Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Assassin's Creed.

Author's note: These first couple of chapters will be kind of short, as I am still trying to get my footing in this whole publishing thing on here. But the 3rd chapter is coming soon, and will be significantly longer. It will also have much awaited Lemons and fluff! Enjoy!

Her eyes are beautiful.

Altair clenched his teeth tightly, his jaw muscles twitching. He repositioned himself in his uncomfortable chair, adjusting the black robes' cloth around his shoulders. He hated the robe. Nothing about it fit right, and he felt like he was constantly fixing one part or another of it. But he had to wear it, as it was much more elegant than the robes he normally wore. Besides, it made him fit in better at the table. The crowded, noisy table. Too crowded for Altair. Everyone in attendance was of extremely high pedigree. The Dukes and Duchesses from many different countries were chattering lightly with each other, ignoring how full the room was, while the servants and hand maidens brought tray after tray of delectable desserts for the royalty to choose from. Because he was seated next to his master, Al Mualim, Altair was also offered just as many of the dessert trays, if not more. Each one was turned away with a lazy wave of his hand. This was no time for eating. Where was that girl? He saw her moments ago, and only for a split second, but she had peaked his interest, and he wanted to see her again.

"Rahul," Al Mualim leaned towards Altair, getting his attention with the fake name.

"Yes?"

"You should snap out of whatever day dream you are having, and focus on the task at hand," The old man tapped his fork against Altair's sleeve. The fork was dirty, food crumbs sticking to the cloth all too easily. Altair sighed heavily and leaned away from his slightly drunk master.

Altair's task was to find the illegitimate son of the Duke of France. His face was unknown, his age - also unknown. The only thing Altair had to go off of was that he was posing as a servant to a different royal couple, and that he was planning to kill them. The only death that was to be allowed at this dinner was his own. For this feast was one of alliances.

The Duke of France had successfully petitioned a cease fire between the Templars and the Assassins. To celebrate, he invited his noble friends and, of course, the men in charge of either side in the war. The guards at the event were neutral, as were all the people attending. It was the start of a new era – an era of peace. Such a shame that it was the Duke's own son who planned to sabotage it all.

A shadowy figure moved across the other end of the room, catching Altair's attention. He excused himself, gathering the flowing robe around him and calmly strode across the room. There was a curtain separating this half of the room from the dining area, and was almost completely covered in shadow. He eased his shoulders and relaxed his back – the darkness comforted him. He stepped lightly around a large column and into an open door, closing it quietly behind him. There was a hooded figure sitting at a small desk in the far corner of the room. Only a candle lit the area immediately around them, and Altair could see the figure writing on parchment. He snuck around slowly, and nestled himself into the dark corner closest to the figure. Leaning against the wall, he pulled his hood up and crossed his arms. The hood that the writer was wearing covered most of their face. Only the mouth was exposed. The plump, pink, soft lips parted slightly, and a tongue flicked out, licking the bottom lip as the writer paused in thought, then continued with their work. It's a woman? Maybe she'll know about the fake servant.

"What are you writing?" The woman jumped up and instantly pulled out a knife from seemingly nowhere. Her stance was strong, but her breathing and voice were unsure.

"W-who are you? Come out of the shadows, trespasser," She pulled down her hood to see the figure better.

Altair's breathe hitched in his throat. It was her, the woman from before, of whom he had only been able to catch a glimpse of. She was even more beautiful up close, her crystal blue eyes piercing through his own, like the cold of a winter storm. Her features were soft, yet sharp, making her look wise, but still young. Dark black hair curled freely around her head and down to her chest, rimming her face, making her skin glow. Altair took a step, lifting a hand in front of him.

"Not a trespasser; I'm actually an invited guest to this…party." The woman lowered the knife slightly, still keeping a firm glare on his face.

"Let me see all of your face, hiding behind a mask is untrustworthy."

"I think I'll leave it up for now. So what were you writing?"

The woman straightened her back and put the knife on the table. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she sighed.

"It is none of your concern, assassin. Simply a letter to family back home. Do tell me what you are doing, sneaking around in the shadows while a dinner of peace is being held?" She had picked up the writing quill and was prodding her cheek lightly with the feather, waiting for an explanation.

"My role here is more of 'protector' than honored guest." He took another step forward, only a foot away from her, and plucked the quill from her fingers. "What is your name?"

The woman's eyes turned their blue gaze to Altair's lips as he finished his question. She could see the smallest hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. At the other corner, a scar from a deep cut long ago. Her feet moved her forward just enough to see the rest of his face in the dim light. She moved her eyes up past his stubble, past his sharp nose, and let them rest on his. She studied the gold green flecks among the light and dark brown of his irises. The color was welcoming, a deep contrast to his rugged features.

"You may call me Aelis," She whispered, as if telling Altair a secret only meant for him. "and you, assassin?"

"Rahul," Altair muttered back just as quietly. Aelis raised an eyebrow in slight skepticism – He didn't look like a 'Rahul'. Before she could say anything about it, Altair spoke again.

"Do you know of a man here, a servant, that doesn't belong?" He questioned as he placed the quill gently back into her palm. Aelis pursed her lips together and twirled the quill around her fingers in thought. All of the servants were accounted for. Was this servant the center of a murder plot? Most likely. Peace never lasts forever, and this dinner seems forced anyway.

She leaned against the table, placing the quill back by the parchment, "I can't think of anyone suspicious at the moment. I'm sure if you watched the servants closely enough, you could find the odd one out," she smiled at Altair, "but you don't have time for that, do you? Why else would you be asking a stranger for help?"

"I'm not asking for help, I simply wanted insight, if you could offer any." Altair scowled as he turned his attention to the door.

"You know, assassin…I could help you." Aelis had found the quill again, and was tracing small circles on Altair's chest with the feather. He suppressed a shiver.

"Oh? And how would you be able to help?" He breathed deeply as he stepped ever closer to the angel before him, closing the gap between the two. She took a step back, into the table, causing her to sit lightly and just barely straddle Altair's right leg.

She leaned forward, held her lips just in front of his and spoke with a velvety voice, "I could help you, for a price."