AN:Just A heads up this story will include refrences to several languages, just bear with me.
When Desmond woke up, he expected to see the familiar grey tiles of the Abstergo cell the Templars put him in. Not the wooden boards of what seemed to be a wagon that was only a few inches away from his face. Granted, Desmond had wanted a change of scenery from the dreary 'room' the Templars kept him in but this was hardly any better.
"What the hell?" Desmond said, moving out from under the wagon and taking a good look at his surroundings. He was in the middle of a road, a dirt road to be exact but not the kind you expect in the forests of South Dakota or the countryside for that matter. No, it was more like Desert kind of road, with a blistering heat to match as Desmond was soon finding out.
There was absolutely no form of life to be seen anywhere. It was the kind of place he would expect inside the Animus, when he was reliving Altair's memories, but he wasn't Altair. He wasn't wearing the complicated ensemble that Altair always wore, or the familiar weight of weapons he always carried around. No, he was just ordinary Desmond
Was this a dream, or some kind of Animus malfunction? Desmond thought, sitting down in the little shade the wagon provided. He didn't have any recollection of entering the Animus, plus there weren't any of the familiar maps and synchronization levels that usually appeared at the edge of his vision. Not to mention that the experience he was feeling right now was a much more vivid one that neither a dream nor the Animus could ever provide.
So if Desmond wasn't in a dream or in the Animus and obviously not in an Abstergo cell where the hell was he?
Desmond sighed, taking off his sweater in an effort to cool down. He didn't know how Altair did it carrying all those layers of clothes and still being able to fight and outrun the guards. Desmond was just wearing a light sweater and already he was sweating through it.
"Now what am I supposed to do?" Desmond muttered tying the sleeves of his sweater around his waist.
He could always follow the road and see where it leads, but there was always the chance that he would meet soldiers on patrol and get into unnecessary trouble just because he didn't know how to properly speak Arabic or worse come into contact with one of the Templars, but then again what choice did he have.
Whether he found a Templar patrol or an assassin one he'd still probably be killed on sight.
"Well it's not like I have anything to lose." He said, picking a path that Desmond assumed was north, and started walking. The pelting heat causing Desmond to seek out shade every few hours and eventually led Desmond to use his sweater as a makeshift shemagh to save on time.
"I swear if this is all something Vedic cooked up." Desmond grumbled wiping off the sweat from his brow, growing increasingly wary of dehydration, as he sat down at the edge of the road on what seemed to be the fiftieth stop that day.
There wasn't much change in scenery as the last time he made a stop. There was rock, dirt and not much else, the only key difference was that the sun was setting, giving Desmond an excuse to rest.
He curled up to the side of a rock formation, putting the sweater back on more for protection against the sharp rocks than actually being cold.
Hunger gnawed at Desmond's stomach, reminding him dehydration wasn't the only problem he faced.
Desmond ignored it preferring to find a comfortable position and catching some sleep, and starting fresh in the morning. Desmond was hoping he might find a stream or even a family who would be able to help him out. That was the plan anyway, until he heard the familiar sound of a galloping horse. Desmond turned only to be met with a blur of brown and white. The rider looked to be wearing a white hood, a common assassin uniform. Desmond was about to call out to the man but before he could do so, he heard the trampling of footsteps and shouts of warning to 'stop' from what Desmond could only presume were guards and went off running himself. Desmond doubted he would be able to hide effectively at the side of the road and he very much doubted the guards would be very lenient with him considering he was wearing a similar dress as the assassin that just flew by.
"Fantastic." Desmond said, running all the more faster, when a guard gave an affirmative sighting of the 'assassin' to his peers. Dehydration was starting to affect Desmond as nausea started settling in. He pushed on ignoring his protesting sides and the painful hammering of his heart. The guards themselves weren't letting up; instead, noticing that Desmond was slowing down was sped up.
Desmond noticing that it was futile stopped and went down on his knees. Placing his hands to his head in what he hoped was a sign of surrender. It didn't help much; the guards once they got close to him roughly threw him to the ground, causing a grunt of pain to escape from Desmond's mouth.
The guards didn't stop there; they kicked Desmond right in his sternum causing him to lose his breath. He didn't have a chance to catch it back as the guards continued their abuse. They started to target more vital and vulnerable areas, each one eliciting a cry of pain from Desmond. One guard stomped on his leg so hard; Desmond thought he heard it break.
The beating continued, eventually the guards grew tired of this and finally decided on tying Desmond up, being extremely cautious as they did this checking his person to see if Desmond had any weapons. Not that it would do much. Desmond could hardly feel anything beyond the sharp pains that erupted all over his body. He highly doubted he would be lucid enough to attempt an escape.
Once he was tied up, the guards seemed to have relaxed and roughly pulled Desmond to his feet.
He almost threw up on the spot, from the quick movement. A concussion, a possible injury added to the list. The guard positioned Desmond in a way where if he did become sick at least it wouldn't fall on any of the guards.
The guard said something to Desmond in Hebrew , to which Desmond assumed needed an affirmative answer to, but while Desmond had a high enough comprehension of the Arabic language to understand it thanks to all the hours he spent in the animus as Altair he didn't exactly know how to speak it fluently enough to speak it coherently. His skills in Hebrew were even less impressive.
Desmond gave a slow nod of his head hoping that was enough to quell the guard, which luckily it was, since all the guard did was push Desmond forward.
The other guards seeing the prisoner on the move circled around Desmond effectively trapping him.
They started leading him in the direction Desmond was originally headed only at a faster pace and a rougher journey. The sky was quickly darkening as the sun disappeared over the horizon.
They led Desmond farther up the hill and was greeted by surprise, surprise more guards. Except these guard were different, unlike the previous guards that had Desmond surrounded who wore simple uniforms that looked more like raggedy hand me downs than anything else, these ones wore clean, almost Nobel like uniforms. The most noticeable feature, of course, was the large Red Cross on their chests.
"Templars." Desmond whispered under his breath, feeling his anxiety increase by the minute. As he the prominent leader of the Templar order himself, Robert De la Sable.
His Templars closed in on Desmond the moment he came into view, pushing aside the other guards.
"Is this the assassin?" Robert De Sable said, his thick French accent coming through.
The guards moved to the side albeit begrudgingly allowing the Templars to check Desmond for whatever they were looking for. They took a careful check of his sweater, turning out all of his pockets and giving a few odd looks at the zippers it contained.
"He wore the same robes you described, sir." One of the guards said holding his ground against Roberts gaze. "A hooded figure in white."
"Very well does he have what we seek?"
The Templars didn't let up from their searching. "Not yet sir, give us some time."
Robert dismounted off his horse and walked slowly up to Desmond, towering over him. Desmond just looked to the side not wanting to make eye contact. He didn't want to give them any more reason to punch his lights out.
"You look different from the last time I saw you assassin." Robert said in Arabic, his French accent that showed in his Hebrew coming in now. "Less bold."
Desmond didn't say a word, causing Robert to pause in his observations.
"Show me his wrists."
One of the Templar knights raised Desmond an arm, lowering the sleeves to show what was underneath, which was nothing.
"Where is your blade assassin, the last time we spoke you wished nothing but to bury the metal inside of me."
Desmond stayed silent.
"It seems that just as your blade is missing, so is your tongue."
The Templars stopped searching and stood back, one went up and whispered a few things to Robert and stood back into formation.
Robert narrowed his eyes at Desmond, roughly grabbing his hand, and putting it in full view of his face. Desmond struggled pulling back slightly but made no difference in Roberts's strong grip.
"And here lies the problem. You are not the assassin we seek." Robert took a good look at Desmond's features, a slow smile appearing on his lips "However you could still be of some use to us."
Robert turned to the guards speaking in his accented Hebrew. "Get his horse ready, we will leave when we are able." He grabbed Desmond by the chin. Angling his face so it would be nose to nose with Roberts and in Arabic he said. "We will see how long you will hold your tongue."
shemagh: a hat scarf, used in the desert.
So just want to put in, that I have made this unnessarily difficult for myself and Desmond and placed a language barrier. I'm going to assume that Robert knows Hebrew and Arabic, since it would be the only way he could have ever communicated with all his templar buddies, so yeah.
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