Hi all! One of many fanfics to come! As per usual, I don't own Assassin's Creed, Ubisoft does :) Enjoy and review!
Altaïr awoke to warm, golden rays of sun pushing through his window's un-even slats, cascading onto his bed sheets. Groaning slightly at yesterday's wounds protesting against his rising, he slowly sat up- feeling far from refreshed. "Pain is just a way the body shows one that they are still alive to face another day, Another opportunity to kill another Templar, and further our Creed's cause". He mused silently. "Perhaps I won't be sent to Jerusalem today…" he said as he rolled his powerful shoulders back, clenching and relaxing the muscles in his back as he did so. Needless to say, after the past few months' actions, Altaïr was still not on speaking terms with a particularly disgruntled Rafiq- nor did he intend to make reparations to an already rocky friendship.
Pushing all other thoughts aside, the Assassin rose from the bed and trudged to his dresser, where a small basin of mildly fresh water was waiting in an old cracked pitcher. Altaïr pushed nostalgic thoughts from his mind as he mechanically poured the water into the basin. "I should replace this.", he thought to himself. Although he wished to be rid of the relic, strangely, it was the last surviving item in Altaïr's room that belonged to his father, and couldn't bear to part with it- though he would never own up to it consciously. He splashed his face with water, in another attempt to rouse his body from perpetual fatigue. He gazed into the large smooth section of polished metal that sat on his dresser, and gazed back into his somewhat sleepy eyes. He sighed in dissatisfaction at his reflection; the source of his discontent being his smooth muted olive skin, coupled with eyes that were a startling gold with hazel flecks, rimed with dark, perfect lashes. Although objectively, he was strikingly handsome, Altaïr could never feel he was a true "Brother", given his sordid lineage and features that were far from normal in his land.
Altaïr crossed to a small chest at the foot of his unmade bed, and took out several neatly folded items. He dropped them on the bed, and sat down beside them, beginning the tedious task of putting on his robes. Slipping the smooth under-tunic on over his skin, he made a point to avoid stretching his left side- still tender from the "gift" delivered to him by a Templar's broadsword. He stood now, and pulled the heavier, coarse outer tunic over his chest, tugging here and there until the placement was right. He checked the reflection in the "mirror" for help as he first tied the sash around his toned waist, and then covered it with the thick, protective leather of his belt. Adding any throwing knives that had not been replaced from his last task's work, as well as investigating his sword for any unacceptable flaws or dirt, he secured his belt, and slipped into his comfortable sturdy leather boots. After securing his dagger on his chest-strap, he slid the leather bracer onto his right arm, and flexed his fingers as he put on his glove. Meticulously, he slid the infamous Hidden Blade onto his left arm, securing it with deft diligence- this weapon was his life; his first choice to bring death, and his final savior in escaping it. He flicked his fingers out, feeling the familiar pull of the blade's mechanism, and the satisfying snick of the blade leaving it's hiding place. Smiling to himself, he slipped the other glove on, and he strode over to the dresser. He removed his white hood from its stand, slipping it over his head, and letting the hood rest on the back of his shoulders. He took a final lingering look at himself in the mirror, and, with an approving nod, walked through the doorway on his way to Al Mualim.
"I am here, Master" Altaïr spoke, slightly bowing his head.
"Ah, the boy has finally decided to join me." The old man said, turning. He wore a permanent scowl on his face; however, it somehow looked even more marked today. "Had trouble getting out of bed this morning? Perhaps your body would not be so loath to co-operate had it not been injured by your carelessness!"
Altaïr, knowing better than to let the old man's quips garner a response, shook it off with a slight nod- though he would not admit it, his Master was right.
"Well, it seems your trials have tamed your tongue, boy, at least for now." Al Mualim said, turning away from the man standing solemnly waiting for instructions. Turning his attention to the soft cooing of the twenty or so carrier pigeons roosting in their cage, he reached his hand in and plucked a fine grey bird from out of it's nest.
"Altaïr, I have another name to give you, another who needs to feel the bite of justice at his throat."
"Give it to me then, Master, and it is as good as done."
"Patience, boy," Al Mualim said disdainfully, " and here I thought you might have learned something." Al Mualim turned around to look at Altaïr. Sighing audibly, the old Master took a seat at his desk, and pulled from its depths, a letter, marked in Arabic script. It was addressed to Malik Al-Sayf.
"Wonderful," Altaïr thought to himself, "how sensible it would be to send me there after what just happened." He noticed that Al Mualim was now looking at his face. He straightened slightly, and met his Master's gaze.
"Is there a problem, Altaïr?"
"No, Master." He replied.
"Good." He returned his gaze to the letter in his hands and started again, "I know Malik still holds an animosity towards you, but you of all people should know that all wounds heal in time." With this, Al Mualim rose from his seat, and carefully rolled up the letter so it would fit in the small strap on the pigeon's leg. He stroked the pigeon's wings once, then, with a flutter, he released the pigeon, and watched it fly through the metalwork window.
"If I might inquire as to the name of my target Master…"
"Of course boy, had you the patient for an old man to finish his sentences-"
"Forgive me Master, I did not intend any disrespect."
Al Mualim held up his hand to silence him, "I know you did not, so I will tell you. His name is Mamraj Abhilash; I'm sure, as you are no stranger to the streets of Jerusalem, you have heard of his lubricity that has been a great source of corruption within the city. He keeps many women with him, and throws elaborate parties. He deals in the sins of the flesh, and has thrived off of it. Go to Jerusalem now, boy, and speak with Malik. I have no doubt that he is…" he paused, searching for the right word, "impatient to speak to you." Al Mualim walked around his desk as he handed Altaïr a small vial containing a cloudy liquid.
"Poison?" Altaïr ventured. Al Mualim nodded, "were we not told that poison is a coward's weapon?"
Al Mualim chuckled without mirth, "Yes boy, that is correct, however, this mission requires…stealth." Altaïr shifted uncomfortably at this word, as his wounds from his last botched mission had only started to heal.
Altaïr wordlessly took the vial of poison and secured it in a canister on the back of his belt. Turning to leave, he stopped, keeping his gaze towards the Great Hall, but directing his speech to Al Mualim, "I will not fail you Master, you have my word." With those final words of assurance, he descended the Great Staircase, and walked into the courtyard. As he stepped into the sun's blinding light, he lifted the enigmatic white hood that practically glowed in the intense light. With a comfortable blanket of shadow allowing sight once again, he hastened through the courtyard, past the journeymen who stood sentry.
Al Mualim turned back and gazed out of the open-air window overlooking the courtyard below. A smile ghosted his lips for the briefest of moments as he watched the young Assassin make his way out of the fortress.
Quickly, he made his way through the village of Masyaf, past civilians and fellow Brothers alike, returning the occasional greeting a few times. It was getting later, the sun nearing its climax in the sky, and the oppressive heat already forcing Altaïr to wipe his brow occasionally. Walking through the gates, Altaïr approached the horses, freshly brushed by young novices and journeymen. He selected a strong young stallion, 16 hands high with a black coat and flowing mane that could put the darkest night sky to shame. He ran his hand down its back, and it acknowledged him with a small whiney.
"Peace, my friend, peace. We have four days' journey ahead of us. You will need your strength- as will I."
He checked the saddle, twice, "Never can trust a novice" he mused. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a scruffy-looking novice, no older that ten, who was entranced by the sight of a flesh-and-blood Assassin and his steed. Smiling to himself, Altaïr approached the horse from behind, and placed a hand on either side of his flank. He took a breath and then with an arrogant show of prowess, that would surely make Malik cringe, he hoisted himself up onto the horse, from a standstill. He allowed himself a small smirk as he heard the boy gasp excitedly.
With a crack of the reins, steed and master galloped along the mountainous terrain, starting their lengthy journey that would take them to Jerusalem, to their target, and to the start of something completely unexpected.