill."

Malik tilts his head, looking at him with all the sarcasm in the world.

"Fortunately for us, your cursed Treasure has it under control," he mutters, nodding at the geometric patterns spreading across the fragile body. "A little longer, and the bleeding will stop."

Altair can’t help himself — he brushes his fingers over that beloved face, ignoring Malik’s heavy sigh.

"Just… don’t forget caution. We can’t afford to lose you, too, to ancient artifacts and their creations."

"Won’t lose, won’t lose, never lose again…"

He nods, no longer sure to whom.

The angel sleeps for a long time, cradling the Apple of Eden in his hands. The artifact grows dimmer each day, murmuring melodies of joy at their reunion, of a voice regained. It is dying, pouring something into the ethereal being, replacing his wounds with something far beyond their understanding. Now, even when Altair asks it questions, it answers in a tired, contented tone, its stories shorter.

"My proud eagle," it whispers, wrapping his mind in warmth, "I will remember you. And through him, all will remember. Blood never forgets. It is time for rebirth."

The Assassin manages the fortress, writes his Codex, reviews reports from cities near and far — and still, he waits. The days pass in restless anticipation, growing louder, brighter. It’s as though he’s looking ahead with hope for the first time, something sparkling inside him. Even the fortress itself feels alive now that he has something to strive for.

The changes start small, then surge like a chaotic river. Their Brotherhood had always been a model of hierarchy and control, but now those restraints feel less cold. If parents are allowed to love their children, if they need not fear the future, need not have their dearest things torn away as "weakness" — people grow happier.

Louder. More demanding. But happier. As though they’ve finally realized they don’t need to hide what they truly want.

The weight of responsibility doesn’t lessen, the decisions no easier on his shoulders, but then he thinks of his angel smiling at him again, proud… and it all feels less bleak.

Altair knows what he’s capable of. He will lead their Brotherhood to something better.

Malik only shakes his head, sorting through papers and missives at his side.

"Lower your gaze. If you keep your head in the clouds, you’ll miss what’s right in front of you," he grumbles, ever the skeptic.

Explaining that this is a real angel does little to convince Al-Sayf, and he only stays silent for the sake of their friendship, biting back argument after argument about the danger of bringing outsiders into their fortress. The golden blood had been enough to stay his hand, but in those first days, Malik still asked — could this be another mirage? Another vision from the Apple?

After all, if the artifact could touch so many minds at once, what was one more illusion?

Altair tries not to dwell on it. When the angel wakes, they’ll have the answers that have haunted them for so long. About the Apple and its secrets, about the strange fragments of knowledge… and about the unearthly being himself, who had crashed into Altair’s life and carelessly reshaped everything.

Malik’s wariness is understandable. He had feared the Treasure’s influence, and now he fears the angel, acting with far more caution than Altair. And that’s precisely why the new Master trusts him more than himself.

"Is it so wrong to want the truth? The Apple’s songs will finally be either lies or truth when he wakes!"

The Dai goes still, looks up at him. Even with that frown, there’s concern in his eyes. His whole hand twitches toward his missing arm before he catches himself, setting it back on the table.

"Altair," he begins heavily, and for a moment, the shadows in his gaze seem to deepen, swallowing him in grief. "How do you know your… angel will tell the truth?"

Because his heart, pieced back together from shards, is finally warm. It’s still fragile, but it insists — it knows.

He doesn’t say this to Malik. He changes the subject — grain supplies, senior Assassins’ missions, the Crusade’s movements. News arrives: Jaffa has been retaken, Richard’s army marches on Jerusalem but hesitates to besiege it, strained for resources.

Malik sighs but helps him analyze it all, deciding who to send into Saladin’s ranks, what outcome might finally bring peace to their lands.

They work by candlelight for hours, the night cool around them — until a familiar metallic sound drifts from the next room.

For a few seconds, everything stops. The world narrows to a single point, so close he need only reach out.

Malik starts to speak. Frowns. Opens his mouth then shakes his head, knowing any warning would be wasted. Altair strides out sharply, heads for his angel — then pauses at the door, glancing back at Malik.

Now that the answers are so near, he realizes he doesn’t know what to say.

"The Apple lures with secrets but never tells all," Al-Sayf reminds him.

Altair nods and opens the door.

The angel’s small form sits on the bed, no longer broken but still fragile. He breathes heavily, moving his hands in odd motions, as though counting his fingers. Given the contrast between them — one now entirely black, traced with gold — even this feels divine.

"Angel?" ibn La'Ahad asks, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

The reaction is strange. The angel doesn’t respond at first, as though the words don’t register. When he finally lifts his head — he weeps.

"I’m sorry… Altair, I’m so sorry… But I don’t think I can do it all again. I can’t, I just can’t…"

He hides his face in his hands, curls in on himself, as though he’d shield himself with wings if he had them.

And there’s nothing more natural than to step forward, gather him close, and let him spill his fear and pain with tears.

The Apple of Eden lies on the floor. It is extinguished, dead, and silent. No more foreign, otherworldly songs or visions from a distant future echo in his mind — but could such an artifact truly fade away without consequence? The treasure had a will of its own, and even in surrender, it acted as it pleased.

Altair sees its influence in his angel’s eyes. Sometimes they flicker gold, and his voice jumps strangely, stretching melodic notes as if struggling to control an unearthly body. But then the angel frowns, shakes his head, and everything returns to normal, leaving only confusion and wariness on that beloved face — the face of one who had fled from him for so long.

He looks around as if he doesn’t believe any of this is real, touches the blankets with such caution, as though expecting them to slip through his fingers.

"This can’t be," he says slowly, fearfully, hands pressed to his chest, back pressed to the wall.

Altair’s touch sends quiet panic through him, to the assassin’s sorrow, so he keeps his palms on his knees, trying to appear as harmless as possible.

The angel stares at Malik’s missing arm, at his frowning face, then shifts his gaze to ibn La’Ahad and curls in on himself even more.

"This is impossible," he whispers plaintively, looking just as lost as he had in his earliest days. "I shouldn’t be here."

"Why not? You followed me for so long—don’t you deserve a reward after all that suffering?" Altair asks, and the angel flinches as if struck, raising a wary, attentive gaze to him.

"Because I died," the ethereal being says, unaware of how the Master freezes, staring at his own blackened hand. "And my body was taken apart for the memories in my blood."

Silence fills the room for several long minutes. Altair and Malik tense, while the angel himself remains lost, still trying to understand what is happening. He tilts his head, timidly touches the sheets, then almost absently reaches for the edge of the assassin’s robe, unable to suppress his curiosity. For someone who had been intangible for so long, the urge to explore everything with his fingertips is understandable, even endearing. Like a kitten first discovering the world.

"I don’t belong here," he murmurs, pinching the fabric between his fingers and Altair takes a leap of faith.

He gently catches the angel’s hands in his own, tenderly strokes the mismatched skin of both, and drinks in every shift of expression on that achingly familiar face. Memorizes the way his eyes widen in surprise, the flush on his cheeks, the way the golden geometric lines on his skin flicker.

Could this be anything but the sweet vision he had waited for so long?

"Stay," he murmurs, quiet, almost intimate and Malik tactfully looks away. "Please. I was so lost without you…"

"But you weren’t supposed to feel me."

The angel tries to pull his hands free, to press them back against himself, and Altair doesn’t know what to say. This ethereal being had loved him without knowing he was seen — but now, he seems terrified that someone might have witnessed his emotions at all. And somehow, that realization hurts.

He had slipped away so many times before. What could Altair possibly offer to make him stay?

"I know," he exhales, pressing his forehead to his angel’s hands in purest devotion to the one who had so effortlessly held his entire life. "But I’m so tired of chasing your mirages. Please — even if just for a little while — stay with me."

The unearthly being’s gaze softens. He stops struggling and, as always, responds to his emotion by offering comfort first. Carefully, hesitantly, he coaxes Altair to lift his head as if unwilling to accept such worship, but no longer tries to take his hands back.

His skin is no longer cool. It’s warm, and Altair can feel it. Can touch it. Can trace every smooth line, commit them to memory as the greatest miracle of his life.

"I’d like that," the angel admits softly, still disbelieving. "Even if just for a few hours."

And then the ethereal being’s stomach growls and he startles so violently, it’s as if even he hadn’t expected his body to react like that.

"Perhaps questions can wait for later," Malik suggests. "The angel should regain his strength."

"Desmond," he says suddenly, carefully trying to put distance between himself and Altair. "Not an angel... just Desmond."

His cheeks flush again, and ibn La’Ahad admits he is a weak man. He is utterly enchanted by this sight.

It’s fascinating — watching Desmond interact with the world. Even his steps are careful, uncertain, as if he expects the floor to vanish beneath him at any moment. Given the state he’d arrived in, it’s hardly surprising.

Altair gave him his robes, ignoring Malik’s skeptical, knowing look, and futilely tries not to show how much he enjoys seeing his elusive angel in his clothes. They swallow him whole, drowning his thin frame (he needs to be fed back to his healthy form), sleeves falling past his hands, hood drooping over his nose. Desmond wrinkles his nose at the unfamiliar sensation, tries to adjust the fabric, but it slips right back over his eyes seconds later.

Warmth blooms in Altair’s chest — tenderness and something deeper, something he isn’t ready to name — as he watches.

His angel peers curiously from under the hood, examines the fortress, timidly touches objects, and when he catches Altair’s gaze, he nervously fiddles with the long sleeves.

"I never saw much of the fortress beyond the main hall," he admits sheepishly, turning away as they walk through empty corridors.

At this late hour, only the night watch lingers in the shadows, greeting them with nods and curious glances at the unfamiliar third figure. As with Maria, Altair will have to introduce Desmond to his assassins soon — before they assume the worst. Those still resentful of his new rank as Master would seize any excuse to accuse him of all possible sins. Caution is necessary.

Altair reaches out and laces his fingers with Desmond’s, ignoring his startled squeak and Malik’s exasperated eye-roll, dripping with worldly skepticism.

"We’re passing through the senior assassins’ quarters," he explains, pleased when, after the initial reaction, Desmond doesn’t pull away. "The kitchen and dining hall are below. I’ll show you everything, whenever you wish."

"But first... we have questions," the Dai adds gently, noting how Altair avoids serious topics, afraid of scaring his angel away.

Some part of him still fears he won’t be able to hold on. That at any moment, Desmond might wrench free and dissolve into the air the second he looks away.

But now, the angel only nods, adjusting the hood slipping over his nose again.

He was taller as a ghost, Altair notes absently. His shoulders were broader, his arms stronger — even in his fading state, traces of that remained. The Apple hadn’t healed him as they’d thought. It had rebuilt him, made him smaller, repurposing what material it could to replace what was too damaged. And ibn La’Ahad doesn’t know why that thought unsettles him so.

His angel had died. Maybe not here, not now — but somewhere, he had ceased to exist. What if he hadn’t found his way here? What if he’d remained where even death hadn’t granted him peace?

"I might not be able to explain everything," Desmond says awkwardly, shoulders tense and Altair strokes his palm with his thumb. "But I’ll try."

The kitchen holds little — scavenged clean by hungry novices — but a few flatbreads, cheese, and fruit remain from dinner, with vegetables prepared for breakfast. Desmond stares at the food for a long time, and Malik seems ready to apologize for the meager offering when the angel’s eyes grow damp.

"Sorry, this is so stupid—" he mutters hastily, wiping his eyes beneath the hood. "I just... don’t remember the last time I ate something so... real."

Altair squeezes his hand, guides him to the table, and sits close enough to feel his body heat. Malik brews tea, his restrained movements betraying his impatience. It’s hard to stay calm when the answers to so many questions sit barely a meter away, biting into apricots with stifled moans of pleasure — sounds Altair shamelessly commits to memory.

"The Templar treasure—the Apple of Eden," Malik begins once Desmond stops eating, having barely finished half of what they brought. "What exactly did it do?"

The angel curls his fingers around his cup, stares at his reflection, and finally speaks — slowly, carefully choosing words.

"It’s... meant to be an archive. A library. And a tool to control people."

Malik frowns, uncomprehending, and Desmond flinches, rushing to clarify as if expecting pain for disobedience.

"But it doesn’t work so well on those with even a drop of its creators’ blood. And your Apple was deliberately broken — to push people into perpetuating the war between Templars and Assassins for years. They weren’t supposed to develop wills of their own."

He looks down again, watching the steam rise, gripping the cup tighter.

"Wills?" Altair echoes, recalling every evasion, every unwanted vision, every song of histories he hadn’t asked for.

"Yours was... playful. Juno couldn’t control them fully from such distances, but she still corrupted them somewhat."

The new name hangs wearily in the air, like an old scar occasionally aching.

"It’s a long story," the angel murmurs. "And I doubt I can tell it all in one night."

For a moment, the lines on his skin flare gold, his voice lilting into melodic notes.

Malik sighs, tightening his grip on his tea. "Perhaps we should prepare paper. Maria just brought fresh—"

Desmond recoils so violently he nearly knocks his fork to the floor. He stares at them with quiet horror, a yawning void opening behind his gaze — and when Altair reaches out, he jerks back further. His breathing turns ragged, fingers digging into his arms hard enough to bruise.

"I shouldn’t be here," he repeats, shoulders hunched, frightened and miserable, just like when he first woke.

 Now, when Altair tries to embrace him, it only terrifies him more.

Ibn La’Ahad doesn’t understand. But he will — no matter how long it takes.

Desmond speaks of impossible things. An entire civilization of false gods, of time, of machines so advanced they seem miraculous. He talks of the Isu — who shaped humans and Apples to control them — in a tone that expects disbelief.

But Malik and Altair listen. They burn with questions but force patience.

Sometimes, the angel’s gaze drifts from their faces, focusing on something unseen — but then the golden lines flicker, and with a dazed expression, he returns to the present.

"The world burned. The surviving Isu were killed by humans in wars, once some broke free of their artifacts’ influence. But they left behind children. Blended their blood with ours — and it still flows today. Eagle Vision is their legacy."

Like a child’s bedtime story, Desmond shares pieces each night, when Altair and Malik finish their duties. He’s still strangely guarded but answers every question earnestly.

Ibn La’Ahad does everything to make him comfortable in the fortress, introduces him to the Brotherhood as one of their own, makes it clear the angel is under his protection — and his heart aches when Desmond still avoids his touch.

Perhaps time will help. At least until Altair figures out what’s wrong. If the angel truly loved him... what was he so afraid of?

The golden sphere of the Apple is now just a dead hunk of metal, gathering dust on a shelf, yet even now, it brings trouble. Because a week later, it vanishes from his office, and no assassin admits to the theft, even when Altair punishes them all with brutal training.

"It’s harmless now," Desmond soothes, ever attuned to his mood. "Don’t worry."

In these moments, he allows embraces, soft touches, and though conflict lingers in warm brown eyes, the angel always yields, never pulling away. The way he plays with Altair’s hair when the assassin grows bold enough to rest his head in his lap — it’s brimming with so much love it’s hard to grasp.

Desmond doesn’t smile yet, still troubled, but Altair vows to pluck the sun from the sky if he asks. Once, he had lit up his life in its darkest hour. He’ll return the favor, erasing every fear.

"That doesn’t excuse thieves in our ranks," Altair mutters, grimacing at his own unpreparedness for leadership.

Desmond traces his face with featherlight touches, still carding through his hair with that blackened hand. He seems calmer now, momentarily lost in the rhythm of his motions.

"Maybe. But without it, there’ll be less suffering — I promise."

But the next morning, Altair sees Abbas grab Desmond’s arm in the dining hall, yanking back the sleeve to expose black skin etched in gold and his vision darkens with rage. He lunges like a mad dog, blade flashing — but before he can strike, the angel’s eyes blaze gold, his face turning to stone.

"Abbas Sofian," the Apple’s voice sings through him, weaving a golden web that paralyzes everyone in the hall, forcing them to listen. "We have seen the consequences of your choices — how they grieved our vessel. Pride and venom poisoned your youth, and they will lead to your death."

Altair fights free of the Apple’s hold and shoves through the crowd of entranced assassins.

"We have seen you drunk on power, atop a throne that brought no satisfaction. You die pitifully, leaving nothing but blood and filth. Your children flee Masyaf in shame, branded by the hostility you draped over them. Your son is slain by your own allies. Your daughter lives in misery with one who never loved her. She cuts her wrists — ashamed, in pain — and your line ends, forgotten."

Abbas’s defiance falters, his earlier accusations dying in his throat.

"We see all paths, all outcomes. And control over us will never belong to the likes of you." Golden blood trickles from Desmond’s nose. "We know when and how you will die — every frightened thought in your skull. And now, we will watch. One misstep, and we will nudge you closer to death before you even realize it."

Altair grips the angel’s shoulders, trying to pull him back, but the Apple isn’t done with its words yet.

"Our vessel is merciful — he wants to give you a chance. But we will not let you ruin our stories." Desmond’s fingers tighten on Abbas’s wrist, crushing even through the bracer. "And our influence can still slit your throat in an instant — with your own hand."

He releases Abbas abruptly, studies his terror for a second, then the glow fades, warmth returning to exhausted eyes.

Altair catches him, snarling at Abbas, fury barely leashed by the angel’s presence.

"I spared you once. Don’t make me regret it."

How easy it would be to drive a blade through his throat… but Desmond matters more. Always will.

"Get out of my sight."

And Abbas vanishes into the crowd of shaken assassins, all too eager to obey.

A cloud of fear hangs over the fortress. Rumors spread quickly, and doubts spread even faster — the Brotherhood is fracturing into two factions once again. One pledges loyalty out of fear, the other teeters on the edge of abandoning everything and leaving Masyaf forever.

"I always ruin everything," Desmond whispers to him in the evening when Altair returns exhausted once more. "I shouldn’t be here."

"Nonsense," ibn La’Ahad says readily, collapsing onto the bed and pulling his angel close.

He no longer flinches or tries to escape, surrendering to Altair’s persistence, accepting the embrace with a quiet inhale and a distant look in his eyes.

"The Apple… it's inside me. We’re lucky it likes us, but… what if it grows tired of our stories? I don’t have your willpower, it’s stronger than any thought I could ever have."

Altair hums thoughtfully, gently stroking Desmond’s shoulders.

"I don’t think so. You held it back from killing Abbas, didn’t you? Though, admittedly, it might’ve been easier to just be rid of him..."

"Only because it chose to listen to me that one time."

The angel lifts his face, and something inside Altair burns and blooms at the sight, spreading wider and wider. How can he even think of someone as infuriating as Abbas when such perfection lies in his arms?

"You don’t understand, Altair. I’ve seen your life too. And for a while, you were happy with your family. There’s no place for me in it." Seeing him about to protest, Desmond hastily covers his mouth with his palm. "No, listen, please. This is all wrong."

He shifts slightly, locking eyes with him seriously, and the assassin honestly tries not to get distracted by the fingers pressed against his lips.

"There are days I can’t remember who I am. Days when I barely recognize you. Right now, the Apple is keeping my mind intact, but if it ever grows tired of fixing what will never stop breaking… I could kill you without even realizing it."

Altair frowns again. Desmond has already told this story, as clearly as he could. About a future where blood could be read like books, and how it broke him when they had to dive deeper and deeper into the past to find the right key, to save the world from catastrophe.

For some reason, alongside the horror, this story always stirs flashes of wild jealousy in him.

"And I hope… one day you’ll understand it too," Desmond finishes quietly, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Angel," Altair calls, pouring every ounce of tenderness into his voice, "I will never fear death by your hand. There are worse things."

Desmond glances up uncertainly, still frightened and lost, struggling to keep pace with the world. He makes a small questioning sound, and Altair offers him a reassuring smile.

"When you disappeared… you took all my dreams with you. Nothing could ever compare to that."

The angel scrunches his nose adorably and shakes his head. He mutters something under his breath in a language vaguely resembling English, his ears turning faintly pink.

Altair props his head on his hand, unable to suppress a smile. Around Desmond, he wants to be gentle. He wants to touch him, listen to him, keep him close — anything to remind him how enticing the world can be when it belongs entirely to him.

"You can’t just trade your future for me," his angel argues, and the assassin meets his certainty with an infuriating smirk.

"I can."

"Altair!"

"And I will. I don’t need greatness or the happiness you saw through the Apple — or in your future — if you’re not there."

Desmond huffs, scrambling for a counterargument, and Altair takes advantage of the moment to pull him back into his arms.

"The Brotherhood has been my home all my life, but if they refuse to listen, the world won’t end with them. Though, if it eases your mind, my stubbornness won’t allow me to stop at just one failure."

That earns him a tiny smile from Desmond. One that feels like the sweetest victory.

"I know. I’ve seen it with my own eyes," he mumbles into Altair’s shoulder, trying to hide the lightness in his voice.

His walls are crumbling bit by bit, and the assassin can’t wait for the day his angel finally allows himself to be happy.

As his closest advisors, both Malik and Maria voice their concerns about the atmosphere in the fortress. The rift grows deeper, especially with the news that Abbas has fled Masyaf, ranting about a demon Altair has taken under his wing, one that burns their very souls.

Those who support the new Master and those who oppose his decision are all driven by fear, and the Apple shows no interest in singing with Desmond’s voice to seize control of their minds, likely reveling in the growing chaos.

"As much as I’d like to say otherwise, he’s not harmless. His mind holds knowledge that’s both a temptation and a danger. And his body… You know how hard it is to convince people whose heads are still filled with religious imagery," Malik sighs.

Maria tilts her head curiously. She hasn’t seen the angel yet, and if Altair had his way, she never would. Mentions of her sent Desmond into near-hysterical attempts to push him toward a "happier life," and it wasn’t hard to guess who his family had been in the future the angel had seen.

"I thought your Brotherhood rejected religion? ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’—isn’t that your creed?"

"Faced with the inexplicable, it’s hard not to turn to religion for answers," Altair mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he scans mission reports from Damascus and Acre.

Judging by the cautious wording in the Damascus dispatch, news of the Master’s "pet" has already spread there.

"He needs to be… humanized in their eyes," Malik reaches for the teapot, pouring himself another cup. "You keep him locked away, of course they won’t trust—"

"I’m not holding him against his will," Altair snaps, brows furrowing beneath his hood.

As much as he wanted to lock him away, chain him close… the new Master knew that would betray every teaching of free will they stood for. All he could do was try to convince Desmond to stay by his side willingly. Safe, but not caged — unlike those distant future people who had tried to trap him.

If the angel wanted to leave, he could. Altair just wouldn’t accept it, following him to the ends of the earth like a man on a leash.

Besides, was there anything more beautiful than watching a free bird in flight?

Malik fixes him with a heavy look, the candlelight turning his eyes pitch black.

"Are you sure… he wants to be here?"

"Why do you ask?"

"He’s almost always near you, but… he has no interests of his own. As if he’s afraid to even start something."

It was true. Altair suspected Desmond refused to grow attached, convinced his presence here was a mistake, that he wouldn’t stay long. But maybe… with a little more effort… Masyaf could become his home too.

"Then why not let him go?" Maria asks, interlacing her fingers. "Desmond is the source of everyone’s fear. If being here burdens him, the obvious choice is to release him."

Altair’s expression darkens. Hearing the words aloud cuts unexpectedly deep, even though he’s considered them himself. Maria doesn’t know his angel’s worth, doesn’t know Altair wouldn’t stay in Masyaf if Desmond left.

"Think about it," Malik unexpectedly sides with her, and the Master’s hands clench, nails biting into his palms.

"There’s nothing to think about," he nearly hisses, and a heavy silence falls over the room.

Maria shoots a questioning look at the Dai, who shakes his head, likely promising to explain later. Altair doesn’t know why the thought angers him so much.

And in the tense quiet, as they return to their papers, no one notices the shadow shifting beneath the door.

The bedroom is empty when he returns. So Altair climbs to the rooftops, then to the deserted gardens where his angel sometimes sits in the evenings, gazing at the cliffs. But they, too, are empty, and the fortress’s silence offers no answers.

The shadows stretch their clawed fingers in all directions, and he feels frost seeping into his veins, freezing him in place before the gates of a fortress that now feels…

So vast.

Altair whirls toward the city and rushes to Masyaf’s gates, where two assassins straighten at the sight of him.

"Desmond. Has anyone seen him?"

Something strange flickers across their faces — relief, most likely — and Altair bares his teeth.

"My horse," he orders curtly, and one of them quickly leads out his stubborn mare, her hooves striking the ground impatiently.

He spurs her forward, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them with Eagle Vision. The angel didn’t take a horse, and he hasn’t had much time to escape. He must still be close. On the road or hiding — it doesn’t matter.

In the end, Altair has always found everyone he’s ever hunted.

The world loses its color under Eagle Vision, growing darker, but Desmond isn’t just marked in gold — he leaves a trail. Geometric lines of the same light scatter through the air like torn spiderwebs.

Whatever his angel has decided, the Apple clearly opposed it, trying to stop him.

The horse charges forward with the same grim determination as Altair scans for any glimmer of gold, and near the base of the mountain, he spots a lone figure. Without thinking, he halts the mare and leaps from her back like an eagle seizing its prey. Desmond doesn’t even get a chance to speak before Altair tackles him, sending them both crashing to the ground with a startled yelp.

He’s still wearing ibn La’Ahad’s robes, which, as always, swallow him whole, offering protection when the Master himself isn’t there.

Altair stares down at him, breathing heavily. Desmond still looks surprised, but he’s here. In his hands.

The thought loops in his mind, stupid and undeniable. The angel hasn’t vanished. Hasn’t dissolved into shadows… because Altair has finally caught him. Finally turned, reached out, and grasped something real.

"Angel…" he rasps, lips stretching into a euphoric grin. "I caught you."

He feels weightless, floating in pure bliss, just because the body beneath his fingers remains solid, refusing to disappear. And in the rush of too many emotions, Altair loses control.

He leans down and finally kisses those tempting lips, devouring them with all the hunger he’s held back since the moment he accepted this love and decided to return it.

Desmond tastes like apricots. Sweet as temptation itself, and the muffled sounds Altair drinks down drive him mad. He wants to steal every breath, replace it with his own, and kiss him for eternity.

"Altair!" the angel gasps, finally managing to shove him back slightly, gulping in air that Altair immediately wants to kiss back from those damp lips. "Wait, stop!"

He stills. Stares at Desmond’s flushed cheeks, licks his lips, and waits.

"You have Maria…" Desmond starts, and Altair snorts.

"I have you."

"Just listen! You’ll have children with her! And you — you’ll be happy!" His eyes glisten, and Altair softens his expression. "I’ve seen it! And without me… everything will be simpler. Easier."

Ibn La’Ahad sighs and presses the angel into the ground, resting his head on his chest.

"Maybe that was another future. One where I never met you. But you came into my life, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t let you go. Even if you leave now, I’ll follow. That life with Maria you saw will never be mine."

Desmond looks like he’s still holding back tears.

"Angel, you know me."

"I do," he admits quietly.

"And I’ve finally caught you," Altair repeats, meeting warm brown eyes. "Stay. Please."

Desmond exhales, lifts his hands to Altair’s face, and the tears spill over.

"You’re absolutely impossible," he whispers.

Then his lips press softly against Altair’s — wet and warm — but admiring that fact will have to wait. For now, Altair simply savors the moment, kissing back hungrily every time his angel tries to pull away.

Altair hated with every fiber of his being the endless paperwork he had to sift through. From scholars’s requests to warehouse reports, from every scrap of news about completed or failed missions to fabric orders for the Garden’s flowers. Of course, the previous Master had people to share his duties across different domains, but Altair was still working to earn the fortress’s trust — and couldn’t rely on anyone but Malik and his trusted men.⁵

More and more, it all seemed like a waste of paper. Which, in turn, also cost money. And for some reason, nothing ever got easier. The moment one issue was resolved, two more sprang up in its place, and with the Brotherhood’s fracture, it had all become one massive headache.

At the very least, he could still leave the novices’ training to Rauf…

He was barely keeping the fortress under control. Money flowed into Masyaf through trade and the rare assassination contracts they deemed just, but lately, the Bureaus had sent fewer reports of such tasks. Most likely, Rafiqs were deliberately withholding funds, keeping them within their own Bureaus — but Altair simply didn’t have the manpower to send enforcers to other cities and set things straight.

No matter how much of a "golden student" of the Master he had been, many here still remembered him as a boy. And after the incident with Abbas, they were clearly reconsidering their decision to obey someone who didn’t seem to know what he was doing. Explaining otherwise wasn’t an option yet. The Assassins sensed weakness and were pressing on it, little by little, watching curiously to see if he would break.

He sorely missed action. Who would’ve thought he’d ever long for the days when the swing of his sword meant more than words? When his arms ached from the weight of his weapons, when his hidden blade slipped effortlessly between his fingers to strike a target straight through the heart… Even the stench of blood, clinging stubbornly to his nose afterward, no longer seemed so repulsive.

He glanced down at yet another document and sighed heavily, dropping his head onto the desk. Masyaf was home to many, and he had to preserve it — even if the Assassins’ loyalty to him was so fragile that the slightest gust of wind could shatter it. It was easier to give orders to those too terrified to speak against him after the Piece of Eden had flared within Desmond’s body… but then they’d look at him with those frightened eyes…

In moments like these, Altair felt like another monster, no different from the previous Mentor. The bitterness lingered on his tongue.

Rubbing his temple, he picked up the quill again—and nearly snapped it in half when a knock came at the door. Usually, that meant only one thing: more work.

The head of one of the novices peeked in without waiting for permission, but Altair didn’t even have the energy to scold him for it.

"Master," called Zahid, who had only recently earned his hidden blade, his voice uncertain. "At the training grounds…"

He chewed on his words, shifting from foot to foot, flinching when Altair stood from the desk.

"Desmond asked for a sparring session, and…"

At the mention of his angel, everything inside him froze. Ibn La’Ahad didn’t wait for him to finish — he crossed the room in wide strides and rushed outside, his mind utterly blank. Anxiety took root, spreading through his lungs like creeping vines, and for a moment, he feared his heart would stop before he even reached the training grounds.

It seemed like nearly every Assassin in the fortress had gathered in the courtyard, their backs turned to something as they whispered among themselves. But the moment someone noticed Altair, the murmurs died in guilty silence, and the crowd parted to let him through.

First, he saw flecks of gold on the low fence surrounding the training area. Then, two panicking novices who looked torn between crying and fleeing outright. Rauf was barking at them to stop fussing while saying something to Desmond, who sat on the ground, clutching his forehead.

Altair was ready to tear through everyone present, his hand gripping his sword hilt threateningly, but then Desmond lifted his head and…

He was smiling. Sitting there, scuffed up like after a good brawl, a darkening bruise on his forehead, but his face was happy.

"Oh, stop apologizing!" he laughed, wobbling slightly as Rauf helped him up. "It’s my own fault, and now I’ll just have to hide until everyone forgets my shame… Better help me clean up before Altair—"

The novices beside him paled, and Desmond hastily tugged his hood up, clearly unaware of the gold smeared under his nose.

He turned, grinning widely, then froze at the sight of Altair’s stormy expression and immediately threw his hands up.

"Before you get mad, it looks worse than it is!" his angel blurted, shoulders tensing with every step the Master took toward him.

"That’s for me to decide," Altair growled, scanning him for any other injuries.

Finding nothing life-threatening, Ibn La’Ahad hauled Desmond up, unceremoniously slung him over his shoulder, and with one last withering glare at the onlookers, carried him back into the fortress.

Someone in the crowd let out an impressed whistle.

"Don’t be mad," Desmond murmured, pressing a light kiss to his cheek as Altair helped wash the golden blood from his skin. "I just didn’t want to worry you even more."

Ibn La-Ahad forced himself not to get distracted by his angel’s affectionate behavior, glowering at the bruises as if they’d personally offended him. What could have been a romantic moment was ruined by the storm of emotions crashing over him every time he saw the scrapes.

"You know I needed to do something about everyone being afraid of me!"

"And you decided getting beaten up on the training grounds would help?" Altair snapped, digging his nails into the soap bar.

Desmond, knees drawn up in the small basin, glanced back and gently stroked his whitened knuckles, brows furrowed.

"No one beat me up, I swear! I asked for a sparring session, but I didn’t account for how different a real sword would feel… Lost my balance mid-swing and hit the fence face-first."

His explanation was logical, something that could happen to anyone, yet the anxiety in Altair’s chest gnawed hungrily, feeding his anger. What if his angel had been seriously hurt while he wasn’t looking? What if no one had come for him, hiding the incident from the Master? Now, when everyone was so afraid…

"Altair," Desmond called, smoothing the crease between his brows. "I’ll be fine, and your Assassins will calm down. Hard to fear someone who’s that clumsy on his feet."

His smile was reassuring, and Altair knew he was overreacting — especially since his angel had done this for him — but he couldn’t help it. He had to remind himself that Desmond wouldn’t vanish, bleeding out somewhere unwanted and unloved.

With a sigh, he buried his face in Desmond’s shoulder, feeling the angel’s damp fingers card through his hair.

"You know," Desmond began softly, once the silence had soothed his thoughts, "I was born among Assassins. Raised on stories about Templars, about devoting our lives to fighting them."

Such tales always sounded larger than life. Altair already knew Desmond wasn’t from this time, but imagining the world eight hundred years in the future? Even the most skilled writers would struggle with that.

"In the middle of nowhere, our home was called the Farm. And the only thing that felt real back then was the initiation — becoming an Assassin and getting my own hidden blade."

Instinctively, Altair glanced at the angel’s palms. All his fingers were intact.

"No," Desmond laughed, still stroking his hair, "in my time, the blade doesn’t require sacrifices. A legacy you left us — proof that unnecessary bloodshed could be avoided. But I never got mine."

He spoke of fleeing the Farm, how overwhelming the outside world had been, unfenced, boundless, freedom tasting sweeter than he’d ever imagined. He described towering cities where lights outnumbered stars, where buildings scraped the sky. Painted pictures of something loud, chaotic, yet mesmerizing in its own way.

And yet… Altair couldn’t shake one question.

"Do you hate this place? Masyaf, the fortress, the Assassins themselves?" he asked, dreading the answer. "It’s like your Farm."

Desmond stilled, staring at the lukewarm water in the basin.

"No. Not the same," he said, and for a moment, silence settled between them. "The Farm never felt like home."

Hope flickered, smothering the fear, and Altair allowed himself to exhale.

"I’ll teach you."

The angel turned his head with a questioning hum, and Altair nuzzled his shoulder, memorizing his scent.

"Swordplay, knife-throwing…" ibn La’Ahad clarified, eyes still closed. "Everything. If you want."

For some reason, Desmond giggled. And the storm inside him slowly quieted, soothed by the sound.

The angel had been right. His little "training mishap" shattered any religious reverence around him, made him seem harmless and gradually, the whispers about fleeing Masyaf faded.

The novices adjusted fastest. Desmond was friendly, and teenagers were always curious. Their bravery made the first move, and soon they trailed after the angel like ducklings, begging for more stories. Even the flares of the Apple now fused with him stopped frightening them once the artifact sang in Desmond’s voice of heroes lost to time.

The children of Masyaf followed next, growing used to the local oddity, dragging him into their games. And the more he appeared in the city, trailed by a gaggle of youths, the more the adults’ fears faded, replaced by new associations.

The contrast was striking. Desmond had once been afraid to touch even the smallest things, unwilling to grow attached, yet the moment he settled into his place in the fortress, his influence spread everywhere.

He pulled knowledge from the Apple in his mind, teaching the healers about diseases and treatments from his time, answering every question from curious scholars, and lifting a mountain of paperwork from Altair’s shoulders. Ibn La’Ahad now focused on Bureau reports and mission assignments while Desmond handled patrol schedules, laundry disputes, and requests for small comforts.

Once he proved his usefulness, Masyaf collectively decided that the "Templar treasure-vessel’s" value outweighed his danger, and the cloud of fear over the fortress finally began to lift.

Desmond knew how to wield the Piece of Eden unlike any of them, and it clearly allowed him to sift through its depths of knowledge, calculate perfect outcomes, and choose the best course. Strangely, that realization didn’t unsettle Altair as it should have. His soul still trusted that the angel would always act in their favor, protecting what mattered to him — and for now, that was enough.

He set down the quill and realized, with sudden surprise, that his work was done and it was still daylight.

Altair savored a few seconds of peace before stretching, his muscles aching.

If he had free time, he might as well spend it more pleasantly…

The Flowers were lounging in the gardens, flirting with a few Assassins, so Altair headed straight for the rooftops, using Eagle Vision to spot the golden silhouette.

Desmond was gazing at the cliffs when the Mentor approached from behind, settling onto the sun-warmed tiles. He wrapped his arms around the angel’s waist, resting his chin on Desmond’s shoulder, catching the barely suppressed smile tugging at his lips.

If Altair could freeze time, stretching a single moment into eternity, he would choose this one. Just the two of them, bathed in warm wind, finally at peace with no more pain.

A sweet dream he never wanted to wake from.

"The fortress needs a bit of music," Desmond mused, watching the birds soar. "Didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to hearing it everywhere in my time…"

Altair hummed, closing his eyes.

"Tell me about it," he murmured.

Desmond hesitated.

"Honestly, I don’t even know where to start… There was so much of it. Some songs stuck in your head for days after one listen. Others had lyrics that made no sense, like people sang about everything possible, then just started channeling emotions through absurd words and weird rhythms." His fingers tapped absently against the tiles, and Altair laced their hands together, stroking the contrasting skin.

He loved when Desmond shared these small, meaningless details because every memory of his time before here still carried a bittersweet ache.

"One day, I’ll marry an angel," ibn La’Ahad murmured in a sing-song voice, nuzzling the tempting curve of Desmond’s neck. "We’ll make love in the clouds… And pray nothing ever changes."⁶

He cracked one eye open, noting the flush creeping up Desmond’s ears, and nipped lightly, making him laugh.

"Who knew you were such a romantic, Altair?" His angel smiled — so effortlessly, so lovingly — and was there anything more breathtaking than that?

Perhaps only the taste of his lips as Altair leaned in to kiss him.

Desmond was not in his arms when he awoke. Instead, he sat in the corner of the room, muttering in tongues Altair had never heard. His gaze was fixed on nothingness, and the hatred etched on his face was so visceral it was terrifying to imagine who it was meant for.

The Apple seemed in no hurry to change his state as usual, so the Mentor simply took a blanket and draped it carefully over his shoulders before sitting beside him on the cold floor. He didn’t fully understand the story of how Desmond’s mind had fractured so badly, but he had no intention of turning away from him in moments like these.

The angel hissed something under his breath, still staring into the void. The memory he was trapped in forced him to search for an exit, fail to find one, and press his back against the wall as if it could swallow him whole.

"Desmond," Altair called softly, pressing his lips to his temple. "Come back to me."

The distant gaze shifted toward him but held no recognition.

"My angel, wake up," he continued whispering, taking Desmond’s hands in his. "You’re in Masyaf. With me. And I won’t let anyone harm you."

Slowly, like a waterfall flowing backward, golden light seeped into the geometric lines on his skin, soon settling in his eyes — dyeing his irises, a sign the Apple was taking hold again, with something to say.

"You were not the only one," it sang in a familiar voice, and Altair felt himself frown involuntarily. "He has lived the lives of two others after you. Loved them, too, in his own way."

A spark of jealousy flared inside him before dying out. Desmond had spoken of them — Ezio, who charmed as easily as he breathed, and Ratonhnhaké:ton, who could never be broken. His voice had always been full of awe when recounting what he’d seen through their eyes, but in the end, he always returned to Altair, his devotion so blatant that jealousy would have been foolish.

When it didn’t get the reaction it wanted, the Apple sang again.

"He was with you for only a year. The others had decades."

Altair smiled, no longer feeling like he was losing his mind to the artifact’s temptations.

"But I was first," he said proudly, staring into those golden eyes. "And when it came time to choose, he thought of me."

The glow flickered, faltering before his certainty.

"And if it was an accident?" the treasure asked.

"Then I will be grateful for it," Altair replied, "and love him all the same."

The Apple fell silent for a moment.

"I like that answer. I will remember it, my proud eagle."

Desmond’s smile was wrong under the Apple’s influence — cold, metallic. But then the light faded, warmth returning to his angel’s gaze as he blinked in confusion.

Altair simply pulled him close, letting him bury his face in his shoulder.

"Was I bleeding again?" Desmond asked miserably, and Altair pressed a soothing kiss to the top of his head.

What a horrifying word for such a horrifying thing. He held him tighter, sheltering him in his hands, and kissed his hair again.

"Only for a little while." He shifted Desmond onto his lap to spare him the cold floor and let silence settle around them. Then, hesitant and quiet, he finally asked the question that had haunted him: "How… how did you die?"

The angel didn’t even flinch, as if he’d been waiting for it.

"The Templars of my time were digging through my blood for my ancestors’ memories. It… wore me down, piece by piece. The Assassins did the same when they took me. I think… I always knew it wouldn’t end well for me."

He took a breath, turning almost fully toward Altair, and placed his palms over his chest hidden beneath the blanket, as if grounding himself with the touch. The fact that he sought such comfort in him was the best argument against the Apple’s attempts to test how much he still relied on its words.

"In the memories, we found a message saying that the world would burn. In others, a key to saving it. But only I could use it. Centuries, millennia of bloodlines mixing just to produce me… the perfect sacrifice."

Altair didn’t interrupt. He listened, hoping to erase the hollow emptiness in his angel’s voice when this was over.

"I was the Templars’ golden opportunity. Their seventeenth experiment. I remained one for the Assassins, too. Even after death. My… my father left my body in the Temple, beside the artifact that saved the world. And Abstergo… they took me apart. Kept using me for memories, even when I was gone."

Altair pressed his cheek to the top of Desmond’s head, holding him as tightly as he could.

"But… how do you know this?" He had a million questions, but the pieces were slowly falling into place from all the stories his angel had shared.

"Isu," came the short, cryptic reply. Then Desmond clung to him even tighter, hiding his face in his neck, and Altair decided to save the rest for later.

Fighting Desmond was strange. His movements were unpredictable, shifting styles mid-combat whenever Altair tried to force an opening. Sometimes, it even felt like fighting himself — just smaller, less accustomed to his own capabilities.

He was an interesting opponent… but still ended up on the ground almost every time they sparred.

"That’s not fair!" he huffed, defeated once again.

Disheveled, flushed from exertion, he stirred entirely improper thoughts in Altair.

"If it helps… you lasted longer than last time."

Desmond’s lips pursed. The Assassins watching from the edges of the training yard immediately began whispering, grinning. No doubt they’d seen the look on their Master’s face — ready to devour his angel right then and there.

But how could he resist when he looked so adorable?

Malik audibly scoffed, long since tired of their lovestruck antics. He waved a hand as Altair helped Desmond up, and the angel smiled at him warmly, nestling into his oversized hood.

No one dared suggest getting him properly fitted clothes — not when it risked angering the Master, so enchanted by his little angel.

"Malik!" Desmond perked up, bouncing over while still shooting Altair a playfully indignant look. "He wiped the ground with me again!"

The Dai gave him an entirely unimpressed stare, amusement only betraying itself in the twitch of his lips.

"I hate to break it to you, but that’s how training works," he grumbled, and the angel pouted.

"No support anywhere," he muttered, crossing his arms — prompting a few bold Assassins to try dragging him off to wreak havoc among the novices.

Altair caught Desmond by the waist, pulling him back against his chest with a triumphant smirk.

"Next time, boys."

His charges sighed but didn’t argue. Truth be told, these playful moments were far better than the fear and distrust that had lingered in every corner after Rashid ad-Din’s death. Altair even encouraged them… as long as they weren’t trying to take his angel away, of course.

Desmond snorted, then nestled closer, savoring every moment of contact. After his long journey, the angel had clearly starved for touch.

"Good news from Jerusalem. Richard and Salah ad-Din have signed a treaty. The Crusade is over. Tensions remain, of course, but the sieges have been lifted from the cities."

Altair nodded, resting his chin atop Desmond’s hood-covered head.

"I’m covered in dust," the angel muttered, half-complaining, and Malik rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what would follow.

The angel insisted on cleanliness, and ibn La’Ahad was more than happy to join him. He clung to him like a leach in every possible situation, making up for all the time he couldn’t touch him. No longer willing to risk loneliness again, Altair seemed to be discovering all the joys of intimacy.

"Altair," the Dai warned sharply before he could get too excited, "Work first. Alamut is sending envoys for negotiations — you, of all people, should know how important this is!"

Desmond giggled and waved at them, heading toward the gardens where the baths were. The Master could only sigh and remind himself, again, that he needed to find someone else to dump this duty on. Or at least assign himself a mission outside Masyaf with his angel. All this bureaucracy was more exhausting than the years under Abbas’s mockery.

And Rashid ad-Din had wanted even more power? Altair barely knew what to do with what he already had.

"I know what you’re thinking," Malik cut in, though his feigned irritation carried a spark of amusement. "You’re not dumping all your work on me."

Such a good plan, wasted… Maybe he could still catch up with Desmond in the baths…

With another theatrical sigh, Altair lifted his head and braced himself for battle against the endless paperwork.

The angel attends the meeting with Alamut’s envoys. He sits behind Altair, occasionally offering quiet input — much to their guests' confusion — but mostly just watches and supports him, warming the room with his presence.

No one understands what Desmond is, and the Assassins’ inconsistent answers only deepen the mystery.

Alamut has doubts, concerns about Masyaf’s current state, and the discussion hums with veiled tension, teetering on aggression as cautious phrases lead nowhere.

"Abbas told them about us," the angel whispers in lilting tones, his eyes gold once more. "He wants to rid himself of us using their hands."

The lines on his body, along with the blackened hand, remain hidden beneath his robes, his expression open, impossibly honest, as if he couldn’t conceal anything even if he tried. The Apple calculates, analyzes, selecting the best outcomes and weaving them into reality through words and the vessel’s gestures.

At first, the treasure plays harmless — naive, unthreatening. But when that fails, it shifts tactics. It knows too much, and while Altair doesn’t always follow the verbal lacework spilling from those familiar lips, the envoys pale, frown, and exchange uneasy glances.

Malik betrays nothing, sitting rigidly beside them, but under the table, his fingers clench as he stares straight ahead, refusing to show his unease.

The Apple leaves the final decisions to Altair, but laces its words with promises — support if they cooperate, ruin if they turn hostile. And there’s nothing supernatural about it! No prophecies, no future knowledge, just cold analysis, leveraging the present, cutting with truths of what could happen if pushed the right way.

Alamut cannot be besieged — its geography and self-sufficiency make it untouchable. But people? They can be influenced. Their mountain-fed water? Poisoned. Trade routes, patrol schedules, the names of those overseeing every little detail — the Apple knows everything. Every secret of these tiny human lives.

But then it changes course. It whispers of cooperation, of how much more they stand to gain as allies, how information could be a gift between friends, how no harm will come, unless malicious tongues dare slander Masyaf’s decisions…

Desmond smiles softly, serene as he lays the foundation for peace and yields the floor back to Altair.

Masyaf appears strong. Unshakable. In control, wielding power but unwilling to harm unless forced.

"We hope to maintain our… friendly relations," one of Alamut’s Assassins replies stiffly. "It would be foolish to feud with those whose Shadow whispers intentions the moment they’re born."

Their eyes flick to Desmond, standing behind Altair as he shakes their hands. The angel still smiles, golden gaze piercing, barely blinking.

"Give Abbas my regards!" he sing-songs as they turn to leave.

The Apple allows itself a few more seconds of triumph before dimming, retracting its presence, the golden web of words unraveling. Desmond blinks warm brown eyes again, notices the tension in Malik’s shoulders, opens his mouth to speak then flinches when the Dai jerks away.

He turns, hood dipping, hastily wiping golden blood from his nose before slipping out faster than Al-Sayf can react.

Malik exhales, rubbing his brow.

"You listen to him. Every word."

Altair tilts his head, letting his hood shadow his eyes.

"The Apple manipulated when it couldn’t speak plainly. But now? With a voice? How do we know which choices are ours if it pushes what suits it?"

Despite his fear, the Dai doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t risk being overheard.

"Malik. The treasure could shatter every doubt in our minds with a thought, just as it did under Rashid ad-Din. It could slit all our throats, like it threatened under Abbas… Desmond said where he’s from, he killed many with just a thought using a Piece of Eden."

The Dai pales. Chews his lip.

"Doesn’t that terrify you? That one day, he’ll do it again? Willingly or not, it won’t matter." He takes a sharp breath. "I know it’s foolish, but I won’t lose anyone else to a treasure that sees us as toys."

Altair grips his shoulder. The memory of Kadar aches like an old scar.

"I won’t let that happen."

Malik scoffs, ever skeptical.

"You can’t promise that. Not when you follow Desmond around like a lovesick fool, ready to leap at his every word."

He… doesn’t deny it. But the angel claimed the Apple had sacrificed itself to save him, reducing its lifespan to a single human life. And if the Piece of Eden truly cared for their stories… that had to mean something.

"Then this: I can’t promise we won’t all go a little mad around the treasure. But I know we won’t lose our lives or our wills."

Malik arches a brow. Altair smirks.

"Desmond won’t let it."

The Dai groans in exasperation, muttering something suspiciously close to, "And what did I expect?"

Altair finds Desmond in his bed, distressed, scratching geometric lines into his skin as if trying to rid himself of them. He lies with his back to the door and hastily hides his gold-smeared fingers against his chest when ibn La’Ahad enters the room. 

“Angel,” the Master calls softly, and in response, Desmond tenses his shoulders, curling into an even tighter ball on the bed. “Look at me.”

But Desmond remains stubborn, and for once, the Apple doesn’t rush to interject, dormant after its role in the meeting.

“Do you know why I’m here?” he asks suddenly after a long stretch of silence.

Altair sits on the bed and gently strokes the coiled-up form, coaxing the scratched hands into his touch. Desmond doesn’t expect an answer, nor does he want to turn around — his voice sounds strangely hollow.

“The Isu… That civilization that came before us, the ones who created humans as their slaves… They were wrong. They said the Earth would burn from a solar flare, that I’d have to stop it… I was their sacrifice, bred over a long, long time, like a prized horse.”

The story is familiar, but that doesn’t mean Altair likes it. He lies behind Desmond, pulls him closer, and carefully removes the hood, burying his nose in the angel’s neck. He catches the small hands in his own and gently squeezes them, no longer allowing them to cause harm.

“My father… All his talk about the importance of blood, how I ignored that legacy… I hated it. Wanted to scream every time they dragged me back to the place I tried so hard to escape. But when the time came to give my life… I didn’t mind. Thought maybe it’d give all the suffering in your lives some meaning.”

Every time he speaks of his time, it sounds… so sad. Constricting. A thousand doors, each one slamming shut in his face, cutting off every path.

“But the Isu miscalculated. All that talk of their calculations, and in the end, it was just one big joke. The second solar flare wasn’t strong enough to burn the Earth. Wasn’t even strong enough to burn a single city. And my death wasn’t just pointless — it also freed Juno, an Isu obsessed with vengeance against all humans. Every time I try to do the right thing, I just make more mistakes. My survival… is another mistake.”

Altair can’t suppress a low growl. He’s spent so much effort convincing Desmond his self-judgment is wrong — only for it all to crumble the moment someone looks at him with fear again.

“Do you remember Ali? He was badly burned, his skin festering. The knowledge you shared saved his leg, maybe his life. And Fatima? Neither she nor her child would have survived. The students became more careful in their experiments, and the way you sense dangers before they happen has helped us save even more people! How can that be a mistake?”

Desmond still doesn’t turn. He trembles faintly and keeps telling his story.

“Minerva was displeased. She screamed, Juno laughed… And Minerva said she wouldn’t accept that outcome. She took the remaining energy from all the temples and came back for me when my body was already being prepared for burning, stripped of everything useful. She created a divergence in time and threw me where my bloodline would be lost forever, so Juno couldn’t be freed at the right moment. My love was used against me, and your awareness of my presence just locked you in that cage too.”

Altair sighs. Leaves a kiss on Desmond’s neck and abruptly flips him onto his back, brows furrowed.

“If you hadn’t been in my life… what would have happened?” he asks, not letting the angel hide again. “How would my story have ended?”

Desmond opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns his head away, avoiding his gaze.

“I would’ve had children with Maria — because she’s the only one besides Malik I trust. Would’ve had children I couldn’t protect. Your silence tells me I might’ve had happy moments, but my end would still be the same. Tragic for you, and if I’m right… lonely for me.”

The angel’s eyes widen, and Altair doesn’t give him time to speak.

“Do you want to push me toward that? Leave me alone again, with nothing but a deceitful whisper in my head?”

“No!” Desmond looks frightened. “I’ll deal with all the threats, I promise! This time, you’ll have a happy ending!”

“One threat will replace another. I won’t be able to love Maria again. She won’t love me, too intoxicated by her freedom. And my children would grow up with the same doubts, the same shadows at their backs, just because I couldn’t give them everything as both a Master and a father.”

The angel shakes his head as if refusing to listen, but Altair sees the cracks — and presses.

“Is that really the future you want for me?”

Desmond jerks again, eyes darting around the room, searching for answers and arguments.

“If I stay… I’ll demand loyalty,” he challenges, though his eyes almost glow with relief, as if he thinks this will be enough to scare him off.

“I wouldn’t offer anything less.”

Altair honestly tries to hold back a smile at Desmond’s panic, but it breaks through anyway, lifting the corners of his lips.

“You won’t have your own children!” the angel exclaims, and ibn La’Ahad arches a brow.

“The world is full of orphans, if you want them. We could take one under our wing. Two. As many as you’d like.”

“But—!”

“Fine, fine. For your peace of mind, I promise to thoroughly check that you definitely can’t get pregnant. Every morning, evening, night—any time at all.”

It takes Desmond a moment. Then his face flushes red, mixing fear, embarrassment, and near-hysterical hope. Altair allows himself a smirk, memorizing the expression.

“Let’s start now,” he purrs, watching the angel turn even redder.

The sight is worth trying to provoke as often as possible.

Desmond shyly tries to cover the golden geometric lines on his body with his palms. Altair takes his hands away and kisses each one, leaving no inch unattended. The angel’s skin is warm, sun-kissed, and still inexplicably smells of apricots.

He wants to lick and bite every part of it.

Patience, the Master reminds himself, moving carefully, afraid to startle his angel. Desmond responds beautifully to every touch — soft sighs, timid glances, clearly wanting to press closer but not yet daring. That’s fine. If there’s one thing Altair has learned from his angel, it’s near-endless patience.

He places a hand on Desmond’s thigh, slowly drags it upward, just letting him feel skin on skin. His fingers are calloused from years of wielding weapons, but the angel’s eyes still widen, his breath hitching as if the mere sight of them is enough to arouse him.

It’s a calm, cool morning, and the contrast of their heated bodies against the chill is as enchanting as Desmond’s damp lips, from which Altair steals kisses and then delves deeper, exploring every inch until the angel whimpers. He wants to lavish him until he’s mindless, flushed, and thoughtless. All of Masyaf can wait while he pleasures his angel.

When he pulls back, Desmond unconsciously chases his lips, drawing a smile from him. His angel can be unbearably sweet, even when he isn’t trying.

Altair noses lower, tastes his neck, lightly bites a golden line that flickers with an unearthly glow. Like a sweet fantasy, it intoxicates him, makes him crave more, and Desmond giggles at the ticklish sensation, hands settling on his shoulders. Small fingers trace his scars, outline each one, and in a sudden burst of courage, the angel leans forward and kisses one when ibn La’Ahad lifts his head.

Malik was right when he said Altair acted like a lovesick fool. So right.

Desmond smiles at his expression, flushes, but leans in again, kissing the next scar, then another, until each has received its due attention. He gazes at them with admiration and faint sorrow. His careful fingers follow the mark left by Rashid’s dagger, the one that once punished him with temporary death, thinking it would bring him to his senses.

But… had his angel not been there, Altair would have remained that bitter version of himself — trusting no one, believing in nothing.

Desmond meets his gaze again with warm brown eyes, lifts his hands, and tenderly strokes his cheeks. He cradles Altair’s face like something precious, fragile, worth protecting, and something in his chest swells, stretching in all directions with warmth just from looking at him.

Dark fingers, traced with gold, brush the scar crossing his lips, and Desmond half-lids his eyes, studying them.

“I didn’t see you get this scar. Most of them, actually,” the angel murmurs, exploring — still shy, still cautious — and Altair shivers under his touch.

Instead of answering, he runs his palms down Desmond’s sides, stopping at his hips, where the too-large fabric still covers his legs.

Altair doesn’t want to rush. Wants to savor every moment of this perfect morning, and yet… a hungry abyss opens in his gut, desire clawing its way out with sharp talons and burning impulses. He drags his gaze over his angel’s body, and even with him in his arms, he envies the sunlight that caresses him through the window.

Desmond kisses his shoulder, trails his hands down his chest, and his eyes crinkle with amusement when the only reaction is a faint tremble and stifled gasps.

“I dreamed of you when I couldn’t be near, you know?” the angel asks, slightly nervous but so enticing as he licks his lips and presses closer when the cool breeze brushes their heated skin. “I imagined your hands on me,” he whispers. “But the real thing is so much better.”

What restraint could possibly remain?

Altair groans, dropping his head to his angel’s shoulder, and Desmond’s hands immediately find their place on his back, tracing every line of muscle.

“I think I’ll lose my mind if you keep talking like that.”

“But it’s true!” the angel protests playfully. “I think I even desynchronized once because I couldn’t stop staring at your thighs when you were riding a horse…”

He doesn’t quite understand the unfamiliar word, but he focuses instead on how Desmond teases him with compliments. Altair kisses the skin between neck and shoulder, then bites down, drawing a startled sound from the angel.

The Master lifts his head, checking if it was a bad reaction, and barely stifles a groan at how wide Desmond’s eyes are, how his breath hitches with arousal.

Any thought of restraint vanishes. He’ll mark him so thoroughly no one will doubt who the angel belongs to.

And it is the truth. No matter what stories Desmond told him, what explanations he gave for his intangible presence before, or all his knowledge of the Isu and their tools that read memories from blood… To Altair, he remains an angel. The one who so gently opened his eyes to something new, who warmed him even while bringing a cool touch, who loved him so recklessly and so fiercely.

No words in the world could describe all the ways his feelings have shifted with Desmond by his side. Like a small sprout stretching upward, roots digging deeper, growing stronger… It’s hard to explain, but ibn La’Ahad is certain his angel was always meant for him.

Somewhere in another future — one where they never met — he ended his life without ever knowing how whole he could feel. But here… Altair has no intention of letting his beloved slip away.

Desmond’s first melodic moan spills free when Altair’s lips trail down his chest, distracting him as he unwraps the angel from the thin fabric, baring him completely.

It’s the most beautiful sound Altair has ever heard. And he wants more.

Impatience bleeds into small gestures. Their clothes are kicked off the bed carelessly, the blanket following, leaving them naked before the morning chill — not that either notices, too focused on the heat of their own bodies.

The angel clings to him, barely letting him move, as if afraid he’ll leave, and Altair smiles, oddly charmed by such devotion. He strokes the smooth skin of Desmond’s thighs, slowly spreads them, and distracts him with more kisses.

“Altair,” the angel whispers against his lips, smiling and arching beautifully, pressing closer, memorizing his shape. “Please, Altair…”

He looks breathless already. Disheveled, flushed, beneath him… ibn La’Ahad can hardly believe he gets to wake up to this sight every morning.

And his voice… sweeter than any seductive song of ancient treasures.

The Master trails kisses down his angel’s stomach, licks each golden line, nips at his hips, moving lower until Desmond chokes on a gasp, jerking in his hold. He retrieves the oil prepared a week prior, coating his fingers carefully.

At the first touch inside, the angel instinctively tries to close his legs, unused to such intimacy, and Altair patiently spreads them again, wrapping them around his waist.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs against Desmond’s lips, and the angel nods, gaze lowering. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Desmond breathes, rocking his hips slightly, and they both groan at the contact.

When Altair pushes inside, carefully preparing him, the lines on his body pulse gold before fading. The Apple doesn’t seize control to speak, letting them enjoy each other, and for that alone, he almost forgives the Piece of Eden for all the misery it has caused.

Desmond reaches down, trying to touch himself, and Altair catches his hand, pressing a light kiss to it.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, meeting the gaze of those stunning brown eyes, and the angel flushes, surrendering willingly.

Desmond only squirms slightly when ibn La’Ahad withdraws his fingers, eyes widening in anticipation.

Altair pushes in with what little patience he has left — and it trembles dangerously as his angel gasps his name, clinging to his back like it’s the last thread keeping him from falling. His thighs tighten around Altair’s waist, and now it’s the Master’s turn to exhale sharply through clenched teeth.

Inside, the angel is tight and hot. He clenches around him like a vine, pulls him closer, moans softly into his neck as Altair begins to move. Ibn La’Ahad takes his time. Holds back as much as he can, relishing how Desmond’s short nails leave marks on his back, starts with a slow rhythm, kisses those beloved lips, tasting apricot sweetness, and knows he’ll never be able to refuse this.

But then Desmond starts rocking his hips, lightly biting his neck, pressing him deeper as if trying to merge with him — and patience abruptly runs out.

Altair doesn’t realize when his thrusts grow harder, faster, drunk on his angel’s cries, on how his name sounds from those sinful lips. They bite, touch, kiss, move like they can’t get enough, and the world seems to narrow to just this moment.

In the sunlight, sweat looks like honey, and Altair sees no reason to deny himself the taste.

He pins Desmond harder with each thrust, makes him slide up and down the sheets, and thinks he might be growling into his temple. Once, he promised to make love to his angel on the clouds, but this is just as good. He wants the sheets soaked with their sweat, proof of their first union, a promise of many more days and nights lost in each other.

The thought makes him thrust harder, and Desmond cries out, nails raking his back.

“Sing for me, my angel,” Altair growls against his lips, punctuating each word with sharp snaps of his hips. “Louder.”

With another loud cry of his name, Desmond sobs, blindly reaching for his lips, touching him everywhere, unsure where to put his hands. He clutches at his back, shoulders, neck, head, squeezing with his thighs and inside, as if he never wants to let go.

“Altair, Altair, my Altair,” the angel chants with each thrust, head thrown back.

Ibn La’Ahad barely regains control. The idea of being called his sends a pleased rumble through the abyss of desire inside him.

“Desmond,” he smiles, muffling moans with hot, messy kisses. “I’ve caught you. And I won’t let go.”

The angel arches, stifles a scream against his lips, and clenches around him even tighter, spilling between them. Following is easy, and the thought of leaving part of himself inside this beloved body makes him come with a groan, burying his face in Desmond’s neck.

For a moment, they just breathe, still holding each other. Altair gazes at the sweat on the angel’s hairline, his flushed face, relaxed body, and thinks — if paradise exists, it looks like this.

He traces the bite marks on Desmond’s neck, meets his gaze as those brown eyes open, and smiles.

The angel mirrors him, looking at him with all the tenderness in the world, lifting a hand to stroke his face.

“I love you. More than anything. More than this world.”

Altair never doubted it, but hearing it aloud nearly melts him where he lies atop Desmond.

“I know. My soul, I know,” he whispers back, stealing a few more kisses.

And… perhaps he should’ve expected his angel’s softness to reignite his hunger.

“Shouldn’t we get up?” Desmond giggles, adorably flustered.

“I think Masyaf can wait a few… more hours,” Altair rumbles, rolling his hips — and keeps his word.

They don’t leave the room until noon, ignoring the knowing looks of the Assassins in the fortress, who pretend their Master’s bedroom is far more soundproof than it really is.

A happy angel is walking beside him.

He treads the grass of Masyaf’s garden, his feet leaving traces for a couple of years now.

"You should’ve seen the way she looked! She was practically picturing herself as Maria when she grows up," Desmond smiles, talking about the days and new experiences of their adoptive daughter, who’s already running freely through the fortress halls.

She’s still little, curious, and brimming with so much energy it’s a wonder how it all fits into such a tiny body.

Altair can’t suppress a smile. Now, under the moonlight, while their daughter sleeps soundly and they have a few free hours to themselves, he thinks again of the peace in his soul. Their home is safe, the Brotherhood grows stronger every year with the Apple’s knowledge, and the fear of turning around only to see a fading silhouette has long since passed.

"She wouldn’t go to bed until I promised to find her a helmet just like hers on our next missions."

Altair shakes his head.

"Two Marias in our fortress? I fear the walls won’t hold."

Desmond laughs, resting his head on Altair’s shoulder while his body still shakes with mirth — such a contrast to how he first appeared here that it sends a familiar wave of tenderness tightening around Altair’s heart.

"And imagine if Malik and her have a girl? Then there’ll be three, and we’ll all have to flee for our lives."

Altair feigns horror. Desmond bursts into laughter again, his hood (still too big) slipping over his nose.

And Altair watches, watches… still unable to look away. The angel makes his world brighter. He can’t even remember the last time he thought of the fortress’s predatory shadows, waiting for any misstep. Now, Masyaf feels like what it was always meant to be — a home, a sanctuary shielding them from all hardship.

And with Desmond’s help, calculating and analyzing probabilities with the Apple, they’ve kept it whole, safe, and without a doubt, they’ll continue to do so for many, many years.

Altair intertwines their fingers, tenderly tracing the darkened skin of Desmond’s hand until he brushes against the straps of his hidden blade. The realization that Desmond accepted them, agreeing to officially rejoin the Assassins, soothes something deep inside.

It’s foolish — thinking Desmond would be less protected without their blade — but stubborn thoughts like these don’t just vanish, no matter how hard he tries to dismiss them. At least now they quiet down, finally at peace.

Desmond tugs him toward their favorite spot overlooking the cliffs, pulls him onto the cool grass, and pointedly settles between his legs, back against Altair’s chest, demanding to be held. It earns a muffled chuckle. Having grown accustomed to life here, the angel no longer holds back these small impulses, allowing himself little joys.

The Master rests his chin atop Desmond’s head and gazes with him at the starry sky stretching over the cliffs like an endless veil. Desmond once said that in his time, the sky wasn’t like this, hidden behind smoke and smog — and after his stories, this view took on new meaning, even though Altair has seen it all his life.

Besides, the sky seems different with his awestruck angel beside him, willingly losing himself among a thousand stars.

Altair closes his eyes and exhales contentedly, pulling the warm body closer. Once, golden blood had been spilled on this very grass, from a broken, discarded body. That will never happen again.

His hands stroke Desmond’s stomach through the fabric before slipping beneath his robes, making the angel giggle at the ticklish touch.

"Altair! Don’t even think about it!" he warns with a sharp inhale, but the Master immediately leans forward, trying to nuzzle under the hood.

He finds Desmond’s lips, turns his head, and for several minutes, slowly steals his breath, claiming all his attention. Desire stirs easily within him when he holds perfection in his hands, and their daughter’s chaotic schedule leaves them few moments alone. Still… Altair wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

His hand strokes Desmond’s stomach again, and the angel shudders, lightly smacking his arm.

"Altair, no! Do you want a repeat of the library incident?"

Desmond flushes and stammers only when remembering it, and the Master feels a sharp spike of smugness. They maybe traumatized Malik, who accidentally stumbled upon them in a rather indecent position in one of the corners, but possessiveness leaves no room for shame.

The Dai had ranted and raged for a week, much to the angel’s horror — he couldn’t meet the man’s eyes for ages afterward. Altair, however, lacked such scruples and only smirked, pulling Desmond closer whenever Al-Sayf shot him a murderous glare.

"Hmm," the Master drawls in mock thoughtfulness. "It’s night, everyone’s asleep… and in my arms is an angel I want to make even more memories with. I see no reason to stop." He finds Desmond’s neck with his lips, savoring the beloved taste of apricots, and the angel softens, as always unable to resist him.

"You said the same thing last time," Desmond reminds him gently but obediently turns, settling onto Altair’s lap and letting his hands roam from hips to thighs, then lower.

"Couldn’t help myself," Altair grins, leaning in for more kisses.

They linger for a few more minutes, unwilling to part, pressing closer and closer — but just as Altair’s hands slide beneath his angel’s clothes, Desmond’s lines flare abruptly, his eyes glowing gold.

"Your legacy awakens," the Apple sing-songs, stretching Desmond’s lips into a sly smile. "It will find you soon."

The glow fades just as suddenly, leaving them disoriented in the garden — until the sound of tiny footsteps reaches them, forcing them to spring apart and hastily straighten their clothes.

Their daughter beams the moment she spots them, running full-tilt on her little legs, and Altair catches her mid-air, spinning her around.

"And what is our little fledgling doing outside her nest?" he asks, unable to suppress a laugh at Desmond’s indignant mutter of "It could always do that?!"

Samira clutches his hood with tiny hands, turning to Desmond as he approaches, gifting him the same radiant smile.

"I missed you!" she declares with all the cheer of a four-year-old, and the angel sighs, kissing her head.

He watches them with the same adoring eyes, practically glowing with quiet happiness, his movements full of care — no trace of the fear and uncertainty that once followed him when he first arrived. Desmond looks like he’s finally found his place, and beside him, Altair feels at peace too.

Yes, Altair thinks as Samira giggles under Desmond’s kisses, he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life just like this.