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A Blade at His Neck

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When Desmond woke up three weeks later; his arm was aching. It was swollen, sore, and heated to the touch. The scars seemed to stretch and strain with every breath.

He slowly stood up and walked with hyper-awareness of the arm. The morning routine was slow— painstakingly slow.

Every movement threatened to bring on pain. It was like a snake coiled to strike. Every flicker of its tongue may mean a bite. Every heartbeat seemed to be prepared for the torment of pain that it knew was coming.

Desmond slowly tied his sash before taking a deep breath and walking out the door.

It was nearly three months since he arrived and Desmond decided that he was content. He was happy with his home, proud of his business, and was quite pleased with the garden. Most of all though, he was just enjoying the ability to make his own choices.

His life in the twenty-first century felt like nothing more than a bad dream. His arm was the only thing that truly spoke of want he went through.

That same arm was aching up a storming and nothing seemed to sooth it.

Water made it ach and spazz.

Mud did nothing more than make it dirty.

Leaving it been made it worse.

Desmond didn't want to leave Masyaf and the city around it.


Looking down at the arm he saw the swelling, the black, red, and light pink skin, he saw the undeniable truth he time travel and that the world went to hell in a handbasket.


“I’m going to Jerusalem.”

Kadar almost did a spit take. “Pardon?”

“I’m leaving for Jerusalem. I’ll be back in a fortnight,” Desmond continued to clean his glass ignoring the coughing and heaving Assassin.


Desmond wordlessly put his arm on the bar. Kadar’s eyes widened before he gently took Desmond’s arm in his hands.

“What happened?”

The reply was barely above a whisper, “I played with fire and I got burned.”