idk I was bored. just sorta thought about how he might've been inspired to write some of the codex pages.
It was a mistake coming to Acre. The air was too hot, the crowds too loud. He could taste the disease, the sweat, the metal. He longed to freely run across the rooftops, unrestrained and free of the common citizen. But he was on the ground for a reason, he reminded himself. The eagle of Masyaf was on a mission.
His eyes wandered, as did his attention. A bad habit he developed in childhood that never quite went away, but it aided him in being aware of his surroundings. Today, it was to work to his disadvantage.
Another slave chain was being auctioned, right here. So close to home. His fingers dug into his palms in well restrained disgust. The slave trader had one eyesocket laid bare to the world, skin long grown over as if it were just another part of his face. He was making wide sweeping gestures to his captives, pointing enthusiastically as numbers erupted from a dozen different lips. Displayed as animals, knockneed and wide eyed, were the slaves.
Some were children, some were women. All were malnourished, their arms as thin as sticks and their legs caked in dry dirt. Between them they shared a long rope tethered to their wrists, which was sufficient enough in their current condition. One little Indian boy with large doe-ish eyes and hair like feathers looked over the crowd timidly. Altair's heart - for he did have one - dropped to his toes as he strained to hear the young one speak.
"Papa," he heard the child call in a heavy accent. It was high pitched and breathy, a recognition of something lost. "Papa."
He had interrupted the auction, had interrupted his master. The women screamed as he hit the ground, vile words thrown in his direction courtesy of the slave trader. The auctioneers merely watched, impatient. Their mouths were soon pulled back in sneers, indifferent and eager to continue. Instinct and human compassion screeched for Altair to move, his legs burning with the effort of standing still. To calm the urge he closed his eyes, taking silent deep breaths. He envisioned himself briskly walking toward the slave trader, fists curling and at the ready. He imagined the rough scrape of the man's beard as he delivered a calculated punch to his throat, effectively knocking the bastard out cold. All the sick men and their money would scatter, trampling one another in their panic. Then his hidden blade would cut the rope, his gaze shifting to the wide eyed doe boy as the words "Thank you" rolled out of his parched throat-
But he didn't. Couldn't. The Creed, that damn Creed he never thought he would damn in his entire life, was so ingrained. He could recite the exact words - Keep in the dark, never draw attention to yourself - and so stood there, rage boiling over and blood rushing in his ears. Don't be a hero, be a coward. Be selfish. It is the only way to survive. It is the way of the Assassins.
Later he would hate himself for being a slave to his own teachings, like the religious crusaders he had slaughtered so many times before. Later, he would stare at the stars and think, deprived of sleep by his own guilt (and rightfully so). But for now, he needed to get as far away from the repulsive one eyed slave trader as soon as possible, before he did anything reckless and endangered them all.
So he did what he could not do. He turned around and walked away, his heart breaking in ways that nearly caused him physical agony.
The doe eyed boy did not get back up.