I want to rip my heart out and throw it on the floor, bleed to death alongside her. Her eyes are open, glassy, staring sightlessly at nothing, or maybe everything. The blood has stained her shirt beyond repair, and spreads out in a slippery pool around her body.
I don't want to move, think I can't, but find myself sitting up, unlatching the blade that helped destroy my entire existence from my arm. I cast it aside. I don't want to see it.
The Apple is missing, too. I don't care. It's just another object I never want to lay eyes on again. If it hadn't existed, none of this would have happened, and she would still be alive.
If I had a choice, I would stab myself in the stomach, too, get it over with. From the way things are now, looks like the world is ending, anyway. I'd get to be with her, at least.
But I know I can't. She wouldn't want me to die for her. If anything, she'd want me to live on, keep fighting where she had fallen. Fighting for the cause.
I hate this place. I hate having to live like this. I hate Ezio Auditore, I hate Altair Ibn L'ahad. I hate everything. I want to scream and cry at the same time. The emotions are a tidal wave inside me, roiling and churning with ferocious energy, threatening to swallow me whole.
I almost let it. But first, I have something to do.
I move over to where she lies, lips parted slightly, as though she were still frozen the way she was when I killed her.
I kneel by her, place her head in my lap. All the fierceness is missing from me now; Perhaps it will come back, but now, faced with the consequences of my own actions, I feel nothing but grief.
I close her eyes, gently. "R-Requiescat en pace."
It's not enough- nothing will ever be- but it will have to do. I lean down and brush my lips across hers, a kiss she will never be able to return. I should probably move now, but I don't want to. I stare at her, drinking in every part of her. If I try, I can even pretend for a moment that she's only sleeping, will wake up soon in my arms and smile at me like she used to...
There is motion around me, people moving, calling out to one another. I ignore it all, focus only on her. Someone may be speaking to me, I can't really tell. There are feet in the corner of my eye, but I pretend to not see them, tracing the lines of Lucy's face with my eyes.
"Desmond." It's Shaun. He's crouched in front of me, staring at her too. A lingering look of disbelief is on his face, but there is no accusation. Only grief, like me. Doesn't he realize what I've done? Doesn't he hate me?
"Desmond." Shaun puts his hand on my shoulder. I can't pretend he isn't there anymore, with his hand heavy on my arm. "Come on. It's time to go."
"I can't leave her," I croak. I don't look at him. I'm still taking her in, her smooth, pale skin, the softness of her hair, the faint stress lines on her forehead and around her eyes.
Shaun shakes his head. I think he understands what I mean, but he makes no comment, instead saying, "We've gotta move. They want to examine the ruins. Desmond, pull yourself together and lets go." He's beginning to sound more like himself, finding some kind of anchor in trying to get me to move. I wish it was that easy for me, too. But my only anchor has been severed from me, and I've been cast out to sea in the middle of a tempest.
I struggle to stand, moving stiffly, like one risen from the dead. Her body is limp in my arms, the warmth already seeping from it, being no longer able to create its own heat. All the activity on the edge of my vision has ceased, and no one gets in my way as I carry her out the doors and into the night.
It's a full moon. I place her gently on the grass, my hands lingering on her face. Straightening up, I pull my hood over my head, echoes of thousands of years resounding in the movement. I turn to Shaun, who has the blade in his hands. For a moment, I don't take it. Then, I force myself to reach out and grab it, reattach it to my arm. I am an assassin, whether I like it or not. And I'm going to kill anyone that gets in my way until I destroy the ones responsible for this.
I turn, begin to head for the truck. Rebecca is waiting in the driver's seat, her face pale but determined. I swing in, nod silently. Shaun is close behind, squeezing in between the two of us, looking weary. Rebecca starts up the engine, and I close the door.