Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed. If I did, I would have totally put a bunch of CG scenes in there, like the kind they used to make the AC: Brotherhood E3 trailer. Especially of what seems to oftentimes be referred to as 'the woohoo on the roof' (you know? In Acre? *nudge, wink*)
AN: I'm not sure if this has a plot. I was skimming it for one, and I couldn't find much of anything. But if you want a little but o fluff n stuff to brighten your day, then step right up! Bear in mind that while I am replaying AC 1 right now, I'm only at the beginning, and totally forget a bunch of stuff because it's been like a hojillion billion years since I first played it back when it first came out. If I screwed anything up, just let me know.
By the way, just in case it's confusing or anything, the big block of italics text there in the middle is a flashback. Otherwise, just enjoy!
The wooden bench, though cool beneath her fingertips, creaked with her every movement. Birds, insistent upon their freedom of flight, flapped their wings upon above, the occasional screech drifting, muffled, towards the ground and into her ears. The dust and rocks upon the ground, though seemingly inert and impassive, ground against the bottom of her boots at even the slightest twitch, the sound and feeling assaulting her senses as if the karmic forces of the Earth had incited them against her. A bead of sweat, forming where her brow met her hairline, made its way along the side of her nose, over her lips and to her chin. She held her breath as it fell to meet her knee in what surely couldn't have been an audible splash, and released it in a quivering gasp.
In short, Maria Thorpe had never been more uncomfortable, more overwhelmingly irritated, in her entire life. And it was all his fault.
Not that she hadn't (sort of) volunteered, mind you, but when the phrase stealth and scouting had washed over her eager ears, this most certainly wasn't what she had imagined. Granted, she wasn't the sort of woman given away to romantic notions of the mysticism of moving shadows and invisibility and what have you. And she had, of course, known that there was a fair amount of watching and waiting involved in gathering information, given that she had done so now and again back before the Templars wanted her head on a platter. But as the minutes continued to wear away (certainly her ass had carved a fairly impressive groove into the hunk of wood impersonating a bench at this point), she mused that there had to be some sort of statute of limitations on how much boredom and discomfort could be involved in what was essentially a training exercise.
Not for accursed Assassin training exercises, apparently, Maria thought sourly, a frown pulling at the corners of her lips.
Moments later, she saw a flash of white in the crowd, and her eyes narrowed. She paused to wipe the sweat from her brow before crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling incredibly conspicuous. She shifted in her seat, her ears twitching as a particularly boisterous crowd of young boys ran by, shouting animatedly at one another, their bare feet kicking up a cloud of dust into the air. She turned to cough into her sleeve when suddenly, a hand, its grip sure, firm, closed around her forearm, yanking her unceremoniously from her seat. She yanked back, turning to shout obscenities at her attacker when she caught sight of a familiar hooded figure.
"Altaïr," she hissed. "What are you doing?"
His lips twitched and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing, instead turning back towards the fortress, pulling her along behind. She struggled in his grip, attracting a few stray pair of eyes from the crowd. Altaïr's grip only tightened.
"I can walk, you know," Maria said hotly. She began dragging her feet, figuring that, if he wasn't going to relent, then he was going to be hauling her dead weight all the way up the hill. Altaïr barely acknowledged her petulance, stiffening his arm a bit to account for the extra weight, but otherwise, he walked on, shooting acidic glares at any curious passersby. Maria snorted in frustration at his complete and utter disregard for decent behavior.
Altaïr began muttering under his breath as they neared the Assassin's fortress, its great bulk throwing shadows along the ground all around them. Though she seared in anger, the shade provided a much needed shelter from the overbearing heat of the sun – such a radical change from the light, quiet summers of her childhood home in England – and she found herself sighing in relief even as she resumed her efforts to squirm her way out of his grip.
"Altaïr," she repeated softly, calmly, though with the edge of a newly sharpened blade. Altaïr stiffened, stopped and released her arm. And Maria smirked in triumph; though the apprentices of the order of Assassins thought their Grandmaster infallible, there were two things on this Earth that could disarm him, strip him down to nothing more than an ordinary man, if not, perhaps, something a little less than even that. Malik, thoroughly amused by the strangely female-dominant relationship between Altaïr and Maria, had appropriately deemed these two weapons as the look and the tone. Needles to say, Altaïr and had not found this humorous in the slightest.
Of course, this whole…thing…didn't exactly have him roaring with laughter either. In fact, when he turned to face Maria, he had apparently managed to fixate a thunderous scowl upon his face, the likes of which had gotten him banned from stomping around the stables in his fowler moods. (He had been banned respectfully...that is, if it were possible to be respectfully told to 'stay the hell away from the horses until that stick's out of your ass' by an old stable hand.) Maria, in turn, simply scowled back, folding her arms over her chest and awaiting an explanation for his outrageous behavior. Patience, of course, had never been her forte, and she soon found herself opening her mouth to hurl painfully familiar insults at Altaïr for his utter stupidity, as she should have done the moment his four-fingered hand had clamped down on the rather tender flesh of her upper arm (for training with the Assassin's had turned out to be far more rigorous – and addicting – than she had first thought).
"You pretentious bastard!" she started, her appetite for blood already beginning to swell as she watched his face rework itself into that infuriatingly expressionless mask of his. "How dare you jerk me around with that stupid hand of yours, with that stupid missing finger! You think you're so high mighty and, of course, why shouldn't you? You're a man after all, a perfect, strong, intelligent, the-world-is-mine-to-shit-on man! Well, you can just –"
"Maria," Altaïr interrupted calmly, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, which she immediately shook off. "You're causing a scene."
"So be it," she hissed, though she still cast her gaze all around, looking askance at everyone nearby. Though, considering she now stood in bona fide Assassin territory, where even the lowliest of students carried a sword and a healthy supply of throwing knives, the most she got in return was an incline of the head or a twitch of the lips. She took a brief moment to snort in frustration before turning her fury back on Altaïr, who looked surprisingly, even if only mildly, ashamed. However, when she once more opened her mouth to continue her tirade, his eyes flickered, a flash of gold dancing over his – beautiful, if Maria had her say – irises, and he clamped a hand over her mouth. She hardly had enough time to be livid before he released her and began speaking himself.
"Tell me, Maria," he said, voice low, the rich timbre reaching down to the pit of her stomach. "What information did you gather?"
And suddenly, all the superiority that Maria had been throwing around as soon as she caught sight of his hooded visage, emptied away. Now it was her turn to look ashamed, though she averted her gaze from his piercing eyes. Their conversation from earlier in the morning, before they had left the stronghold for the lower streets of Masyaf, echoed in her mind…
"Well, how did you gather information…before?" Altaïr asked, being careful to insert the word 'before' in place of 'when you were a Templar' as he was, as of yet, unsure as to how she viewed her tarnished past. Maria, however, seemed unperturbed as she lay upon the bed, limbs stretched out languidly upon the rumpled sheets, her head, with her hair strewed all about, nestled comfortably upon a pile of pillows. At his inquiry, she turned her eyes to peer up at him from beneath her lashes. As he buckled his belts and weapons and whatnot, he could not help but to smile at the sight and she, in turn, smiled at his rare expression.
"Before?" she replied, tossing the question around in her head before answering hesitantly. "I don't know…I suppose Robert's messenger boys fetched it for him."
Immediately, Altaïr's smile disappeared and he scoffed. "I doubt it. Gathering information is far too delicate a matter for simple messenger boys to execute quickly and efficiently and, most importantly, without arousing suspicion. In fact, many novices run the streets today to learn the craft."
Maria chuckled. "The craft? Pick pocketing, slaying, disappearing, yes, but listening? You consider this a craft?"
"You do not?" She shook her head and he sighed, frustrated, already feeling the heat of debate pass between them, as it almost always did. He took a deep breath, though, refusing to mar the beautiful morning with what would inevitably become an all out shit-fight were he to reply too hastily, and spoke slowly. "Listening requires concentration, and concentration inherently darkens the features. To forego one means to forego the other…for most, at least."
Maria's face appeared puzzled, and as he finished strapping on his accoutrements, he perched himself upon the bed, gazing into her eyes as she twirled her fingers in her hair subconsciously. Glad for her puzzlement in place of her wrath, he wrapped his fingers around hers and brought them up to his lips.
"Come with me?" Altaïr said quietly, and as his warm breath washed over her hand, a pleasant shiver rand down her spine. She could see the mischief coloring his features, and knew, despite any protests she could (and would) make, that the feeling of his skin against hers, even such as innocent touch, along with the still-vivid memories of the night previous, would have her agreeing to even the most absurd of requests. "Of course, you may stay here if you wish," he continued, laughter coating his words as he leaned over her, molding her long, pale fingers over his tanned, stubbly cheek. "Many at the sparring ring would mourn your absence, I'm sure."
Maria narrowed her eyes at him, though she found it difficult to muster the will to be genuinely angry as he turned his lips into the palm of her hand, pressing light kisses up towards her wrist. "I'm sure they will," she replied.
"Will?" Altaïr released her hand, leaning further still, his face now looming directly over hers. "So you will come?"
"I didn't say that." Maria feigned nonchalance, reaching up to entwine her fingers in his hair, somewhat short as it was. She mused that she had, of course, been surprised, at first, to learn that the great leader of the Assassins had quite an incessantly unkempt head of hair. Though she had had difficulty reconciling this boyish feature with his usually stoic and domineering attitude, it managed to suit him, somehow or another…
"Maria?" Altaïr spoke expectantly, awaiting her answer as patiently as he could.
"Where are you going?" she asked. Although, even as she began pestering him about the specifics, she rolled off the bed and began pulling on her own assassin's uniform (there were several subtle differences between hers and the rest, including the style of the belt and the color of trousers, etc. at which Altaïr had uncharacteristically rolled his eyes).
"To the streets of Masyaf, with the novices." Altaïr replied as if this were perfectly obvious, tilting his head to one side as she hopped on one foot, struggling to pull a boot up her leg. He watched for only a few moments longer before succumbing to pity, standing and grabbing hold of her waist from behind, steadying her so that she could yank the old leather over her calf. She turned to face him and leaned into his embrace.
"But why?" she asked, fiddling with the sash around his waist. "Hardly a job for the Grandmaster, training the novices to perk their ears. Isn't that a job more appropriately suited to Malik?"
Altaïr chuckled, the sound low in his throat, vibrating under her hands. "Don't be ridiculous. Despite any pleas or threats I could issue him, he would prefer I sent him to be tortured by the enemy. Even the word novice is a curse coming from his mouth."
"Then who…?"
"I certainly am not going to be training them, for I find their company only slightly more desirable than does Malik." Maria snorted quietly, knowing that he did, indeed, enjoy the company of the novices, especially of the younger children. This was, however, a carefully guarded secret. "One of the masters, al-Saffah, tends to it this very moment. No, I intend to train you."
Incredulous. "Me?" Altaïr nodded. "I have sparred and trained with the horses and browsed through my fair share of the library. I think myself more than well equipped for missions now, if you would only get off your throne long enough to authorize it…your bureau leaders refuse to aid me without it, apparently."
Altaïr smiled a secretive smile. "Learn this and learn it well and you may venture on any mission you wish." Maria doubted he meant this in earnest, but if she could walk around, pick up some gossip, and then wonder around Jerusalem or Damascus or somewhere not at Masyaf, then she would gladly do so.
"You have yourself a deal."
An hour or so later, Maria found herself standing on a ridge, peering down at the streets of Masyaf. At this distance, they appeared quiet, even tranquil.
"So now what?" Maria asked, the boredom of the exercise already beginning to weigh heavily on her shoulders, especially since, only a short distance away from the Assassin's stronghold, she could still hear the clash of blade against blade. Music to her ears.
"Benches," Altaïr replied.
Maria arched a brow. "…care to elaborate?"
"You must learn to not only lose others in a crowd, but also to lose yourself."
"Right. That's much less cryptic."
Altaïr sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "Masyaf isn't quite what it used to be, Maria. Assassins still patrol the area, though in disguise, as we have become more clandestine as the situation has demanded it. Some lone crusaders have taken to roaming the streets, also in disguise."
"Yes, I know," Maria replied. "One of your master assassins – Ali, was it? – was pestering me about European nuances just the other day. Something about premature reconnaissance…"
"Exactly. See if you can't spot them; gather anything not already in our records. Be sure not to draw any attention to yourself." At Maria's half-hearted shrug, he took her hand and squeezed her fingers tight between his own. "I'm serious, Maria. Listen and listen well. Once you have heard enough to merit a report, or if you feel suspicious eyes upon you, leave quickly."
"Running screaming quickly or roof hopping quickly?" Maria asked in jest. Altaïr, however, no longer seemed in the mood to joke.
"The latter if you must, but preferably neither. Just walk away, and return to the stronghold in a roundabout manner. It would be best if the disguised crusaders thought you a visitor, even though they will not be able to see your face."
Maria, suddenly a little nervous about the prospect of walking unarmed (she had a small knife in her boot, though, in Maria's opinion, this didn't truly count), nodded and pulled her hood over her head and down towards her eyes. As Altaïr had suggested, she left first, with him trailing her from several meters away. It would be over an hour before she saw him again.
And see him she most certainly did, standing before her with a harsh expression, awaiting an explanation.
"Well?"
"I…didn't learn much," she answered, picking at an imagined thread upon her robe. She reached up to adjust the hood upon her head…when she realized it had fallen from her brow. Woops.
"Don't take me for such a fool Maria," he snapped. "First, you wonder into the center of the city, which I suppose isn't so grievous, considering you are new to the Order." Maria immediately began to defend herself, protesting his narrow-mindedness. He shushes her, though, suddenly appearing to stand several inches taller than only a few moments prior. "Then," he went on. "Upon your most obvious search for a proper seat, you nearly upend an elderly woman. Drawing attention. Then you crane your neck about, glaring murderously at anyone who dares glance in your direction. Drawing attention. Then, Maria, then you let your hood fall as you fidget about, looking the most unnatural I have ever seen you. Drawing attention." He sighed, his anger falling away to reveal a more deep-rooted concern. "Why must you torment me?"
"Because you're an overconfident prick," she seethed. "Treating me like a cheap whore on the street…how do you do it, Altaïr?" He opened his mouth, but was silenced by another one of her looks. "No really, I would like to know how it is you manage to turn something as illustrious as the profession of Assassin into such triviality, such boredom."
He appeared puzzled. "Boredom?"
"Yes! Wonder over here, sit there, listen to the gab of the common folk, so on and so forth…and congratulations! Suddenly, I'm well over one hundred in years. Why can you not simply designate others to do this sort of work for you?"
As she spoke, it seemed as if Altaïr were schooling his features, though against what, she couldn't exactly say. However, she could plainly see the mischief glinting in his eyes like diamonds in the afternoon sun.
"Boredom," he repeated.
"An endless supply of it," she said slowly, still suspicious. As she studied the nearly imperceptive twitch of his lips and the quirk in his brow, the moments stretched onwards, accented by the flapping of an eagle's wings.
"We do," Altaïr said finally.
"You do what?" Maria asked, turning to follow him as he began making the remainder of the journey back to the stronghold. When he did not answer, she snorted, grabbing a handful of the bright white cloth of his sleeve so that he could not speed on ahead, his stride outdoing hers by one and one half at the very least, as he was oftentimes wont to do.
"Altaïr, you do what?" she pressed, venom beginning to drip from her words.
"We have informants. The masters and apprentices of the Assassins hardly ever find themselves scrounging about for information. Still though, a miserable performance on your part. You could have been recognized. You may have been. I'll have to speak with Malik…"
As soon as the words left his mouth, she yanked hard on his sleeve, and he was forced to face her. She reached up and yanked back his own hood, the sweat from the day's labor thus far causing his hair to stick up at even more odd angles than it usually did. She would have been amused were it not for the sudden urge to tear his face from the bones of his skull.
"You bastard!" she cried. "You prick! You…you shit-eating loggerhead!"
"I'm sorry?" he chuckled, amused by her colorful insults. He had long since grown accustomed to the copious amount of profanity that left her mouth on a daily basis. In fact, at times it served as a source of arousal…
"It is still training we all require, should the occasion call for it," he defended, though Maria was still thoroughly unconvinced. "I simply knew you would find a way to weasel out of it if I did not…embellish certain attributes of the skill."
"You mean craft," she spat bitterly.
"Of course. The craft."
"So al-Saffah truly trains the novices for scouting today?" Maria inquired, regarding Altaïr suspiciously. "Or do you embellish this as well?"
"I suppose that you did not see them is a credit to his success," Altaïr replied.
"Again your skills of being non-cryptic amaze me."
"Yes, al-Saffah trains the novices in the craft of the gathering of information. Though, most recruits have been wondering the rooftops under the noses of the guard long before they could even speak the words assassin, so I doubt his training entails much. It would probably be more appropriate to call it an evaluation."
As he spoke of al-Saffah, they continued their way along the path of the stronghold, making their way towards what Maria assumed was his study. She wanted to berate him some more, but with the sweat glistening off his forehead and arms (he had since removed his outer robe once they had reached more private areas of the stronghold), she found the heat on her tongue making its way down her throat and to her nether regions. In fact, as soon as they reached his study, she took him by the arm and dragged him towards the desk, pushing him against the dark, ink-stained wood. She twined the fingers of one hand with one of his own and buried the other in the hair at the nape of his neck. She brought her lips mere millimeters from his before she stopped, speaking. She could feel the muscles in his abdomen convulse as her breath warmed his chapped lips.
"I should be livid with you," she said quietly.
"I thought you were," he whispered back.
"Livid, aroused, I can hardly tell the difference sometimes."
"I never could…"
His words were swallowed by her lips as she pressed them to his. She whimpered softly as he traced the outline of her mouth with his tongue, pressing her body flush against his as he began to dominate what had begun as her assault. He wrapped his arms around her and, once freeing the clip that bound her hair atop her head, buried one hand in the luxurious locks, while the other remained plastered against the small of her back, pressing her hips into the cradle of his. Several long moments later, his lips left hers so that they could catch their breath, and Altaïr began tracing a feather-light path from her chin to the crook of her neck.
"You know this means revenge right?" Maria said, still breathless.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Altaïr replied.
And they laughed, the peaceful moment, one of only a few, seeming to brighten the light of the mid-afternoon sun just that much more.
PS: Mistakes? Qualms? Comments? I would loooove to hear from you (not in a creepy stalker kind of way, though).
Armidion