PSL: Time Travel

[not_kenway]

The interesting thing about a life dedicated to revenge, is that once one had achieved it, one can be left at a loss as to what to do next.

The first three months had been easy to fill. Not dying took up a lot of time and energy and defeating infection and internal injuries to begin healing had consumed his life for those months. There was a steady flow of people coming to the Homestead to make sure he was cared for and in his lucid moments he was grateful.

In his fevered ones, he may have cursed them for not letting him simply die, like everyone else. But only in his fevered ones.

Now, a month after he was first able to leave his sickbed, he had found one of Achilles' old canes and was making a foray out into the valley. He would ideally like to go to the cove and see the Aquila, but he would settle for making it down to the river and back again unaided.

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[familyissues]

The Eye's light had consumed him like nothing else in the world before it, a savage heat that scorched Desmond from the palm of his hand right into the very core of his being. It hurt. It really, really hurt and then, mercifully, it just didn't. There was nothing after that, no more hurts, no more Juno whispering maliciously in his ear, no more dead Assassins breathing down his spine, no more knowledge of ancient beings or the possible outcomes of many possible futures, no more of anything.

But.

But then, what was that? Birdsong, cutting through the darkness, over the gentle sound of rushing water. The soft touch of a cool breeze, tickling his skin. Desmond's head lolled back like he was drunk, something unknown tickling the nape of his neck. Grass? Wait.

He sat up far too fast, dizzy under the dappled light of this forest floor, breathing hard. What happened? Where the fuck am I? came the wild thoughts, questions he had no answers for. It felt like ages before he found his bearings, before Desmond could pull himself together and get to his feet, unsteady still. Some time after that, he felt sure enough to put one foot in front of the other, as yet uncertain this wasn't some last, dreadful fever dream of a dying man.

[not_kenway]

Connor had spotted a figure in the woods.

A quick glance pulled up a soft, reassuring blue that soaked him through and through, but even then, he made no effort to approach. The man was just lying there, until he sat up abruptly and then slowly stood, holding onto a tree and swaying back and forth softly.

His clothes were unfamiliar. Strange. Not even foreign, just outright strange.

He wanted to take to the trees, but the pain his his side reminded him that walking was about the most he could manage. He came a bit closer, leaning his weight onto the cane to keep it off his right leg and side.

"Who are you?" He called it out from a safe distance.

[familyissues]

Demsond drew up sharply, pulling in a breath. Familiarity creepy-crawled up his spine; he'd heard that voice before, there was no question.

Struggling with the recollection, a feeling like ice building in the bottom of his guts, he turned on his heel toward the voice. Blue through the undergrowth, behind the shelter of low branches. At least my first moments here won't be my last.

His throat was dry when he tried to speak, and wetting his lips didn't help.

"Lost," Desmond called back, hoarse and uncertain.

[not_kenway]

Moving out a bit more, Connor checked again–blue–and still moved so his tomahawk was visible on his hip, warning that he could and would defend himself.

He wore a white... short coat? With a hood. And his arm had a familiar and yet not bracer.

"Lost, you are. But that is not who you are, brother. Lost would mean place is always, and nothing is true."

If the young man was what that bracer suggested, he would know what to say in response.