Desmond Miles gasped for breath, his heart pounding with enough force he was certain could be heard by his companions. They had only just escaped from the Abstergo building where he had resided over the past few weeks. First he was thrown into the trunk of a car, then shoved into the back of a transport truck.

In such a short time, his entire world had been turned inside out. He barely restrained the shake in his hand as he brought it to run through his closely shorn hair. Had it really only been a matter of weeks? Inside the Animus, time seemed to blur just as reality did when outside of the machine. What was real and what was merely a shadow of the past seemed to merge until he was never sure if he was standing on the dirt packed alleys of Jerusalem or if he was laying on the hard bed during his far too short of rest breaks. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Such words had never rang more accurate, though more so the first part. Nothing felt true or real for him any longer.

They said that he was merely a spectator to his ancestor's life, yet it didn't really feel as such as he leapt from building to building or plunged from towers into wagons of hay. He didn't actually feel the emotions of his ancestor, yet he felt as if every step he took was more than just watching the past. It felt as if he was truly influencing the actions unfolding before him. Lucy called it simply a side effect of the machine; part of the Bleeding Effect as she called it. If it was simply in his own mind, why did Altaïr stumble occasionally when preparing a risky jump? Why did essentially a master assassin hesitate before striking a killing blow? If he was only a spectator, why did it feel as if he was in control at times?

The hand on his head dragged down slowly over his face. Was he going insane for even allowing his thoughts to continue on an even madder route? The Animus was not a time machine. They told him it was simply genetic history and nothing more. The past was in the past and no amount of changes could affect it. All they could do was watch it unfold like a movie played through in his blood.

His hand drifted down to his chest, where a tightness had begun to grow. Despite the pain of spending extended time in the Animus, he had looked forward to feeling of being with Altaïr, of hearing his voice and feeling addicting sensation of living in his skin. He knew Altaïr's body as well as his own. He knew its limits and when they could be pushed. But, never once did he feel as though he was truly Altaïr. He was there and yet, he wasn't. It was as if his soul had attached itself to his ancestor and allowed him to side along travel inside his body.

Describing the experience of the Animus was an impossible feat. Even now, he could barely wrap his mind around the logistics of the experience. No amount of technical jargon or explanations could fully allow him to comprehend what he experienced. In fact, now that he was freed of that machine, he should be cheering. He would not miss the agonizing migraines or the shadows of the past creeping along the corners of his vision.

So why did he ache at the thought of no longer being able to see Altaïr? It was very nearly an actual hurt. His stomach churned and he felt what he imagined an addict experienced without a fix.

"Desmond?"

Shaking himself back into his reality, he stared at the concerned expression spreading across Lucy's face. Sweat damp blond hair stuck to her face and neck and her pulse thudded visibly at the base of her throat. He was comforted by her concern. If nothing else, it distracted him from his personal distress. He willingly latched onto anything to keep him from drowning in the madness of his mind.

"Just feeling…odd."

She nodded in understanding. "The Bleeding Effect. It will pass soon. You've spent a long time in the Animus. The others went insane long before you. Abstergo didn't care about the side effects as long as they got results. I'm sorry, Desmond. I did what I could at the time."

He nodded. He didn't really understand how the machine worked or how genetic memory could be passed from father to son down through the generations. And he didn't understand why or how it could be viewed by outsiders. All he knew was that Abstergo had figured out a way and he was now in a position he would have never thought to be in again. Now he was being pulled back into the shadows he had thought to escape at sixteen when he had escaped the madness of the Farm.

"Don't you worry though, we've taken care to work out that kink for the most part. Abstergo couldn't be bothered because they didn't care about their subject's sanity, just what they could see in their blood." The dark haired woman in the passenger's seat of the large transport truck they were currently using turned to look at him with a warm smile. Rebecca, he thinks he heard her called by Lucy as they had pealed out towards safety. "You shouldn't feel nearly as much of a reaction to the side effects from here on out. At least not the bad ones. Those boxes back there with you aren't junk, y'know. That's my baby, or at least the parts of her. I'll have to reassemble her once we get to where we're going."

"So I'm going back in?" He had to mentally tamp down the surge of excitement now replacing the churn of nausea in his stomach.

"Yep, to your ancestor Ezio Auditore da Firenze. We're gonna go about this totally differently. Instead of you simply jumping into the middle of his life, you're gonna grow up with him."

"I was hoping to break it to you a little more gently." Lucy sighed tiredly while sending a scowl in Rebecca's general direction. "What Rebecca means is that by using the Animus that she altered, you'll learn with Ezio. When he learns abilities, you'll learn them. You'll be killing two birds with one stone—searching for the Apple we know Ezio possessed at some point and completing assassin training. I hate to ask this of you, Desmond. You've been through so much and we're once more asking you do what no one should be asked to do."

"What about Altaïr?" Desmond had to fight to keep the panic from his voice, hoping any leaking through would be blamed on fear of going back into the Animus. "He has the Apple."

A shrug from Lucy was all he received. "We're finished with Altaïr. Abstergo has seen the information from his Apple, so instead, we're taking a different route. Our research has shown that Ezio Auditore possessed an Apple at some point during his life, likely even the same one as Altaïr. But there is only one Desmond Miles. Abstergo doesn't have you and that gives us an advantage since they won't be able to see what we find with Ezio."

"Yeah," chirped Rebecca. "It's time that the Assassin's turned the tables on the Templars."

Despair crept into him and he lowered his head, pulling his hood up to hide his eyes. He wouldn't see Altaïr again. His only reason for living through weeks of headaches and the insanity of the Bleeding Effect had been Altaïr. At first he hated him and his cold arrogance, but as he saw his growth and his devotion to redeeming himself and saving the brotherhood, he'd found himself drawn to him. He was willingly driving himself insane just for his fix of being in Altaïr's presence. And now to be told that he wouldn't be able to see him again; the pain was almost too much for him withstand.

"Rest, Desmond. We have a long drive ahead of us. We're headed to Italy."

Rest was the last thing he thought possible. He wondered for not the first time if Altaïr had ever felt his presence. Maybe he wasn't viewing the past, but rather his soul was being sent their so to see. It was foolish to think so, and yet it was all that was keeping him even the slightest bit sane. He knew any reasonable person would think he was crazy, and perhaps he was. The Animus tended to have that effect on people, or so he had been told.

Wrapping his arms tightly around his body, he shivered lightly. Grief tore through him and he was grateful for the privacy allowed him by his hoodie and the strapped down boxes and crates surrounding him. Unbidden tears tracked down his cheeks. His world seemed to be imploding and he wasn't sure why. Now he wished he had remained with Abstergo. They might have killed him, or at the very least turned him into a drooling vegetable, but at least he would be with Altaïr.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad stared out from the highest tower overlooking the fortress and village of Masyaf. His thoughts drifted outward, almost searching. It had been a busy few weeks, painful even. The Brotherhood was in a fragile state after the revealed betrayal of Al Mualim, many uncertain of the fate that awaited them. Many wondered if the Templars would attack now that they were weakened by the recent events. His own promotion to Mentor only seemed to grant the slightest of relief. And his own thoughts couldn't seem to settle on the task at hand. How could he lead when he lacked the internal calm and resolve to continue?

Where had his resolve gone? Where had his strength of will escaped?

For over a year, he had felt something. He couldn't even describe it. It was like a presence, though it never spoke to him or even really acknowledged him, nor he it. In truth, he couldn't even pinpoint if there was anything there at all most of the time, only that a quiet hum existed inside him. It was simply there, in the back of his mind. There were many times when it seemed curious, like a child absorbing everything in the surroundings and at other times, it was simply a slight buzz that he barely noticed. All he knew was that he always felt the presence. It was always with him, never truly leaving, only shifted into a sort of hibernation. It always returned.

Until it didn't.

At first, it was an annoyance, causing him to hesitate where he never would have before. There was more than one occasion when he nearly fell from ledges because of that hesitation and he could have sworn he felt a fear not his own. Altaïr never feared death. There was very little he could say that would bring such an emotion to him. It was in those moments, he knew something other than himself was present.

And then, there were times with the quiet presence silently urged caution. On more than one occasion he had listened to the unspoken urging and been startled at the wisdom of it. It was then he began to unconsciously refer to the presence as his Guardian. It had become a part of him and he could no longer imagine his life without it. And before long, they were working in sync to a degree that he felt as if they were one.

His Guardian was a comfort to him when his blade silenced Al Mualim's betraying lips. His mentor. The man had been a near father to him. Without his Guardian, Altaïr wasn't sure he could have withstood the intense betrayal he felt, not just as a Brother, but also as a son.

When his hands touched the Apple, unspoken feelings of caution poured through him. He was so distracted by what was revealed to him that he never felt his Guardian's presence growing weaker until days later when he realized he was alone in his head. There was no calming hum, no insistent urging.

Silence was all he felt.

And then the madness.

For a few days after his realization, he thought perhaps it was similar to the other times when he could barely feel his Guardian. But as days continued to pass, he realized he was truly alone once more and he could not bear it.

Darkness crept along his mind, blanketing him in its whispering anguish. He couldn't eat. Slept only when his body could no longer withstand the exhaustion. He pushed his assassins hard, in both training and missions. His only hope to stave off the madness was to throw himself into his new role as Mentor to the Brotherhood.

But they knew. His assassins knew all was not well with their new leader. They never spoke to him, but he could feel their wariness. He could feel the wide berth they gave him, as if afraid he would slay them where they stood. And he wasn't sure he would not if prodded in the wrong way. Without his Guardian, he was lost.

"Mentor?"

Altaïr remained where he sat, his only acknowledgement of the young novice was a slight tilt of his head, his eyes never leaving the sight of the setting sun over the mountains surrounding Masyaf. He could not bring himself to turn away and be pulled from this slight moment of peace, or at least as close to it as he had come since the loss of his Guardian.

"Dai Malik has arrived."

He almost laughed at the quiver in the boy's voice. It was a response he had noticed often of late.

Without even bothering to respond to the boy, he twisted smoothly from the ledge he sat and hopped to the balcony where the novice stood and without giving him another glance, began strolling down the stairs. His thoughts drifted to the emptiness inside him and his mind reached out once more for that reclusive sensation of his Guardian.

Of course the presence was not there and he felt his anger spike as a result of it.

His steps took on a stalking aura as he glided silently into the room where his Dai from Jerusalem stood calmly awaiting his presence. "Safety and peace, Mentor."

Altaïr snorted at the title. "There is neither, not as I am."

Malik arched a brow and gestured for Altaïr to join him on the pillows arranged in one corner of the room. A novice immediately jumped into action, pouring both a cup of fragrant tea before exiting the room to give them their privacy. "I've heard you have not been yourself."

"Maybe how I am now is the truth of who I am."

A hum rumbled from Malik. "I know who you are, who you have become. It is why I have come. Tell me what troubles you, friend."

"I am lost, Malik. I feel as if my soul has been torn asunder. I can't sleep, and when I do, my dreams are haunted by a ghost."

"A former assassination?"

Altaïr shook his head. "Would that it was something so simple, for in my dreams, I am complete. It is when I wake that I despair because I am once more alone."

Malik's brow creased in concern. "I don't understand. Was it that cursed Apple that has done this to you?"

"I don't know how to explain what has happened. The incredulity of it escapes all comprehension." Altaïr reached up to push the black cowl from his head and run his fingers through short locks. "I don't think you would believe me even if I did."

Malik leaned forward, intense brown eyes met troubled gold. "Try me, my friend. I have seen things I thought possible only through Allah. My mind is far more open than most."

Both hands lifted to his head, cradling his skull. He flinched at the touch of Malik's hand upon his shoulder, neatly shrugging it away. "I will tell you, but only because I believe I am going insane."

"I shall be the judge of such."

With a deep sigh of resignation, Altaïr nodded his head and began, the words spilling forth with far more ease than he would have imagined. "There was something…someone inside of me, inside my mind for months. I felt it, an inkling of curiosity and interest. It followed me from Solomon's Temple…or maybe longer. I know the madness this sounds of, but it was there…he was there."

"Altaïr…"

"I know," he snapped. "I know I sound mad. You asked and I have told you. He was there and now he is not and I am going mad. I feel as if a limb has been cut from me, a part of me torn away, leaving only the shadow—a memory of being whole."

Malik flinched at the words, his eyes shifting covertly to his own amputated arm. "I am not judging the truth of your words, only the supposition of their reality. Are you sure the Apple did not alter you somehow, plant these feelings in you? We still do not know the extent of its power or how Al Mualim intended to use it."

"I felt him long before I ever touched the Apple. He hated me. The day you lost your arm and we lost Kadar. I could very nearly feel his disgust at me. I ignored it then. In my arrogance, I thought only of myself. I was above all others." Altaïr scowled into his teacup. "I should have died that day."

"You did die, Altaïr. For all of Al Mualim's faults, he did bring you back to the Creed. You were reborn that day."

Altaïr's lips quirked in a bitter semblance of a smile. "It was him."

Malik's head canted to the side. "Who?"

"My guardian. He was the reason I changed. Al Mualim might have given me the tasks, but it was he who guided me. It was he who stayed my blade and forced me to honor my targets. Without him, nothing would have changed."

"I find this difficult to believe," murmured Malik, taking a sip from his tea.

"But it is." Altaïr cradled his cup of cooling tea. "I am lost without him."

"I thought the same after Kadar's death. It becomes easier. Perhaps your guardian, as you call it, was a gift from Allah to guide you. Once you became who you are, he left."

Altaïr's eyes flashed dangerously and he extended his hidden blade with a swift flick of his wrist, half-rising and plunging the weapon into a pillow with a vicious slam. "Then I shall become a monster if that will bring him back."

Malik placed his cup gently upon the tray before facing his Brother and slamming his fist into his jaw with hard precision. "Stop playing the fool. You dishonor not only yourself, but this supposed guardian of yours. You are the Mentor now. It is your duty to guide our order and here you act like an untried novice."

Lifting a hand to his jaw, Altaïr licked at the blood seeping from the small cut on his lip, testing the small would with his tongue. "What would you have me do? I don't think I can live without him."

"Learn," growled Malik.

Altaïr shook his head. Malik couldn't understand, not fully. He had not experienced the peace from that presence. It was a balm to ease the burn of living and now it was gone, leaving nothing but a raw ache in its wake.

"Forgive me," sighed Malik. "I only want what is best for the Brotherhood and for my friend. You have enemies, my friend. Do not give them cause to strike in your weakness."

Altaïr nodded his understanding. He was not deaf to the whispers in the walls. His position was tenuous at best. The power of being Mentor was a temptation to many. But it was the Apple that truly drew those who would seek to depose him.

"I will take your council under advisement," he said.

"Remember, brother, we work in the darkness to serve the light. That does not mean we are immune to the temptation of the dark. We know its touch far too well. We are, after all, only human. Only Allah can claim divine wisdom." Malik clasped his hand upon Altaïr's shoulder. "Take a few days and meditate. I shall defend your position. You must accept your role."

Altaïr narrowed his gaze. "And what we spoke of?"

"I cannot tell you how to grieve for your loss." Malik squeezed the flesh beneath his hand. "Only you know the road you must follow in finding your way."

With those words, Malik stood with the grace of a panther and left the room on silent feet. The silence in both the room and his head was deafening. Malik had brushed off Altaïr's worries. He couldn't understand, and why should he? His grief at the loss of Kadar was normal. It wasn't as if they were joined in any form other than as brothers. Altaïr's grief was so much more. He had lost a piece of his soul.

Closing his eyes, he rested against the pillows and attempted to push back the tide he had been fighting since he realized he was truly alone in his head. He kept unconsciously reaching for something he could not define in any language he knew. And it angered him.

He wanted to rend something. He wanted to plunge his blade into the heart of anything, to destroy. Anything was better than the pain that radiated through him. His soul was soaked in blood, but his Guardian had never seemed to mind. His mistakes were met with disappointment, and his triumphs were met with excitement.

His mind began to drift as exhaustion tugged at him. He hadn't slept decently for weeks.

As his mind slipped further into the abyss, he felt it. A spark, so faint that for a moment he wasn't sure it was real. It was as faint as the brushing of a feather along his face and he released an audible moan in relief.

"Where are you?" he pleaded, fingers clenching in the pillows beneath him.

There was no answer and he struggled to reach out toward the sensation. Please, he silently begged.

And just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. His eyes flew open and he cried out in agony, nearly doubling over in grief. He extended his hidden blade and slammed it repeatedly into the pillows surrounding him, ripping and tearing them so that their innards spilled around him.

Wild eyes turned to his desk near the opposite side of the room and he attacked the surface. Scrolls and inkwells went flying about him. He didn't scream, at least where others could hear. Even in his grief, his long years of training prevented vocal outbursts. But, his training did not stop him from attacking anything coming in his vision.

Body froze when a touch upon his arm stilled him for a mere second before he struck with his blade. Malik's years of training were the only thing preventing him from being skewered. Anyone less than a master assassin would have died to his bout of maddened grief. Only Malik's shocked face was enough to pull him back into his senses amid the carnage of his quarters.

"Peace, Altaïr."

Altaïr grappled at Malik's shoulders, taking them both to the ground as he collapsed in a panting mess. "I felt him, Malik. And it's like I lost him all over again."

Malik knelt beside Altaïr in shock as the mentor of the Brotherhood bowed his body until his brow touched the stone floor. There were no sobs, not a single sound escaped him, but there was no doubt to any who might have seen what played out that the powerful man was grieving.

"Altaïr…"

"I am lost without him," whispered Altaïr. "A ghost in a living body."

Malik's touch upon his shoulder was slight. "I shall help you, my friend. You shall be whole again."

As he lay kneeling before his friend, Altaïr very much doubted the words. Without his Guardian, he would never be whole.

AN: So, for some reason, I have been on a serious Assassin's Creed fixation. But it irritates me so much at all the Character/Reader fics. And also, the lack of 'time travel' Altair/Desmond or Ezio/Desmond or Connor/Desmond. I'm not as big a fan of threesomes/moresomes with them but that's mostly what there is so I deal. I'm trying not to go on a tangent. Needless to say, I'm out of fics to read...seriously so when that happens, I write what I want to read. Now, I know the fandom is...well teeny-tiny. So I'd be surprised if anyone read this at all, but I needed to write this and anything I write, I share. It's inspired by the very few Desmond/his ancestor(s) out there. Cuz if I'm honest, Altair is my man. He has remained my favorite throughout the whole series, though, I do have a very soft and squishy spot of Ezio. I'll be honest. There is gonna be sap, cliche, drama, definitely some sex at some point. Oh and definitely some OOC. Sorry. Might even be a tad of Altair/Malik. I love the pairing but I hate love triangles. We'll see how it works out. Title might even change.

But anyway, If anyone does read this, I hope you enjoy. Throw me a comment or two. I'll update when I update.