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Extracts from the journal of Arno Dorian, age 52:

Longwood, St. Helena; May 5, 1821

"He's ready to see you, sir," said one of the British guards. I stood from my spot on the sofa, and walked over to the man. "How is he doing?" I asked him. The guard shook his head. "I reckon he doesn't have much longer," he said. "His illness hasn't gotten any better. The old man's knocking on death's door." I cursed in my head. I had to act fast. I had to get what I needed from him. I nodded to the guard and entered the bed chamber.

And there he lay, the empereur déchu, Napoleon Bonaparte. There he laid in his night clothes, laying on his death bed. To think I used to call him a friend. There were others in the room. Several were well-dressed men and women, presumably associates of Bonaparte's. The rest were more British guards, keeping an eye on the dying man. Napoleon looked in my direction. He waved for me to come forward, so I did. The other guests watched me as I approached his bedside. I kneeled down to talk with him.

"Bonjour, old friend," he said to me, his voice weak. My face stayed serious. "I'm not your 'friend' anymore, Bonaparte," I told him. I could sense the crowd's discomfort. They had seen Napoleon as a great, wise, leader. All I could see him as was a broken, malicious, conqueror. "I see you're still wearing that ridiculous outfit of yours," he said, staring at the beak of my hood. "You Assassins sure are fond of dressing up menacingly, aren't you?"

"I didn't come here to play games with you, Napoleon," I said. "Now tell me, where is it? Where is the Apple?" Napoleon's face shifted slightly. "Hidden away," he said.

"Where?"

"Why should I tell you, Arno? Do you expect me to believe that you and your Assassins will keep it safe? That your hands are the right ones." At this point, I was frowning. "You don't understand," I said. "It won't be in our hands. We're going to hide it away. No mortal man should hold a power like that." Napoleon's face shifted again. He seemed to stare into nothingness. "So much power in such a small device," he said. "Just touching it sent me on the path to pouvoir ultime."

"You held fire in your hand," I said, remembering a quote from Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. "It should have been destroyed."

"It helped me accomplish so much," he said, his mind starting to fade with his life. I frowned again. "You mean like everything you 'accomplished' in Egypt?" I said. "Or Austria or Haiti? You tricked everyone around you into worshiping you. Everything you did was to get yourself ahead."

"Exactly," he said. "You're both so blind, you Assassins and Templars. It's not about the freedom of others as you think. It's not about controlling others as they think. It's all about oneself. It's about taking anything you are capable of grasping, and then using that to advance further."

"Those are cruel, selfish mentalities."

"They're true, though."

"Nothing is true."

Bonaparte gave another lost look. I knew I didn't have much time. "Where. Is. It?" I demanded to know. I saw the light fade from his eyes as he began to leave this world. "You'll... never know," he said. His head sunk a bit further into his pillow. His breath seemed alarmingly slow. "France, l'armée, tête d'armée, Joséphine," he said. His eyes started rolling back into his head. Merde.

"Don't think you're getting out of this that easily!" I said. And then, in one, incredibly fast movement, I flicked out my hidden blade from my wrist and slammed it into his chest, extinguishing his life before its flame could naturally die out. The people around us let out the beginning of a gasp. I didn't hear its finish, though, as the sights and sounds of the real world seemed to fade away. Very soon, the visions of Napoleon's memories came rushing into my head.

The first was of him inspecting the house that the British had prepared for him during his exile. He had a small wooden chest by his side. "This is a rubbish building," he said. He looked at the box. "I'll need to find a decent place to hide this while I'm here. I can't let this fall into someone else's hands before those British dogs let me out of here." Then, that vision faded, and a new one took its place. Napoleon stood by the opening of a large cave. By then, his illness had begun to take over his face.

He carried the chest deep into the caverns. "They're not letting me go," he said, a slight tone of sadness in his voice. "I'm going to die on this wretched island." He came to a wall, and placed his hand on a stone. A large, hidden door opened up. "I can't let anyone else have this device," he said. That vision faded as he entered through the door. A final one took its place. Napoleon laid on his death bed. The crowd surrounded him as his life faded out. A guard came in. "Mister Bonaparte, you have a visitor from France," he said.

"Who is it?"

"He says his name is Arno Dorian." Napoleon's dying eyes widened slightly. "Bring him in," he said. After that, the vision began to fade away. The sounds and sights of reality returned to me. I turned from Napoleon's body to see the crowd and the guards. The guards had their hands on the handles of their swords, but they did nothing. Napoleon was seconds from death, so my killing made no real difference. Plus, they clearly had no real love for the man, either.

The crowd, however, seemed just about ready to pounce, though their fear held them back. Quickly, I stood from Napoleon's bedside, and walked to the exit. Before I left, I cast one last glance at the body. "Repose en paix," I said. And with that, I took my leave.

------------

As soon as I left the building, I used my eagle vision and quickly found the cave from my vision. I lit a torch before entering, and found the stone that opened the secret door. I entered and walked down a long corridor. At the end of the tunnel, I found myself in a large, circular room. I saw a glint of light emitting from a strange pattern in the crumbling rocks. It seemed unnatural. I had seen stranger, however, and continued to the center of the room. On a pedestal, sat Napoleon's chest.

I opened it slowly, cautiously. An almost blinding light shone from within. As my eyes adjusted, I saw it. The Apple. The golden sphere was no bigger than a tennis ball. The light poured from its bizarre engravings. For a moment, I was tempted to touch it, but I resisted the urge. I knew what that thing was capable of. Quickly, I shut the chest, and picked it up. I left the cave with the box under my arm.

As the moon began to rise, I boarded the ship that brought me to St. Helena. After chatting for a moment with the captain, I retired to my chambers. I put the chest in a safe place, and began to write in this journal. Now I wonder what to do with that wretched artefact. It must be hidden far away, where no man dare try to obtain it. Perhaps I should send it to America. Connor, the Assassins' mentor in the states, would likely know what should become of it. Yes. I like that plan.

I'll send it there. Perhaps Connor will send it to one of the yet unexplored lands in the American territories. I think the Michigan territories seem like a decent option. I should get started on writing Connor a letter. It's a long journey back to Paris. It'll give me something to do along the way. I just hope I can keep the Apple safe until I return home.

Description
Extracts from the journal of Arno Dorian, age 52:

Longwood, St. Helena; May 5, 1821

"He's ready to see you, sir," said one of the British guards. I stood from my spot on the sofa, and walked over to the man. "How is he doing?" I asked him. The guard shook his head. "I reckon he doesn't have much longer," he said. "His illness hasn't gotten any better. The old man's knocking on death's door." I cursed in my head. I had to act fast. I had to get what I needed from him. I nodded to the guard and entered the bed chamber.

And there he lay, the empereur déchu, Napoleon Bonaparte. There he laid in his night clothes, laying on his death bed. To think I used to call him a friend. There were others in the room. Several were well-dressed men and women, presumably associates of Bonaparte's. The rest were more British guards, keeping an eye on the dying man. Napoleon looked in my direction. He waved for me to come forward, so I did. The other guests watched me as I approached his bedside. I kneeled down to talk with him.

"Bonjour, old friend," he said to me, his voice weak. My face stayed serious. "I'm not your 'friend' anymore, Bonaparte," I told him. I could sense the crowd's discomfort. They had seen Napoleon as a great, wise, leader. All I could see him as was a broken, malicious, conqueror. "I see you're still wearing that ridiculous outfit of yours," he said, staring at the beak of my hood. "You Assassins sure are fond of dressing up menacingly, aren't you?"

"I didn't come here to play games with you, Napoleon," I said. "Now tell me, where is it? Where is the Apple?" Napoleon's face shifted slightly. "Hidden away," he said.

"Where?"

"Why should I tell you, Arno? Do you expect me to believe that you and your Assassins will keep it safe? That your hands are the right ones." At this point, I was frowning. "You don't understand," I said. "It won't be in our hands. We're going to hide it away. No mortal man should hold a power like that." Napoleon's face shifted again. He seemed to stare into nothingness. "So much power in such a small device," he said. "Just touching it sent me on the path to pouvoir ultime."

"You held fire in your hand," I said, remembering a quote from Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. "It should have been destroyed."

"It helped me accomplish so much," he said, his mind starting to fade with his life. I frowned again. "You mean like everything you 'accomplished' in Egypt?" I said. "Or Austria or Haiti? You tricked everyone around you into worshiping you. Everything you did was to get yourself ahead."

"Exactly," he said. "You're both so blind, you Assassins and Templars. It's not about the freedom of others as you think. It's not about controlling others as they think. It's all about oneself. It's about taking anything you are capable of grasping, and then using that to advance further."

"Those are cruel, selfish mentalities."

"They're true, though."

"Nothing is true."

Bonaparte gave another lost look. I knew I didn't have much time. "Where. Is. It?" I demanded to know. I saw the light fade from his eyes as he began to leave this world. "You'll... never know," he said. His head sunk a bit further into his pillow. His breath seemed alarmingly slow. "France, l'armée, tête d'armée, Joséphine," he said. His eyes started rolling back into his head. Merde.

"Don't think you're getting out of this that easily!" I said. And then, in one, incredibly fast movement, I flicked out my hidden blade from my wrist and slammed it into his chest, extinguishing his life before its flame could naturally die out. The people around us let out the beginning of a gasp. I didn't hear its finish, though, as the sights and sounds of the real world seemed to fade away. Very soon, the visions of Napoleon's memories came rushing into my head.

The first was of him inspecting the house that the British had prepared for him during his exile. He had a small wooden chest by his side. "This is a rubbish building," he said. He looked at the box. "I'll need to find a decent place to hide this while I'm here. I can't let this fall into someone else's hands before those British dogs let me out of here." Then, that vision faded, and a new one took its place. Napoleon stood by the opening of a large cave. By then, his illness had begun to take over his face.

He carried the chest deep into the caverns. "They're not letting me go," he said, a slight tone of sadness in his voice. "I'm going to die on this wretched island." He came to a wall, and placed his hand on a stone. A large, hidden door opened up. "I can't let anyone else have this device," he said. That vision faded as he entered through the door. A final one took its place. Napoleon laid on his death bed. The crowd surrounded him as his life faded out. A guard came in. "Mister Bonaparte, you have a visitor from France," he said.

"Who is it?"

"He says his name is Arno Dorian." Napoleon's dying eyes widened slightly. "Bring him in," he said. After that, the vision began to fade away. The sounds and sights of reality returned to me. I turned from Napoleon's body to see the crowd and the guards. The guards had their hands on the handles of their swords, but they did nothing. Napoleon was seconds from death, so my killing made no real difference. Plus, they clearly had no real love for the man, either.

The crowd, however, seemed just about ready to pounce, though their fear held them back. Quickly, I stood from Napoleon's bedside, and walked to the exit. Before I left, I cast one last glance at the body. "Repose en paix," I said. And with that, I took my leave.

------------

As soon as I left the building, I used my eagle vision and quickly found the cave from my vision. I lit a torch before entering, and found the stone that opened the secret door. I entered and walked down a long corridor. At the end of the tunnel, I found myself in a large, circular room. I saw a glint of light emitting from a strange pattern in the crumbling rocks. It seemed unnatural. I had seen stranger, however, and continued to the center of the room. On a pedestal, sat Napoleon's chest.

I opened it slowly, cautiously. An almost blinding light shone from within. As my eyes adjusted, I saw it. The Apple. The golden sphere was no bigger than a tennis ball. The light poured from its bizarre engravings. For a moment, I was tempted to touch it, but I resisted the urge. I knew what that thing was capable of. Quickly, I shut the chest, and picked it up. I left the cave with the box under my arm.

As the moon began to rise, I boarded the ship that brought me to St. Helena. After chatting for a moment with the captain, I retired to my chambers. I put the chest in a safe place, and began to write in this journal. Now I wonder what to do with that wretched artefact. It must be hidden far away, where no man dare try to obtain it. Perhaps I should send it to America. Connor, the Assassins' mentor in the states, would likely know what should become of it. Yes. I like that plan.

I'll send it there. Perhaps Connor will send it to one of the yet unexplored lands in the American territories. I think the Michigan territories seem like a decent option. I should get started on writing Connor a letter. It's a long journey back to Paris. It'll give me something to do along the way. I just hope I can keep the Apple safe until I return home.