She was his sparrow. She never walked, but hopped from place to place: her feet never seemed to stay in place for long. But there she was, standing ahead of him. In the way of an Assassin, she had lead him here through tantalising glimpses through areas thick with people. Altair recalled standing in the corner of the marketplace that evening, watching the world, watching the world he kept safe, through his hood.
The marketplace always bustled with people, in the sacred beginnings of a new day where the sky was still heavy with darkness, but shoots of brilliant orange were beginning to break it apart and open the way for the dawning of the sun; in the scorched afternoons where the air shimmered with heat; and in the evenings when they sky grew dimmer, weary of the day and gracefully bowing out in way of the cool embrace of night. Altair had watched the people who were oblivious to all he and his Creed had done for them collect together, to trade and barter with one another. They swapped livestock, precious oils, lengths of dyed cloth, and everything else in between and got more of the same in return. Nothing escaped Altair's eye – not the shopkeepers secreting coins in a small pouch under their tabletops, nor the incognito people walking through the crowds, taking coins and finery when their targets were otherwise occupied.
And just like he saw all of this, he also saw the woman standing in a small alley on the other side of the bazaar, staring at him. He looked up to meet her eye, and she gave him a fascinating quirk of her lips. Altair had stood up straight, flowing from his previous position of sitting on a stone bench in between two oblivious strangers. He knew those lips, and he knew that quirk – better than he knew his own. He had cut his way through the crowd, gently pushing people aside, and slithering out of their sight before they could put a face to their complaints.
On it went: Altair would follow her through crowds, streets, rooftops – anywhere she wanted to take him. At times, he would shake his head and wonder if she was actually real or if he was chasing a ghost, but then it would be a glint off of her armour, another mesmerising quirk, or a flash of ankle scuttling up a building and he would be determined anew.
Through the maze of her directions, here she was. Dark eyes to match his grey ones, a heart shaped face to be against his firm jaw – the sparrow to his eagle. She smiled softly – was she teasing him? – and turned to run. Altair set his heels in motion – he wouldn't lose her again. He followed her and was barely a breath behind. Almost as one, they soared over the rooftops, and skated their way to their destination. Impossibly, she was already atop of the tower when he arrived. All their haste gone, he walked to her and pushed down her hood.
This was her. Kahina.
His mouth, roughened from months of travelling, and terrible words met hers midway for a kiss. Kahina's mouth was soft, and sweet. This never failed to puzzle Altair, because like all members of the Creed, Kahina had done everything that he had: she had killed, she had stalked her prey, she had travelled from one end of the country to the other a dozen times over, but her lips were still bliss, a soft haven that guided him away from all the lies and bleak pain of real life.
Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. The words, drummed into him for as long as he had been given life came to him now. If everything was permitted, then Altair was permitting himself to be taken to Kahina's paradise.