Disclaimer: The geniuses over at Ubisoft Montreal own Assassin's Creed and Altaïr. La dee da.
Chapter 1 – Shadow With A Name
An adrenaline rush pumped through his veins as the faceless shadow flew gracefully from the roof-tops, blocking the sun with a magnificent flowing silhouette. This was his life. He was everywhere. He was no where. He was a liberator of lives. He was a killer. His passing gaze reduced you to a quivering mess, and his stoic bearing caused you to wonder of the demon lurking beneath the glorious angelic façade.
Abdul-Qadir, an arms merchant in Acre, was found asleep by his wife in their home on the hill. Blissfully unaware, she lightly placed a hand on his shoulder, and shook him awake. But of course, he did not stir. A deep gash on his neck let flow a trickle of crimson down the young woman's finger tips. Pale. Cold. Lifeless. Sitting in a pool of his own blood for hours unnoticed.
A scream echoed throughout the land. An anguished scream. A tormented scream. A scream known to him as accomplishment. An indicator of success. The Shadow pulled the once pure white feather from his habit, and examined it as red dyed its surface, spreading like a wildfire as if his victim's heart were still beating within. Soon, a happy wind weaved through the stiffened fringe, and the colouring turned to a deep burnt auburn, encasing in it the tattered remains of beauty.
Slipping into the darkness, he walked calmly along the streets, chuckling silently as news travelled of the poor merchant's demise.
A man in white, they said.
A ghost, they said.
Nevertheless, he need be cautious. His presence was known in the city, and one wrong step could jeopardize his mission. He found a free spot on a bench in the far corner of the square, watching the scrambling of panicked citizens.
To his right, was a man clad in an ankle length robe and a vacant, distant stare. His hands were dirty and calloused, his beard unkempt and dull. Sandalled feet were rough and chalky. His mouth half open, as if in mid-sentence. Altaïr Ibn La-Ahad, who has dealt with death all his life, could've sworn this man stopped breathing. His faith in society extinguished; his soul teetering on an imbalanced scale of peace and destruction. This was the worst way to die. Why the Creed lives.
To his left, was a woman dressed in a traditional brown robe and a billowy cream skirt diligently embroidered with the small image of a dove on her hip. The loose threads allowed dust to catch in the hoops; the poor virtuous creature now undertaking the burden of life among the streets. Its wings were securely sewn to the faded fabric, delicate and soft. Its hem was feathered with dirt, and the woman's worn gloved hands were painfully gripping an open leather-bound book on her lap. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. Her attention turned up from the pages every so often, scanning the crowd for something. Someone. Searching for an answer that she couldn't seem to find within the text. Her face was partly hidden beneath a dusty pallid hijab, and Altaïr soon caught himself staring at the soft outline of her eyes, nose and lips through the thin fabric in the hazy sunlight. Head swivelling dead ahead, he brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to drive away the unwanted distraction. He heard her shift uneasily, crossing her legs, and resting the novel on her knee. What causes her such anxiety? Hesitantly peeking around the visual boundary of his hood, he felt the sharp sting of shame. Of betrayal. But no matter how much he willed it, his thoughts would always return to her. Why?
She was no one special. Her back was hunched, her sleeves torn, and her neck was blotchy and sunburned. Her nose crooked, possibly broken, and her thin, dry mouth was pursed and parched. She licked her lips in a vain effort to remedy the cracked and broken surface while the fluttering of every page disturbed the innocent pecking of a flock of pigeons nearby.
He was startled when the book slammed shut, but maintained his composure as the woman stood up and turned to give him a warm and knowing smile before turning away. Those eyes. So expressive. So secretive. She seemed to float amidst the crowd, the stream of people uninterrupted by her ethereal existence, gently manoeuvring her way through throngs of the uncertain public to the other side of the square with ease. He felt compelled to follow her. There was something about her that was familiar, reminiscent, and safe. And yet his feet were bound to the ground, forever affixed between death and an unreachable freedom, forever affixed by the Assassin's Creed.
Author's Note:
Oh wow. I'm truly surprised you made it all the way down here. Thank you so very much. I'll keep it simple. Yes, I love fragments.
No, I won't promise it'll get better, and no, I won't even promise I'll update any time soon, if not at all. It's my first time posting, but by all means, flame away.
Yes, Altaïr the creepy stalker. Lovely character, don't you think?
And yes, it's short. I really haven't gotten around to the whole concept of a 2000-word chapter. Who knows? It might be able to pass as a one-shot. Probably not.
Anyway, have fun. Write happy.
- Lynn.
