"No, mama," the child sobbed into the red-stained hair. "Mama..." He cried for days, even when the guards of the facility would beat him to silence him. He didn't stop crying. Not even when that hooded man set everyone free.
The man, coming to check the building one last time for survivors, strode up to the boy. He sneered under his hood with disgust. The boy, only about eleven or twelve, was clutching a severed head. His mothers, the assassin assumed.
"Drop the head, get up."
"But.." the boy's murky green eyes connected with the man's sharp silver eyes, "the doctor..he sai-"
"The doctor lied." He hissed sharply, silencing the preteen. "Now get up." He scanned said preteen quickly. His dark hair was greasy and matted, tanned skin covered in scars and marks, his frame resembled that of a skeleton and his right leg was broken obviously at the knee and thigh. He soon wondered if the boy would be able to get up at all.
"L-lied?" He gasped softly, fingers curling in his mother's hair in anguish, "oh, mama.." he began to cry again.
"Silence! Now drop that useless skull and get up!" The older Arabian snarled. The boy hiccupped, attempting to silence himself and he reluctantly let the head go. It rolled and he immediately followed it. It came to the assassin and he wasted no time in crushing the skull with his foot.
"Mama!"
"This is not your mother, your mother is gone." He growled, gesturing to the bones, blood, teeth and brains under his boot, "do you want to destroy the one responsible? Get to your feet. Now."
This seemed to sink into the boy and, with great pain, he stood finally.
"Come with me," the assassin ordered sharply, "we are going to repair your leg, then you will learn under me." He began to walk away. The preteen let out a warbled yelp of agony and clutched his leg. The man did not stop.
"Wait! Please!"
"The world will not wait for you, boy." He replied coldly. The young Arabian began to chase after this man with soft sobs and painful gasps, a wave of hope washing over him.
X
The two Arabians sat on the wagon as it made it's way to Damascus. The man had paid a doctor and a tailor, one to repair and design a brace for the boy's leg and the other to give him robes similar to his own.
"What is your name, boy?"
"Kahleem." He replied softly, "what's your name?"
"Altair Ibn La-Ahad, Son of None."
The name registered in Kahleem's mind and he looked at the fellow Arabian beside him. "From Masyaf?"
"The guards talk much of me, I know this."
Kahleem nodded under his hood, settling back against a crate. Altair followed suit, resting against a crate of his own. He began to review his battle plan subconsiciously, mapping out where he needed to go and why. Soon, the assassin began to wonder which methods he would use to train this boy.
Altair glanced over at the boy, catching the thinking expression on his face. He let out a sigh and looked heavenward. He would make this boy a powerful assassin one day.