Chapter Text
Desmond's dreams are a whole lot more interesting these days. If it's not Altaïr showing him something in his past that he thinks Desmond should know more intimately – a person, a personal event, a brand of science unknown to man – it's Altaïr going through Desmond's genetic memories, accessing branches Desmond himself wouldn't have been able to, alone and without an Animus.
"I suspect you must be related to all the major branches of the Brotherhood in some way," Altaïr muses to him, in the midst of those dreams. "Your roots seem to reach all the corners of the Earth."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Desmond comments. "Considering how much eugenics went into making me, it probably took most of the bloodlines with Isu genetics out there."
It's not so weird to think about it that way anymore. He'd known – he'd seen it – but with Altaïr there it's somehow… not that big of a deal. Not precisely because the Tok'ra have their own history and familiarity with genetic and eugenic experiments, but because… it just doesn't matter that much anymore.
He's got Altaïr now. However they got here, it's… alright. They're fine now. It's all good, now, and almost even makes sense.
Altaïr sees it a little differently, of course – he's looking at the Brotherhood through Desmond's DNA from a whole different point of view. He begun and reshaped the Brotherhood with his Hashashin brothers – to see it spread out and then coalesce the way it did, it makes the Tok'ra somewhat melancholic. Proud, because the Brotherhood got farther than he ever thought it would, when they were all still contained in one solitary fortress in Masyaf, and yet…
The battles Altaïr had set in motion had never truly been won – never truly been completed. Like ebb of the ocean as the Moon tugged on its tides, the battles came and went and came again…
"Is today going to be another broody day?" Desmond asks, eying the ceiling of his room.
"I am only thinking," Altaïr says. "Do you think if we asked, would Bill send us some information concerning the current state of the Brotherhood?"
"Not without a billion layers of encryption, but we can ask him," Desmond says and stretches, yawning. Tok'ra, he's aware, don't need to sleep as much – sometimes not at all. Altaïr likes it, though – it's kind of like meditation for him, Jaffa kelno-reem, sorta. And Desmond is just… really, really happy he's no not having nightmares anymore, so he definitely doesn't mind.
"I could give you pleasant dreams, if you'd like – separate your slumbering mind from the memories I am contemplating on," Altaïr comments.
"No, I like it like this. It's all productive and stuff," Desmond says and closes his eyes. "You want to take us to the bathroom?"
"You are quickly growing lazy," Altaïr sighs, fond, and Desmond grins as the control over their body slips away from him. Altaïr gets them up briskly, pausing to make their bed – which Desmond will never not find cute, how neat Altaïr is proving out to be – before heading for their private bathroom.
They'd been given quarters in the SGC – though they don't amount to much, really. There's a bedroom with adjacent bathroom, both with the same gunmetal grey colour scheme and sort of stripped down base-look. Wires and pipes over concrete and steel, because who cares about panelling and making things nice? Still, for Altaïr they're something else – Altaïr, before Desmond, was used to amenities in the 12th century.
The enjoyment the guy gets from simple showers is part of the reason Desmond is becoming lazy.
"We had such and greater amenities as Tok'ra," Altaïr murmurs, a little disgruntled at Desmond's fond amusement. "And running water wasn't exactly unheard even in the 12th century. We had several fountains of fresh water in Masyaf."
"Bet they weren't hot though."
Altaïr hums in agreement, and ducks their head under the pour.
It's still early enough that the base's corridors are still vacant and Altaïr and Desmond make for their lab – opening the reinforced door with a key card and then with a retinal scan, before stepping inside while their guard stops to stand outside the door. Neither of them pay the man any mind – they're used to him now – and instead turn on the lights and check that the Pieces are where they left them – in their reinforced containers bolted to the floors, each tightly locked and secured.
No one in this base wants to risk someone just walking in and getting away with them – least of all Desmond and Altaïr. That's why only three people have access to the room – Desmond and Altaïr, General Hammond, and Major Carter – and only Desmond and Altaïr can open the containers.
"What shall we work on today?" Altaïr muses, going over to the containers and running their right hand over the bulletproof glass casing. "Power systems? Power storage? Perhaps electromagnetic propulsion?"
"Ooh, I like a bit of levitation," Desmond agrees. "Let's go with that."
Altaïr hums in agreement, but turns away from the cases, and heads for the computers instead, turning them on and heading to fire up the sensors. While they're waiting for the sensors to initialise, Desmond sits down to check his email – predictably, there's several.
One from his dad – a daily status update, for both their sakes. Bill had headed back to New York and is now in progress of negotiating a deal concerning the sarcophagus – something, which, in light of the hoard of PoEs, Altaïr had donated to the Assassin Brotherhood. Desmond sends him a quick reply – all things still good, still working, Kinsey investigation still ongoing, no further news, etc – will call later that day.
Second email is from Shaun – another status update, this one more in depth and much more sarcastic, writing "[email protected], seriously? Desmond, this is a disgrace, do you have any idea how insecure their servers are?" but also, "Should the Mentor have anything to comment, I believe I speak for everyone here in saying we'd be eager to hear it." Shaun had been the first to master the concept of two people inhabiting a Desmond-shaped space now – though he's still teetering on the edge of how to actually interact with them.
Nothing important from Rebecca that day, just a hi, hope you're doing well, how is imprisonment treating you, and so forth. Desmond answers her first before writing to Shaun, adding Altaïr's, "You remind him most strongly of Malik, which I think you should take as a compliment. I think."
Last and definitely not the least, there is a long email from Doctor Rodney McKay, who's in charge of the Grand Temple investigation and is trying to get Desmond and Altaïr there to reactivate the place and explain it, and also what does he mean he doesn't know how it worked, he used it didn't he, did he seriously use it without knowing how it worked?
"Perhaps one day," Altaïr muses. "The sensors are ready now. Shall we?"
"Yes, let's."
"Hard at work, I see."
Altaïr opens their eyes and they look up from where they're sitting, on the floor with an Apple of Eden cupped in their hands. The door to the room is open. "Major Carter. Colonel O'Neill," Altaïr says, as the glow of the Apple fades. "What can we do for you?"
The pair exchange looks and Major Carter clears her throat. "General Hammond wants to see you – he announced it over the intercom. I guess… you can't hear, when you're doing that."
"He sent us to check up on you, to make sure you haven't…" O'Neill makes a wiggly motion with his hand. "… or anything."
Altaïr looks at the Apple, frowning, and Desmond gently takes over. "Yeah, sorry about that," he says and stands up, bouncing the Apple in hand before moving to seal it away carefully. "It kind of turns off your conscious mind in order to beam stuff into your head – very dangerous, very tricky, would not recommend."
"And you're still using it?" O'Neill asks, making a face. "Sure that's wise?"
"We know what we're doing with them," Desmond shrugs. Between his DNA and Altaïr's experience, they can handle the side effects, shake them off within a second. Normal non-genius human would just get their synapses scrambled. "Any idea what General Hammond wants us for?"
"Might have something to do with the Tok'ra that just arrived, and the fact that Woolsey is here," O'Neill says, the emphasis very pointed.
Desmond blinks and Altaïr says, "We do not know who that is."
"Richard Woolsey, he's an investigator for the NID," Major Carter says, also looking a little off put. "He's investigated the SGC on several occasions and used to work, among other people… for Kinsey."
"No idea what he's doing now, but he looked mighty official and grim, so," O'Neill says and nods his head towards the door. "We better get going before they get any more antsy than they already all are."
"By all means," Altaïr says, both his and Desmond's curiosity piqued. They quickly check that the laboratory is secure and then lock the doors again, before moving to follow the Air Force officers down the hall.
"So, how is your work going?" Major Carter asks. "Learned anything new?"
"Every day, but putting what we have learned into concise form will take time," Altaïr says and Desmond continues. "The Isu didn't really do schematics, and the Pieces of Eden are kind of stingy when it comes to giving up information. They come in bits and pieces."
"Why? That seems counterproductive for information sharing," Carter says.
"They were designed to entice – to give enough glimpses of power to enthral and enslave the curious and eager," Altaïr explains. "Though some of that was Juno's influence, the Pieces of Eden by their nature are… difficult."
O'Neill and Carter both arch their brows.
"Tricksy, is what he means, they're downright tricksterly," Desmond says, grinning, and Altaïr sighs, "That is not a word," at which Desmond only grins wider. "Says you."
O'Neill smiles a little at them, despite himself, so Desmond thinks they're winning the guy over again. Bit by bit, he's coming around to them.
The General is waiting for them in the meeting room, along with not only Jacob and Selmak, but two other Tok'ra Desmond and Altaïr do not know. There is also a man in a bureaucratic looking black suit there, with receding hairline and expression like he's never been pleased with anyone, ever.
"Desmond – Altaïr," General Hammond says, glancing at Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter. "I called for you ten minutes ago – is something wrong?"
"Apologies, General – we were communing with one of the artefacts, it stole away our awareness for a time," Altaïr says with a slight nod. "We will make sure to keep our senses more open next time."
"Please do, we were starting to be concerned," the General says and motions to the others around the table. "This is Richard Woolsey, of the NID, here on the behalf of the President, and these are –"
The Tok'ra, standing up, introduce themselves. "I am Garshaw of Belote," the first says, bowing their head slightly. "The Grand Council of the Tok'ra High Council. This is Lantash," they motions to the other Tok'ra at their side.
"Selmak has told us much of you," Lantash says, bowing his head slightly. "And I am Martouf," the host says. "It is a pleasure."
Altaïr arches a brow. There had been no such things as Tok'ra High Council when he was spawned, but then, it has been many thousands of years since then. "Belote, I expect, is where you were spawned?" Altaïr guesses.
"Indeed," Garshaw agrees, nodding gracefully.
Considering that neither Lantash or Martouf made such distinction, did that mean they had been born in space – onboard a ship? "Then I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad of Earth," Altaïr says, and then steps aside for his host. "And I'm Desmond Miles – also of Earth," he says with a grin and then steps back again. "We apologise for our tardiness, we were not aware of this meeting."
"Neither were we," General Hammond says, sounding slightly terse. "Thankfully the Prometheus was on orbit, and when I informed the President, he had his representative at the ready," he motions to Woolsey, who presses his lips together. "Shall we take a seat?"
They sit down, Altaïr and Desmond both a little tense now.
"First of all, we would like to express out joy – and grief – at the news of your brothers," Garshaw says to Altaïr. "We thought we were already aware of all the clutches of prim'ta Egeria had – learning of your patch has given us some hope that there may yet be others."
"Then I am sorry to say it's unlikely. I expect we were the last," Altaïr says, apologetic. "The people of SGC have shared their knowledge of Egeria with us, and I believe that her imprisonment on Pangar begun very shortly after our spawning. We were made in haste and in desperation – her last ditch effort to fight the Goa'uld."
"So it is true, her last clutch was of Asharak?" Martouf says.
"Yes," Altaïr agrees. "She had us and then hid us on Earth, her last rebellion. I'm sad to say it wasn't enough – we did not have means to fight very well."
"Why did you never try to search for us?" Garshaw says. "You had her latest knowledge – you would have been aware of the earlier clutches, surely?"
"It was not what she had us for," Altaïr says. "There were Goa'uld on Earth – they were our targets. By the time the threat on Earth passed, the humans had buried the Chappa'ai and we were stranded."
"And you never searched for it?"
It has the tone of accusation and Altaïr narrows his eyes. "No," he says. "We did not."
"While I understand that this must be very important to you," Mr. Woolsey says, cutting in tentatively but with confidence of man who doesn't care if he is disliked. "I doubt that is why you are here, Grand Council."
Garshaw blinks at him as if she'd forgotten he was there. She tilts her head slightly. "Selmak has told us that Altaïr's host is charged with a crime, and imprisoned," she says then, to which Jacob Carter closes his eyes and barely smothers a grimace. "We came to negotiate his release."
"Release – Desmond Miles and Altaïr themselves suggested this arrangement," General Hammond says, casting a look at them. "Considering the crimes in question, the agreement that he'd stay here on SGC, working for us, seemed more than reasonable –"
"He is of the Tok'ra," Garshaw says, slightly sharp now. "We have a treaty – and under it you cannot detain a Tok'ra or restrict their access to the gate. We demand you release him immediately."
Well, crap, Desmond thinks. Didn't think of that, huh.
They aren't doing it out of the goodness of their heart or for the care of our wellbeing, Altaïr answers, leaning back on their chair. Jacob and Selmak must have also told them of the Pieces of Eden, our expertise concerning them – and your status as a Hok-tar. Considering the reactions we have witnessed so far, all these things are special and valuable.
Even better, Desmond answers, and sighs. I guess they could learn from what we know, never mind use the Pieces of Eden against the Goa'uld.
Indeed. The Pieces are more powerful than any Goa'uld technology I know of, including the Sarcophagus - they might be enough to make a considerable difference.
Woolsey clears his throat. "Far be it for us to breach our contract with the Tok'ra – you are one of our longest standing allies," he says. "But Desmond Miles has signed some contracts himself, binding contracts – included in which are the terms within which he serves here, at SGC, as repentance for his crimes."
"Contracts agreed upon under duress cannot possibly be called binding," Garshaw says. "And in either case, surely our treaty supersedes such individual contracts."
"What are his crimes, precisely?" Martouf asks slowly.
"Eight counts of manslaughter – he killed people," Woolsey says, which makes Desmond push forward enough to look at him. Just eight? What about the people in Kinsey's car – what about Kinsey? That should've brought the number to thirteen, right?
Garshaw and Lantash share looks, and they look – uncertain. "I understand that such things are counted as crimes among humans, but…" Garshaw hesitates. "Surely the people of the SGC have killed many more than that – including, I might add, several Tok'ra operatives, when they caused the destruction of select Goa'uld vessels."
Woolsey hesitates, seeing the trap laid for him. "What the personnel of the SGC have done aside, Mr. Miles willingly and intentionally killed several people who might have otherwise lived," he says. "Now there were extenuating causes, however… he has plead guilty and the judgement was passed and the sentence decided."
"Sentences might be overruled," Garshaw says and casts a look towards Altaïr and Desmond. "He is of the Tok'ra and should you want our treaty to stand, he must be released back to us."
There's a cleared throat and O'Neill waves a hand. "And uh… what about what he thinks?" he asks pointedly and looks down at Desmond and Altaïr. "What do you say, Alty?"
Altaïr considers the Tok'ra and their likely motives. He understands – in their situation perhaps he would have felt similarly. In interacting with Jacob and Selmak he's come to understand that the Tok'ra had grown… aloof in a way he could not remember Egeria being. Thousands of years of war against the Goa'uld, never mind whatever advancements they might have gained in that time… despite however far humans had gotten, they must still look so young in their eyes.
Selmak had expressed, once, that the Tok'ra would be better suited to understanding the Pieces of Eden. The look Desmond had given him at the time had made sure he did not say anything to the effect again, not at loud, but the insinuation is there. Altaïr can understand where it comes from and yet…
Desmond is quiet for a moment. I don't want to go with them, Altaïr, he says then, apologetic.
Neither do I, Altaïr answers. "If our status as a Tok'ra and as a prisoner on Earth proves an awkward point for your treaty, then we are happy to denounce the name of Tok'ra," he says calmly.
"… what?" Garshaw asks, so surprised that she doesn't even sound insulted. "How – how can you say such a thing?"
"We gave up our name as Tok'ra long ago, to keep our deeds here on Earth from affecting our brethren among the stars," Altaïr says. "We went by the name Hashashin – later, the Assassin Brotherhood. It is in fact the denomination I call my own with more confidence, than that of Tok'ra – I have never fought Ra, but I have assassinated many in my life. And far more often in service of humanity, than the Tok'ra cause."
Neither Garshaw nor Martouf and Lantash look like they were expecting it – they look rather stunned, really. Jacob and Selmak are giving Altaïr a look though – they anticipated something to this end, then.
"You wish to stay here," Selmak says slowly.
"Until further notice, yes," Altaïr says, meeting her eyes. "We have given our word to the people of this base, and I have given my oaths and my life to the service of the Assassin Brotherhood. We will serve here – on Earth."
"Surely you cannot want this," Garshaw says, outraged.
"We do," Altaïr says coolly, and Desmond continues. "Though we do appreciate the thought, we're not going anywhere."
That isn't the end of it – there will be a new contract between Earth and the Tok'ra, which will include clauses concerning Altaïr and probably the Pieces of Eden too. Neither Altaïr nor Desmond mind if the technology is shared, but first… first it would go to Earth. It is favouritism of the highest order maybe, but it can't really be helped.
Their investment on Earth is longwinded – and bloody. And neither is about to stop now.
"Okay, gotta say, didn't expect that," O'Neill says, later, sitting across Altaïr and Desmond in the cafeteria. "You, not going with the Tok'ra, I mean."
"We told you we wanted to help protect Earth," Desmond points out.
"Yeah, and I heard you, but – this stuff just doesn't happen to us," O'Neill says while snatching up an orange from Desmond's tray. "Aliens favouring us with technology and all that, It's usually you are too young and will kill yourself or it's booby trapped to hell and back and will probably kill us. Still can't shake the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop here."
"Should we invest in sandals?" Altaïr suggests. "It would make for a lighter drop."
O'Neill looks sharply at him and then points a finger. "Funny," he says, like it was anything but. "Seriously though. You're really in it for Earth, huh? That got something to do with the… mission Egeria gave you lot?"
Altaïr considers him, the obvious qualms the man has about interacting with him, and then looks down at the food Desmond was eating. He takes the fork and knife, and continues cutting the steak. "No," he says. "In the beginning it was of no concern to us where we plied our craft – assassinating Goa'uld could happen on any world they were on. We only stayed on Earth because here Goa'uld were the most numerous at the time. But once our numbers dwindled and we begin recruiting humans to our cause… I suppose it changed my feelings for this planet."
"What, you grew attached?" O'Neill asks.
"Yes," Altaïr says. "I have a family here. I have a bloodline here – Desmond is a member of it."
"But those are your host's kids, right?" O'Neill asks.
Altaïr shakes his head and looks down. "If you viewed the disk you would know this," he says. "My second host was without a mind – it was destroyed before I joined with him. He was also the son of my first host," he shakes his head. "I get my name from him. And when Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad married and had children, it was I who had a wife, who had sons. It was I who loved them."
O'Neill stares at him inscrutably for a moment and then looks away, rolling the orange between his palms. "What happened to your second host, the, um… the first Altaïr?"
"Al Mualim – my eldest Hashashin brother and our Mentor – desired a younger, better host. His own host, Rashid, was also mindless – arrangement which Al Mualim found agreeable," Altaïr says. "Like my first host, Umar, Altaïr was born a hok-tar, making him most desirable as a host still. Al Mualim betrayed me in many ways, that day."
"Christ," O'Neill murmurs.
Altaïr withdraws a little, and Desmond pushes forward. "Between me and Altaïr, there's like, thirty four generations of Assassins, and I got a whole lot of other lineages too on my dad's side," he says and takes a bite of his steak. "We're starting to remember all of them – genetic memory, you know. So, if you want attachment, we got plenty of it."
"No kidding," the Colonel agrees and looks at him. "So, this is going to be it for you two, from now on? Just, Pieces of Eden, no more assassinations?"
"We have a long life ahead of us," Desmond says and arches his brows. "And our sentence here is only five years. Who knows what's gonna happen after."
"Or during," Altaïr adds. "Should there be a Goa'uld with a need of a blade in their neck… we could provide."
O'Neill snorts and lops the orange lightly at them. Altaïr catches it without looking. "Okay," the Colonel says. "I can get behind that sort of thinking. I'm going to advice to the general we bring you up to speed."
"Concerning?" Altaïr asks, frowning.
"Everything," O'Neill says and shrugs, standing up. "I mean, you haven't even seen the Stargate yet."
Altair lowers the eating utensils. "The Stargate," he repeats.
O'Neill nods, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Yep," he agrees. "The place is called Stargate Command – it's gotta come from something. I mean you – knew that, right?"
Altaïr says nothing and Desmond lets out a silent burst of amusement at the complete blank he's drawing.
O'Neill grins. "Hah, don't know everything after all, then. This is going to be fun."
They had suspected it – it had simply… not been a priority. Altaïr had never even seen the Chappa'ai in his life – during their time, it had first been carefully guarded under Ra's eye, kept away from common people – even the lesser Goa'uld lords under Ra could not access it with ease. And then, the human rebellions begun, ran their course – and the Gate was buried. Even Al Mualim had not known where. Nor, Altaïr now suspects, had Al Mualim cared.
No more Goa'uld on Earth meant that the Hashashin were the only ones of their kind left – with all the time on Earth to do a he pleased, only restrained by Altaïr's presence, perhaps, until even that was not enough to curb his corruption.
Still, the Chappa'ai had never been a priority to him. There were the Hashashin, their work, their missions, and then later, there were the Pieces of Eden – matter which still is more urgent for him. So he had not really… cared.
"It's a thing that lets you travel between planets, how can you not care?" Desmond demands.
"It was not vital for our work," Altaïr admits, a little embarrassed. "I apologise, we should have been able to draw conclusions – it must have been the reason why Juno came here, of course, to escape through the… Stargate to some other world."
"And thank god she couldn't."
The Stargate itself is as Altaïr's genetic knowledge remembers it – a circular device with an inner ring that spins, chevrons which dial the address to another gate in some other corner of the galaxy. Remembering it and seeing it in action are two different things, though, and Desmond isn't alone in his marvel.
"You've seriously never stepped through it?" Daniel Jackson asks him incredulously, as they watch an SG team disembark for a reconnaissance mission on another planet. "But you're like, what… five thousand years old?"
"I was spawned on Earth, and my mission never required me to leave," Altaïr admits. "I have never seen it before now."
"It is very cool though," Desmond says, grinning. "What does it feel like it? Is it like water, or…?"
"It feels kind of…" Doctor Jackson makes a weird indiscernible gesture with his fingers. "Tingly but not really? Not wet, anyway, it doesn't feel like liquid."
"It feels a bit cold," Major Carter says, thinking about it. "And some people perceive it as being – stretched. But normally people don't feel like anything, stepping through it."
"Though sometimes it throws us on our asses, just spits us out at speed, that's fun," O'Neill says, grinning, obviously pleased. "I'm kind of liking this turn of events," he says to Teal'c. "Us showing off to the Tok'ra for once. Nice."
The Jaffa arches a brow, and looks completely unaffected.
"We should brief you on what sort of threats we're facing out there," General Hammond says, clearing his throat. "And if you, in your study of the Pieces of Eden, come up with anything that might help us in our struggle, it would be very much appreciated."
"And hey, if you can come up with a plan to, I don't know… assassinate some of those threats in their sleep?" O'Neill trails off. "That would be pretty cool too."
"By all means," Altaïr says and Desmond nods. "Let's get this show on the road."
They sit down, and Daniel Jackson begins what looks like a usual presentation – starting with what Desmond already knows and what Altaïr has learned through him – that Ra is dead at the hands SGC personnel. "Since then, the Goa'uld patheon, shall we say, has become a bit broken up," Daniel says, while turning on a screen and putting up a picture on it – a Goa'uld decked in a lot of gold. "At first the major power holder was Apophis, he managed to claim most of Ra's territories and armies, and held the power over most of the system lords for a long while – until he died, permanently."
The fact that they have to clarify permanently is rather telling.
"Around that time some other Goa'uld fell as well – Heru-ur, Sokar, so on. Since then the power has been more or less scattered between a few key figures – strongest of whom currently is Anubis, who rather swooped out of nowhere in the last few years and claimed a lot of territory fast," Daniel says, showing another picture, of black robed Goa'uld facing away.
"Ominous," Desmond comments.
"Yeah," Daniel says, eying the black robed figure and grimacing. "Actually, would… Ezio happen to be around?" he asks, looking around. "He might be interested to know this."
Ezio, as far as Altaïr and Desmond had been able to figure it out, had gotten tired of being gawked at. Over four hundred years living in near complete isolation from humans had made the man skittish. Now that Desmond was no longer in danger and his mission of joining Altaïr and Desmond together was complete… he'd slipped away.
God, Desmond wishes it's not going to be permanent.
They wait for a moment, but Ezio doesn't show himself. Desmond droops a little and Daniel clears his throat and then, awkward, continues. "Well, anyway… Anubis is half-ascended – he wears a type of energy shield which contains his form, but we're pretty sure he doesn't actually have a physical body."
"He's like Ezio?" Desmond asks, alarmed.
"Worse," O'Neill says with a mirthless smile. "Much, much worse. Uglier too."
"Yes," Daniel agrees grimly. "While he seems weaker than a full Ascended, Anubis also doesn't seem to be under as many rules as your regular Ascended are – at least the other Ascended aren't trying to restrain him in any way. How he Ascended we don't know, but we do know he gained some knowledge of the Ancients and that's what has let him gain power so fast."
"We will tell Ezio if we see him again," Altaïr says, nodding seriously. If he doesn't already know… "He should be informed."
Daniel nods and turns back to the screen, changing the image. "Unfortunately, while Anubis is the biggest threat currently, he is not the only. There is also Ba'al, whom I think you already know, and –"
"Wait," Desmond and Altaïr speak together, sitting slightly straighter.
There's a image on the screen of a man in clean lined dark robes, with well trimmed beard, short hair – warm eyes in a face that is smiling at them with a Goa'uld's superiority. Even in a still image he looks tall and proud. Confident.
Altaïr squeezes their hands into fists and Desmond doesn't stop him, not even when their knuckles crack sharply and their nails bite into their palms.
"Yeah, we're not fans either," O'Neill says, grimacing. "You got a personal grudge, huh? Me too."
Altaïr swallows and can't quite form the words. Desmond has to speak for him. "I see he's got a new host," he says, slightly choked.
The other share looks. "That's how he's always been," Major Carter says slowly. "We've never known him in another host, um…"
"But it's been some time since you saw him – since Altaïr saw him," Daniel says quickly, arching his brows. "So it's entirely possible that he's gotten himself a younger host, yeah. As far as we know, he's been in this one for… hundreds of years."
"Yeah – try thousands," Desmond says and leans back, looking down.
"Okay," O'Neill says, sharing looks with General Hammond. "We're missing something."
Altaïr lifts a hand to rub over his eyes. "We were sent to assassinate him," he murmurs. "Al Mualim sent us to our deaths – Ba'al was warned ahead of time of our arrival. I did not think we did enough damage, but we did manage to put a knife in him – a poisoned knife. It must have been enough to kill his host. After which he would have… required another…"
"I am most sorry, Altaïr," Teal'c says quietly. "I did not know. I viewed your memories, but I did not see his face."
"Okay, what?" O'Neill demands, looking between them.
Desmond lowers their hand and nods to the picture of Ba'al. "Ba'al must have revived him," he says quietly. "That's Altaïr's first host. That's Umar."
They retreat to think in the relative security and privacy of their room, with Desmond pacing the room and Altaïr withdrawing deep within, thinking – regretting. There was no way they could have known, no way Altaïr could have known – and yet, he doubts himself. Had Al Mualim known? He'd known much he'd kept to himself, hiding truths from the Brotherhood as it suited his design. Had he known and kept Altaïr in the dark?
"This isn't your fault," Desmond says quietly, closing his eyes and running his hand over the back of his neck – digging his fingers into the muscles so that Altaïr feels the touch on his own body. It's the closest thing he can get to actually physically touching Altaïr. "It wasn't your fault."
No, it wasn't – that doesn't make it hurt any less, doesn't make him regret any less – doesn't make him any less furious. Thousands of years – thousands of years his partner had been enslaved under a Goa'uld's mind, while he, while he took his son's name and his body, and – and what, what did he do, what did he do with any of it?
"Altaïr," Desmond says, squeezing his neck. "You did great things – and it isn't your fault. Umar died, you were taken out of his body, you had no control over what happened – you're as much a victim as he is."
And yet, Altaïr lived freely in Umar's son, free to act, free to investigate –and yet he had not. Instead he'd revelled in the use of the Sarcophagus, let it corrupt his mind, let it make him forget and not care, let it turn him twisted and arrogant and barely a creature Umar would ever recognize, never mind one that could help him, one that would –
Desmond sits down, hanging his head and rubbing at his neck. His head hurts, his chest hurts. All of this hurts. "Come on – Christ. Listen to me. Okay, maybe you could've done something, but – what's done is done. Okay? We can't change that, can't go back – we gotta look forward. What we can do."
Altaïr wrenches the control from him and hisses through clenched teeth, feeling their eyes flash. "We can kill him."
Desmond says nothing for a moment, letting him ride out the emotion. Then he draws breath. "Probably," he says and looks towards the door, where a white figure is watching them. "First we're going to save Umar though. Right?"
Altaïr hesitates and then he too notices Ezio, watching them. "Did you know?" he demands.
"No," Ezio says, shaking his head. "What happened, happened well before my time. I learned when you did."
"But you knew something, that's why you weren't here," Altaïr says accusingly.
Ezio bows his head and then pushes away from the door. "I do not know everything. I cannot do everything. I had a premonition that today would change things for you, yes, but how… I did not know," he says and shakes his head. "My presence here is starting to affect matters – it changes how people treat you. I did not want to risk influencing the situation further."
Altaïr grimaces at him and lowers his eyes, staring at the floor furiously until Desmond takes control back and looks up at Ezio. "We're going to get Umar back," he says, through Altaïr's fury and his own grief. "Will you help us?"
Ezio sighs and kneels in front of him, taking their clenched hands in his. "I am your Prophet," he says and kisses their white knuckles. "Wherever you will go, I will pave the way."
Desmond clenches his fingers and nods, bowing his head. Ezio looks at him with mixed expression and then reaches forward, to place one wide palm over the back of Desmond's neck, over the spot where Altaïr is all but strangling Desmond's spine. "Peace, fratello mio," he says. "We will make this right."
Yes. They damn well would.