"Why won't you eat the food that's good for you?" A fork with some sort of vegetable on it – being held by a stingy old lady in rags, head to toe, veil and all – was pointed at her son's plate, the food spraying off just the slightest, enough to reinforce his refusal to even touch the utensil used to eat the shit that sat in front of him. His face twisted awkwardly as he tried to comprehend what it was she was trying to make him devour. It had, according to the lady, all the healthy foods that he required to be 'healed,' or so the doctor said. That in of itself was also another no-brainer in the "I am not eating that crap" factor – a doctor prescribed food that looked like it might come to life and shank him with the knife that was waiting patiently to be lifted and plunged into a delicacy.
"Ya Miria, leave 'im alone." A not-so well-to-do man spoke out to his wife – the mother – who was apparently named Miria. The chubby man smiled down at their son, elated to actually see him for once. He'd always been off with some new friends in some sort of weird clan he joined nowadays, and barely saw the dysfunctional family of three.
"But he needs to eat what the doctorsai-" She was cut short by her rather impatient spouse.
"Oh and now we take advice from random men on the street who claim to be doctors? Forget him, he knew nothing of which he spoke, I can bet. So what if our son's into the whole 'Assassinate everyone' thing? Don't all at one time or another?" He laughed heartily. Something about the way he spoke screamed 'Hi I'm Arabic' in contrast to the wife's English accent.
"I never was!"
"You're a girl."
"He's a kid!"
"I was a kid when I was into it!" The husband pushed his chair back, creaking against the floor hard enough to make the son's screwed face cringe further, lifting his hands part-way to his ears as if that would reflect the sound. Wiping his face of any left-overs then setting the napkin on the plate, the husband took a few steps away from the table to kiss his wife atop her head. As if to scare him of, she shook her head. "Besides,"
"I think I might assassinate you." She tried to lower her voice as much as possible. The man picked up on what she said, albeit not much, hearing it faintly.
"What was that?"
"Besides what?" She amended.
"Besides," The stairs leading to the attic had nothing in the way of them – perfect escapes plan in case his wife went berserk. "It is probably just a pha-" Though he expected the mother to flip her shit twice over, the son stood, kicking his seat away and smacking the plate off the table. It shattered against a wall, food and glass scattering across the wooden floor. Both parents fell silent, eyes on the son menacingly, tinged with only a bit of fear. Fear turned into guilt on the mother's behalf, maternal instincts kicking in as she saw a few tears roll down his cheeks.
"Look, Ibrahim, you made him cry!" She left out 'Ya.'
"Stay your tongue, Miria." The child snapped quietly, moving not else.
"Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad," Her tone was sharp. "If you'll continue to speak to your mother that way, you can just go to your room for the night! You ought to, any ways, it's late."
"I said," it was hard to sound intimidating when you'd just cried, voice now shaky. Not to mentioned rather shrill, what with being but the tiny age of four years. "Stay your tongue." Out of pure the, the woman made for her room in a sob, wailing about her abnormal child.
"Father-"
"Not going to call me by my first name, then?" Ibrahim had a knack for interrupting, so it seemed.
"I was getting to it."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Father, or should I say Ibrahim," the words came out sounding a lot cockier than he first intended. "I can no longer live under this house, under your name and call myself your or that dreaded woman who was lucky enough to receive the rather hideous name of Miria, son and its rules." Being the son of a Muslim man and Christian woman, the poor child was covered top to bottom in hot, cotton clothes, even during summer. It felt like shedding into a new life to take all off save for the thin silk pants with knee-high white socks that matched in colour – white.
His father snorted, turning his brow up a notch and taking a step back to properly look at the idiot his son had become. "Really? And why is that?" He had no interest in continuing the conversation but Altaïr seemed locked into it.
"Call me by my surname."
"And mine."
"As you wish, last it only a couple years longer at most." Altaïr smirked, pleased with his own comeback. It was awful clever for only having come up with it on the spot.
The little joke was less than amusing to his father, though. "So why can't you 'live under this house and its rules,'" he made quotations with his fingers, satisfied with the angered look on Altaïr's face. "ibn-La'Ahad?" A cackle emitted from his throat, but Altaïr knew just what to say.
"You just explained."
"Huh?"
"I am an ibn-La'Ahad, the son of no one. I'll not be marked by the fools I come from or the false idols they follow. Sadly, you haven't admitted to yourself that God is but a myth, told for who knows how long, and Miria has yet to admit the Jesus was a normal man, if at all real. So I am neither a son of you, Miria, Jesus, God, nor whoever else would love for me to be their own."
"Gimme a break, Altaïr. How many times have we gone through this? Like I have repeated to you so many times in the past, you're only mimicking what that man – what was his name, Al Mualim? Right. You're only mimicking what he forced into your brain. Craziness. He's the only one who's done any lying, son, I assure of it."
"I am not your son."
"Or for Christ's sake, you still wet your bed!" He threw his arms in the air. "And you think that you started walking on your own? You had to have parents to learn how to walk, and you need parents to learn to control your goddamn bladder!"
"I may be young and...I may have done childish things in the past, but I'll have you know I'm no normal kid."
"I got thatmuch!"
"I am far more intelligent than even the average give double my age!" Altaïr's fists were at his sides, clenched, speaking through bared teeth as well. He had to force himself to relax, though, fearing the conversation would only plummet on his half for his next statement which he felt so inclined to get across. "And in any case, I haven't wet myself for two weeks."
"Two week!"
Dammit.
"Yes, two weeks!"
"Look, brat, I haven't pissed myself since I got so drunk I couldn't feel my-"
"Slang for being in a state of intoxication? What kind of Muslim are you?"
"Are you trying to provoke me?"
"Have you just caught on, Ibrahim?" The smirk tugged at his lips again.
"Get out of my house, and don't come back."
"With pleasure."
"Pay attention to the way you move your feet! Do not being to stumble around aimlessly after one hit, it will do you no good! Predict the next movement, always; don't just observe where their sword is! Watch they body, feet, eyes, arms, legs, everything! You'd better have this all down by the time you're righting two or more people at once and grow eyes in the back of that thick fucking skull of yours! Dammit, Altaïr, I now you can do so much better than the shit you're giving me today! Keep your head up or it'll get nicked, like this!" The trainer swiftly knocked Altaïr's sword out of his hand, given the upper hand at Altaïr's current state of being – overwhelmed and unmotivated. As the sword went propelling across the field, the student and crowd could only watch in amazement, "Ooh"s being passed throughout as it landed in the ground, blade down, tilted to perfection.
As Altaïr's body swung back around, more prepared, the trainer lifted his blade in one motion, flicking his wrist down quick enough to nearly cut Altaïr well in the chest or leg. Being the amazing little bastard he was, Altaïr bent backwards, flipping once before landing on the tips of his feet, rocking to his soles in the defense stance. He body moved up...then down...up...then down in a slow rhythm as he regained his breath, the two contenders now staring each other down. Altaïr enjoyed fighting this particular one, he always was insulting while instructing, both aggravating Altaïr to the point of needing blind revenge while reminding him he had to refrain himself – that this is what being an Assassin was all about, patience and control. The trainer wasn't treating him like a child who'd first heard of the Creed – like so many others at his age – but like the rest of the novices. "He wouldn't be a novice if he wasn't ready," the man explained every time someone questioned why he was 'so tough' on a child.
The sun baked every inch of Altaïr's exposed skin, and he was sweating madly by the time he'd gotten to the ring. Now he was reduced to clothes very alike the ones he wore when he'd left his previous life and joined the Creed, still a hot mess. Kids and teens of all ages and ranks stood around the training ring, silence smoking the air for about five seconds before wild clapping – hooting and hollering, but not for long. They died out quickly as, one by one; they all heard the trainer laughing, sword pointed at Altaïr loosely.
"What?" The young novice prodded at the laughter, raising a brow in confusion. What was so damn hilarious? Then someone tickled at his lips, and he licked them, suddenly remembering they were there.
Ah, that's what would be funny.
The taste of metal slid onto his tongue as he cleared up the mess the trainer had made. A finger lightly rose to his lips, and pressed softly. He flinched at his own touch, hissing in pain that throbbed at the left – or rather, his right – corner of his lip. Busted. The trainer busted his lip open. He let the defense stand go, realizing it was over. He'd lost.
Despite, one pair of hands continued the previous clapping, another joining in, then another, then two more, then five, then ten. Soon, everyone was clapping again.
"What?" He looked around in search of the source for clapping, when Al Mualim emerged from the crown, a visible path mad for him by the separation of watchers.
"Very impressive, as always, Altaïr."
He loved it when his master said his name.
"Wh- I mean, thank you, but I-"
"No no, don't thank me yet. I fear I might become your enemy..."His eyes darkened, but Altaïr's widened.
"I'm going to spar with you?"
"Heavens no! Uh, not yet! You will need to come with me back to my office, though. And besides, it's getting late. THE REST OF YOU!" He held up a hand and waited patiently for the crowd's murmuring to die off. "Dismissed."
No sooner than he spat the words out were kids trucking out of the training grounds, whooping with their friend. After what seemed like a good 30 seconds, only two boys remained, one obvious taller than the other. As they approached, their figures became clearer, revealing them to be the two known as the Al-Sayf brothers, and Altaïr's only real friends. Kadar, the littler of the two, broke free from his protective brother's grasp, face pretty much coming in contact with the back of Altaïr's head roughly, causing one to grunt and the other to yelp. Who did what was unclear, but they were both now on the floor – like morons. Malik, the older brother who looked like he had to be at least ten years older, yanked his small brother up from the collar of his shirt, frowning in disapproval.
"Master, Master!" Kadar started, but Malik slapped a hand on his mouth. ("Stay your tongue, you aren't even a novice." "I'm old enough." "You shouldn't even be preparing until you're 10." "Not fair!")
Malik stopped the rather redundant fight with the 4-year-old, turning his attention to Al Mualim who now had a raise brow. "Master, is Altaïr going to be alright?" he looked at his friend. "We're worried about him." For some reason far beyond the old man, Malik was smiling sheepishly.
"Mmhmm! Mm mmm hmm hummm mmm mmph-!" Altaïr slammed his hand over Malik's, giving the same guilty look.
"...I don't know, Malik. You will have to wait and ask him when he returns." He motioned for the novices to lower their hands, both doing so immediately.
"Okay! Thanks Mister Sir Man!" Kadar grabbed Malik's wrist, leading him out in a sprint. Malik tried to call back, but it went unheard, Al Mualim his resting his head in his hands, sighing.
"Visit us tonight!" Kadar's voice rang.
When you're at a loss as to how to inform someone of heart-breaking news, you usually sit in silence. Al Mualim was perched behind his desk in the tall wooden chair of his, arms set lightly upon the table's surface with crossed fingers. He was staring down as if his thoughts were scribbled on the table like a script, wishing they were so he knew what to say. He was only in his mid thirties and still had a lot to learn of life, telling someone such terrible news being one of them.
"Altaïr," He finally allowed the words to slip from his mouth, regretting it almost instantaneously as the young novice's head snapped up from the slumber he was in after waiting so long. "As you know, you are to become an Assassin one day."
"Yes, master."
"And that can only lead to you and you family being tracked down by our enemy, you understand?"
"Of course, master. Might I ask where this is go-"
"I...I...Altaïr..." The pigeons' chirping added no comfort to the older man's woes when he watched them. How do you break this to a 6-year-old...? "Altaïr, we've received news saying your parents were murdered. After further investigation, we're sorry to say it's true." Predictions of the little boy screaming "WHY?" and crying and quitting the Order flooded Al Mualim as he waited, hearing only silence.
A shrug followed the crushing report. "Oops. Am I dismissed?"
"You're not...sad?"
"My last name is ibn-La'Ahad. Was I supposed to be sad?"
"..."
"Good night, master." Altaïr's voice had a happy laugh to it, and he turned to the left, hopping out of the chair and onto the floor, feet silently scuffling along as he retreated to his own room.
"Altaïr, if you could, send Malik back here, please?" As though a brick wall suddenly appeared before him, Altaïr skidded to a halt, eyes widened with fear as he turned his body round to face his master.
"Did his parents get murdered too?" His voice was low and stiff.
"No!" Al Mualim yelped, almost bothered by the fact that Altaïr cared more for people he didn't know than his own parents. "Just get him over here quickly!" As the man turned around, Altaïr let out a sigh of relief he didn't know he had, relaxing his muscles.
"Oh, thank God…Goodnight…"
"Goodnight."
"MURDERED?"
A nod.
"Oh! Poor you, Ya Alty! Aw, how I mourn for your sad, sad loss!" Kadar started weeping loudly, and his older brother groaned, noticing the noise in his deep sleep. Being the loving little boy he was, this was just a tragedy with a capital T. Not that it wouldn't be for most people, loving or not, but Kadar needed his people to thrive at all times. He was always clinging to someone's robes; he was never alone. He didn't quite understand that Altaïr was the opposite – when Altaïr got to be alone or take on people single-handedly, was he right. He shoved the other's overwhelming affection off.
"Stop that!" He whined, flashing Kadar as grin like gold to reassure him it was in good heart. Kadar cocked his head to the side.
"What? But your parents-"
"So? I didn't…know them that well. Our Master, Al Mualim, is more like a parental figure than those two oafs put together." He crawled away, trying to find Malik in the poor lighting that seeped in from the open windows. He tripped over a large, snoring thing as Kadar questioned himself as to why someone only a couple years older than he himself was wouldn't be bawling at such a life-spinning thing.
"Ya Malik!" Altaïr nudged the sleeping figure. "Es-hy, Ya Malik!"
"Mmm…" Toss, turn, shift, adjust, but no waking up."
"Ya Malik!"
"Mmm…?"
"Hmmph. Kadar, how do I wake the beast?" Giggling, Kadar pointed to 'The Beast's' face with the hand that wasn't being used to cover his mouth to stifle laughter.
"…Plug his nose?"
"Nooo!" He snorted, and got closer to pinpoint Malik's lips better. "He's like the one girl who can only awaken from her 100 year slumber with true love's kiss!" He gave a corny sigh.
"…M-Malik is in love with me?" He sounded like a prepubescent girl, dropped the 'Ya,' and looked as uncomfortable as one getting the talk of periods.
"Nooo! Ew! Hahaha, no, Ya Altaïr! But you have to kiss him to wake him."
"Why? That's disgusting!"
"Exactly." There was too much deviousness in his voice. Altaïr's brow shot up.
"Exactly what? You do it. You're brothers…"
"That's why I can't, eww-er!" Kadar pretended to gag.
"Ya Kadarrr!"
"Go on!"
"…don't tell any one."
"You're asking an Al-Sayf to be quiet?"
"Ya Kadar!"
"Fine, fine. Go on!" He turned around to give Altaïr privacy, giggling and snorting and chortling.
Altaïr put a leg over Malik's body so that he was now straddling him in the air, one hand resting on the ground on either side of Malik's head. For a 14-year-old boy, he was awful cute when he slept, and the way his mouth hung open was almost…
No no no eww. He was doing this so the teen could report to Al Mualim as requested, not to get thoughts of adultery with a man he almost considered his brother. So quickly it seemed unreal, Altaïr leaned forward, shuddering at the fact that he was actually doing this, and pressed his lips gently against Malik's. Kadar snickered and said something about it not being felt, so Altaïr pushed down harder, puckering his lips to be fuller. The kiss itself lasted for about 7.43 seconds longer than Altaïr would've appreciated. Malik had wrapped his arms around Altaïr's waste sleepily, returning the kiss even sloppier. It sent a weird chill down the young novice's spine, making him gasp and shudder unwelcomingly at the adrenaline it gave him. And what was Malik doing with fruits in his pants at night? Or at all?
"Ngh! MALIK! MALIK, STOP THAT!" Finally reaching his limit, Altaïr shoved his hands in the other's face, trying to pry himself free from the loose grasp that suddenly tightened when the teen was startled to consciousness.
"Ya Shar-? Altaïr? WHAT ARE YOU- IN MY ARM- BY MY FA- AAAAH…?" The boys nearly used each other as a jumpstart to leap across the room to opposite sides, eyes widened, faces, necks, and ears during crimson, breathing heavily in the increasing embarrassment. Kadar was, on the other hand, laughing so hard his eyes were tearing up and his face was turning different colours.
"Ya Altaïr!" He gasped, laughing to hard to breathe. "Altaïr you fell…you fell for it! Alhamdulillah, I was so sure you two were…were going to have a stroke but I think…I think I am- PFFFT, AHAHA!" He was sniggering and sniffling and cackling, and Altair was just turning into a walking tomato. Malik tried getting that pear out of his nightgown.
"Kadar!" Malik growled, finally getting rid of the orange. Weird, Altaïr didn't recall seeing any fall onto the ground. "What is the meaning of that? Kadar? KADAR!" The more they talked or yelled or any thing, for that matter, the more intensely Kadar had to work to breathe. He was keeled over in the fetal position with his face beet-red, holding his stomach and looking in pain. The tears started becoming more frequent and more a moment Altaïr was positive that the young boy was just crying. "Any ways, Altaïr, wha-?"
"Go to Al Mualim." He was looking at the ground before he got up and swung the door open to march back to his house soundlessly, being to bashful any more. Kadar calmed down, sighing quite a bit only to rev up again at a needle-sharp glare from Malik.
"Aww, come off it, Ya Malik!" Kadar yelled. "It was just a joke!" Worst joke ever.
"I will kill you," He grumbled before curling back into bed as well.
A/N: hrrrnnnghhhhh. This took a long time... and I don't like the way formats it. Go to dA for a better view and shiz.
Uh Enjoy, more to come EVENTUALLY when I'm not lazy
