He's My Son

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"Can You hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can You see him?
Can You make him feel all right?
If You can hear me
let me take his place somehow.
See, he's not just anyone.
He's my son …"

- Mark Schultz – He's My Son

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He didn't know what was better: to die suddenly without the chance to tell those whom you love one last time all that they mean to you or to prolong the end with illness so that your affairs are in order, but those whom you love suffer equally watching your pain.

He supposed both had their benefits as well as their hindrances. Sudden death stole the chance for redemption – in this life anyways – while sparing family and friends the agony, but illness turned you into an angry shell of a person with ample time to make amends.

Then again, he was speaking from an old man's perspective; he'd lived the prime of his life with gallantry and ease, fallen in love – twice – and supported his brothers as well as his children, training the younglings to become honourable and skilled assassins, so unlike the man he had once been. Should he sleep tonight and cease to wake in the morning, none would mourn the unexpectedness.

But it was not he who clung to the wispy threads of life, isolated in a chamber high in the fortress of Masyaf with one or two visitors at best.

Instead, he sat in the study that once belonged to his paternal mentor, Al Mualim, but for the last three decades had been his. The smooth desk, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of bound texts and scrolls of all languages from France to China, was covered in sheets of velum. After years of work, the Codex was complete, yet he mulled over blade designs and memoirs if only to distract his tortured mind.

Turning the quill between his thumb and finger, Altair stared at the pages, knowing the complexity of such devices would likely never come to flourish, yet seeking ways in which to make them even more potent and deadly. He'd considered firearms, like the Chinese fireworks used in their celebrations his son mentioned when last he'd returned from the Far East, and he'd imagined the possibility of a blade filled with poison, like a scorpion's sting. What else could – could someday? – the blade do?

The opposite? For all his research, for all the Apple of Eden and years of conspiracy had taught him, healing was the one perpetual mystery. He closed his eyes heavily, feeling the wrinkle in his skin and slowly rose from the chair.

His body sluggishly made its way up winding stairways, ignorant to the empathetic assassins whose gazes followed him through the courtyard. They murmured about him in the village. All knew what tragedy had befallen him, and though the citizens were generous in their offerings, not a single one had anything productive to give.

Along the way, he paused by the chamber in question. The door was left ajar, though only slightly. From his position in the hall, Altair could see the bed on which the young man lay. He was in his middle twenties and had been handsome before the disease took over; a subtle mix of European and Arab that left him with dark hair and eyes, though on the lighter tone, like an Italian.

But in the last several weeks, the lymph nodes beneath his arms had begun to swell and his once caramel-coloured skin was now spotted with a black rash and numerous bug bites. Needing not to strain, Altair listened to his fevered breaths, after which the woman seated at his side, one hand clasping his tightly, leaned across the head of the bed frame and wrung a small cloth in ice water and touched it to his forehead. He rolled his head to the side, caught in the a fit of a violent cough. A gooey spot of blood shot out onto the floor, narrowly missing the ends of her shoes; if she noticed she showed no signs of care. He walked on.

His destination was a circular room whose arching entrance was indicated with gold calligraphic script, was sparsely furnished and dimly lit by candles on wooden shelves. A second entrance led to a balcony that gazed a few degrees east of due south over the green, rolling countryside.

It wasn't often that he visited, lesser still the older he became, the more treachery he saw in the world, the more he learned from the Apple of Eden. But books and doctors had failed him. His heart, his soul, was broken and he knew not where to turn. Such was a cowardly move, seeking guidance in a form he had long ago tried to abandon, in a practice he had long ago decided futile. He had become one of the very people he reprimanded, but he knew He knew the truth in his heart.

A glance out the window assured him he hadn't much time. The Call would be given from this room in short time. So swiftly he unrolled an elegantly woven carpet of raven blacks and sunlight yellows, reds the tone of rubies and wine. Then he whispered – with an air like a song – the short verse and got onto his knees. For the first time since his youth, Altair ibn La-Ahad, Master of the Order of the Assassins, prayed.

"Allahu Akbar, I do not deserve Your Blessings. I have committed...grievous sins, have strayed far down the wrongful path. I have not forgotten You, but I have lost my faith, for this world is so corrupt. The men and women who claim to do Your work do nothing but condemn their brothers, enslave the believers with false promises and squander opposition," he said to the empty room. "I wished so much to separate myself from such an existence; I wished to be in control of my life, not set within a parameters of good and evil. What is good? What is evil? I thought I could learn on my own, rather than rely on a Book that Man himself has written and corrupted with personal prejudice."

He shook his head and felt the tears begin to form. "But You are always there and now, I kneel here, humbled and broken. They say you are the Most Merciful, yet I am here not for my own salvation. If belief without practice is a sin then I shall, without denial, face my punishment in the afterlife.

"It is my son; my youngest. The other day he was a child, playing with the horses in the stables. He was always helpful and respectful to the others and to his mother. He was hard working, and a skilled rider, better still in combat with the blade. He is not of the caliber of his brother, but like Cain and Abel, he is gentle-natured and kind where his brother is a worthy advisary, though prone to over-confidence and haste.

"I know not what has happened. Maria says it is the Devil's horseman, Pestilence, and that the Apocalypse is upon us. What I have seen in the Apple does not support this, but I know with certainty that he is ill and there is not a doctor in this world that can help him. Every day he grows weaker, like a tree with its branches snapped off; he loses himself. I cannot stand to witness such a demoralizing state of existence, especially for a child I hold so dear to my heart.

"We have done all we can. Each night, his mother - bless her soul - sits by his side, holding his hand and, I can only suppose, praying to You. She draws weaker along with him and I know it is only a matter of time before his disease worsens and spreads. I fear for my family and my allies." He paused to draw a shaky breath. "When You created us, You gave us the ability to think, to learn, and thus to rule ourselves in a manner appropriate for the instinctual guidance You formed in our hearts: morals.

"Thus I am not expecting a miracle. Such is the stuff of fairytales, the wild believers who think You are as a puppet master. I know this not to be true, but ever still, though I wish I could take his place, be ill while he is well, I know this cannot be."

The silence was interrupted by the familiar screech of an eagle. It darted by the balcony, circling the tower as it lowered its altitude and came to a perch on the stone balustrade. Altair rose and gently cocking his elbow, offered a perch for the bird. With little hesitation, it accepted and he was able to untie a strip of parchment from around its tough talon.

Year-moments later, he descended the stairwell, meeting Malik partway down. Maria stood less than a step behind, looking older than her years. The boy was asleep, likely, for she would leave his side for no other purpose.

Altair glanced grimly at Malik and handed him the eagle's message. "The deed is done. Khan is dead. Respond; congratulate him and demand his immediate return. No hesitation. He must ride through the night if need be."

Malik's brow furrowed curiously. "Immediate? Why such haste?"

"Because," he answered, lowering his vision and pushing swiftly passed his wife and comrade while removing a carefully wrapped item from his cloak pocket, "he must pay his respects. His brother will die soon."

Still, the assassin did not understand. How could he know...?

Malik and Maria, as though tethered on the same mental string, swelled with horrific understanding. Maria's eyes filled with hot and angry tears. She spun blindly, regarding the man she had once dared to love. "Altair! No! Stop!"

Using his teeth as fingers, he pulled the strings of his brace tighter around his wrist and tested the spring in the blade with a quick flex of his wrist. "Malik." It was all he needed to say. One-armed, he was still strong, and clasped Maria tightly around the middle, though scream and fight she did.

"God; my only prayer is that You protect this soul. Grant him the Paradise we all seek to attain in this life," he murmured, entering the room where his once baby boy slept in the throes of a fevered nightmare.

Slowly, the boy opened his eyes, sensing a new, rare presense, focusing on him. Altair could not be certain, but he thought he saw him smile faintly as he cradled his head in his hands, recalling the infant Maria had given him two decades ago - a symbol of the love and commitment they'd made to each other - and mourning the husband, the father he could have been.

"Peace be upon you, Habibi."

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Fin

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Disclaimer: All characters are property of Ubisoft.

Author's Notes: Another religiously sensitive Assassin's Creed fan fic. Sorry for anyone who doesn't like that. The setting for Altair's story tends to offer more of that to work with than Ezio, plus Mark Schultz's songs tend to be religious in nature.

I didn't give names to the children simply because other writers always do to minor characters (ie. siblings, children, parents) who are never mentioned specifically in canon material and they usually choose bad names and I didn't want to be another one of those people who turn such characters into weak OCs.

And yes, Altair does kill him in the end. It's a mercy killing since he has the septicemic plague. The Codex never states the fates of his children, and I thought this would make for a sad story so I had him dying of a disease. This type of plague is always fatal, but can develop into pneumonic plague which is highly contagious and since I didn't want any biology experts to wonder why Altair and the others didn't get sick and die of it to, let's just say Altair had a feeling it'd spread and killed him out of mercy and safety for the others.

Maybe I'm just thinking too much into it.

Translation:
- Allahu Akbar = God the Great
- Habibi = My love