The Greek woman, the heavy staff in her hands, stopped gestured towards the sands. “This is where it began.”
Ratonhnhaketon and Eseosa glanced at the sky above, and the sand below.
It was like standing at the fortress Altair had died in, but... older still. This was where the Creed had begun, and it began as it always did:
Ratonhnhaketon thought of a shrinking world, taken at gunpoint and marched off, ideals a poor dressing for power and control. Most of all, he remembered the flames, and his mother’s face, brave even in death.
Eseosa thought of betrayal. Of Napolean rescinding the order to free the slaves of his homeland, the bitterness and the sting; of the men he fought beside, only for them to send people back to the chains.
The woman paused, just for a moment.
She’d seen many assassins. She had shown them the way here, to understand the weight of history, that all their brethern stood on those who came before.
She had begun the fight, in some way, and started it so that Bayek took her philosophy and gave it words, so that they might pull hope from the foul earth. Ratonhnhaketon gave it a grasp in his homeland, so that while the life he knew had been taken, the Templars had nevertheless not won. Eseosa was not so different.
She understood the pain in their eyes, though it was not a pain she knew personally. Her world, her country, it was gone now. There were places, with the same names she had known, but the world moved on, and left them behind.
It was an old pain, and she had grown past it. But they lived with a horror she did not know, could not know.
How badly she wished to give them the staff, and finally let go, let the next generation have her burden-
“You’ve done well,” she says.
And when Kassandra says this, she speaks from experience.
