Altair watched the smithy's blood contaminate the water in detached fascination, a deeper red concentrating closer to the body. He had guessed Tamir would be the kind of man to turn brutally violent when he did not get his way; the man dealt in such an outlook on a much larger scale, after all. Arms dealers were certainly not a peace loving people.
It was shockingly easy, to approach him in a crowded marketplace, focused as he was. The blade sank into his back, and he was dying.
"Why me, when so many others do the same?"
"You think yourself different, then?"
"Oh, but I am."
A feather dipped in blood, and it was over.
He lays low in the Bureau after, biding time until the bells stop ringing and the guards stop searching. The assassin was caught, they whisper, but escaped. Altair wonders if they'd bothered to use a scapegoat, or if it were an entirely hollow lie to appease the populace. Let them think the guards were more competent than they are.
He closes his eyes and sinks into the pillows in a rare state of reprieve. The Rafiq is silently asleep in the next room. All is dark save for the moon, and a shadow falls over Altair when that light is temporarily blotted out as something large flits over the grate in the roof. His eyes are open and alert in an instant, but he's missed it. The assassin lies still for a long moment, listening. Nothing. He shakes off his nerves and relaxes again, very slowly. It was just a bird, perhaps.
Except, when he is leaving for Masyaf in the morning, he is almost certain someone is following him through the city. The uneasy feeling of being watched passes once he is clear of the gates, however.
In Acre, he moves to save a citizen from a couple of heavy handed guards looking to abuse their power, but finds there is no need. The woman swings an elbow up into the face of the guard behind her, breaking his nose. As blood sprays into the air she twists her body and kicks the other in the stomach, sending him sprawling. She does not go in for the kill; instead she runs. They give chase and so does he, wishing to ensure she gets away. Yet she is faster than all of them, and Altair only glimpses a flash of gray robes ducking left into a side street before the guards give up.
He patrols the streets nonetheless, searching to help those who perhaps could not handle themselves so well. He gains the allegiance of monks, scholars and vigilantes for his efforts. They turn out to be exceptionally useful in fleeing from those that guarded Garnier De Naplouse. The bloody feather is folded away in his robes, and he is careful to keep it safe as he sprints after the woman shrouded in gray. She is too fast for him to catch without utilizing some dirtier tactics; a throwing knife lodges itself into a weak wooden beam on a market stall and the whole thing collapses onto her.
The woman pushes the debris off her and tries to get up, but he is on her now, pinning her back down. She near screams in pain and frustration, the same way she had when his blade had sunk into the neck of the good Doctor.
"Who are you? Why did you try to stop me?!" he demands of her, struggling to keep hold of her small wrists.
"He did not have to die!" she yells in his face defiantly, "He was helping people!"
Her conviction throws further doubt onto the necessity of his actions. There were indeed those who would swear Garnier De Naplouse had saved them. Perhaps this woman was one of them.
"He tortured people." Altair argues, "Used them for cruel experiments."
Most of the fight drains out of her at those words, "I know. But he was the best chance we had."
They need to move. Guards would continue to scour the city looking for them both well into the night, and as of yet the bells had not stopped tolling.
"Get up." He orders, dragging the woman onto her feet along with him when she does not immediately comply. A fine mess she'd got him into. He should leave her to the guard's mercy, but he needed to question her, and it would be wrong to allow her to take the blame for his actions.
The Assassin is forced to bring her to the Bureau. The Rafiq is not pleased, but understood the need for it. The woman does not. She spits and curses at him when he tries to come near her, even going so far as to knock an offered cup of water out of his hand. His patience wears thin.
"If you wish to stay alive, you will do as I say." He tells her. What he does not say is that it is already too late for her. She knows of him, and of the Bureau; to let her live would be to compromise the Brotherhood.
"Tell me everything."
She does, slowly. He is glad there is no need to resort to violence. Her name is Israh, she worked for Garnier De Naplouse as a healer, because she was trying to get closer to him.
"Why?"
The woman looks at him as though he is a naive child, "To learn all his secrets, of course."
"The Piece of Eden." Altair guessed. He'd mentioned it before he died.
She nodded, "Amongst other things."
"How do you know of it?"
At this she goes quiet, and becomes very still in her seat. He kneels in order to look into her eyes. They are dark and captivating, and he knows they hold a great many secrets indeed.
"Do not make me ask again." He murmurs dangerously.
"I know Al Mualim."
The assassin recoils at that, surprised. He swears he hears the Rafiq drop something in the next room.
"How?" he demands.
But she is closed off now, and he can tell she will say no more. He would not raise a hand to her, but it is best to let her believe he may. Altair makes a show of displaying his impatience, and coils his hands into fists. She is unfazed, and the look she levels him with is unimpressed. He does not have to fake a sigh.
He will try again tomorrow. For now, he dips another cup into the water basin, and offers it to her. This time she takes it.
It is in the dead of night she makes her escape. Altair jumps up to grab her as she hoists herself through the small opening she'd made in the grate; he realizes he has underestimated her strength, and her speed. She is too quick to shut the grate onto his hand and sprint away while he curses her name in pain. With that head start he will never catch her.
He cannot afford mistakes if he is to earn back his master rank, but she may be too important to keep quiet about. He will tell Al Mualim of this incident, and hope he will not be punished further.
He next glimpsed her balancing on the balustrade of a nobleman's balcony.
Kill her.
Those were the orders he'd been given, and he intended to follow them. She was a threat to them all; she could compromise the Brotherhood.
She was...interfering with his target.
Altair watched from afar as she dropped from the balcony and entered Talal's base. He had no choice but to follow.
Yet she was nowhere to be seen when he confronted Talal, and he distantly wondered if she had been in on the ambush. As he pursues the slaver through Jerusalem's streets however, she appears seemingly out of nowhere; Israh is slender and light, and easily latches onto Talal's torso, throwing him off balance. Her arm swoops down and he is bleeding from the throat.
Altair takes another second to swipe the feather across his neck, and then they are both running. He tries to reach for her to lead her towards the Bureau, but she shrugs off his arm and overtakes him easily. They are almost there when she opts to run up a wall, latching onto a window frame and begins to climb away from him. He refuses to let her leave his sight, so he follows her route. She ends up leading the way, but they get to the Bureau faster by rooftop.
Almost as soon as they are safely inside, he seizes her wrist and tugs her towards him. Israh makes a small noise of protest that is almost overshadowed by the delicate shink of the bloody hidden blade as Altair triggers the mechanism.
She is a fellow Assassin. He lets go of her and stares accusingly. Huffing, she rubs her wrist gently, and he notes that no fingers are missing.
"You are an assassin."
"Evidently."
He is not impressed by her wit, and makes a grab for her again. She slips through his fingers like water, and retreats into the next room, where Malik is waiting to yell at him. Israh seems to find the ensuing argument amusing, and the attention is successfully diverted from her.
But when she tries to leave, he stops her.
"You will come with me to Masyaf. Al Mualim will decide what will become of you."
She scoffs, but relents.
He is only lightly dozing when he hears her moving in the night. Immediately he sits up, believing she is making another escape attempt, but no, she is crawling towards him. He glares at her until he realizes what she wants; when she opens her robe, when she takes his hands and places them on her body. It would not be wise. He knows this. Yet it is a weakness of his, wanting what he cannot have.
They are as quiet as they can be. But he knows the sound of her laboured breath in his ear will be imprinted on his mind for the rest of his days.
In the morning, she is strangely pliant. She does not stray from his side as he gathers supplies for the journey home. They barely speak. Only when they are almost past the city gates does she start screaming.
"Please help! Assassin! Infidel! Help me!"
In an instant the crowds have turned on him, and the guards at the gates are rushing towards her cries, swords drawn. Altair barely glimpses her smile before he must run, if he has any hope of leaving the city at all. He mounts a horse and steals away, forced to leave her behind.
He decides he might well kill her, should he ever see her again.
Al Mualim does not know about the second encounter, for Altair did not opt to tell him. He thinks there is no chance at all the master will not hear about the third.
It is chaos.
"No!" she is crying, "I told you not to trust them, I told you!"
The woman in her arms cannot respond; she is choking and the poison will soon kill her. There is nothing they can do. She cannot heal this. Israh struggles against him when he tries to pull her away.
One of Abu'l Nuqoud's lackeys manage to find him in the midst of people running every which way, only, he raises his sword to strike Israh, not him. For a split second Altair considers letting it happen, but he is not so depraved. His sword swings up to meet the blow and they clash loudly. He covers her until the woman passes away, and he understands Israh did not want her to die alone.
He can pull her away now, and they run through the streets. She is much slower than she is usually, and he must keep hold of her hand to keep her moving.
Once they are in the Bureau, she collapses. She is crying no longer, but he recognizes that haunted look.
"Who was she to you?" he asks, as he wraps her in blankets. The night is cold, and her bloodstained dress is flimsy and thin.
"My sister." She whispers.
He is not good at this. He does not know what to say.
It is apparent that all she requires is contact, for her arms coil around him firmly, and she does not let go. This much, he can give. So he holds her.
He stays in Damascus for a short while, wrapping up tasks he had not completed before the assassination. If she is not at the Bureau, he can find her in the market place. She buys cheap stock and sells it on for higher prices to turn a profit. It takes an eye for a bargain, and the confidence to gamble. She possesses too much of both. They spend days together, helping each other. Israh will whisper in his ear all the rumours she has heard from the merchants. She will distract guards for him. In return, he passes on intel he gains from informers. Invoices worth pick pocketing. They have reached an understanding.
Most nights, she will come to him, but on occasion he goes to her. They should probably stop. The saltiness of her skin contrasts with the sweetness on her tongue. He forgets why tasting her could ever be a bad idea. Yes, they have reached an understanding.
Until one night, he breaks it, "How do you know Al Mualim? Did he train you?"
He has so many questions. So many he is not allowed to ask. She tries to roll away but he pulls her back, against his chest, and kisses her shoulder once in apology.
She sighs, dropping her head back onto the pillows. "I cannot answer those questions. I will try to answer others."
Israh tells him what she knows of Templars. They used the Piece of Eden to grow strong. The progress they have made, for better or ill, is down to that artefact; the artefact currently in his master's possession.
"I am trying to find it." She confides.
Altair remains silent for a moment. He only half fakes getting distracted from the conversation by the smooth column of her neck and shoulder. His lips map a slow path, and she sighs.
"Why?" he murmurs, for he cannot leave it alone. It is in his nature to question.
Israh turns in his grip to look at him and she is grinning, "Why not?"
He smoothes his hand down her side, "So you are a treasure hunter, then? How opportunistic of you."
"It is not just for me." She argues, and reaches up a hand to gently drag her nails over his scalp. She likes it best when he has his hood down; when they have time to take off their robes.
"Oh?" he questions.
The woman makes a noise of affirmation and nods, "It is for future generations."
Altair is not sure what she means, but he cannot ask her to clarify because his lips are busy. She does not stop kissing him until he has thoroughly forgotten what they were talking about.
"Templars." He gasps once his mind has cleared some, but he is out of breath, and her movements beneath him are not helping him focus, "You know much of them."
"Hm?"
"You are not affiliated with either Order. Not Assassins, not Templars. Yet you are trained as one but mingle with the other."
Israh does not like this line of inquiry. It goes against their understanding.
She has questions of her own. "Who is Adha?"
Altair goes rigid, and suddenly the very air feels oppressive.
"How do you know that name?" the question is soft, but his tone is hard. His hand on her jaw does not feel safe anymore.
"I bullied it out of an informer." She responds flippantly, "Is it important?"
He is furious.
The Assassin refuses to see her again. He leaves for Masyaf the next day.
As it happens, avoiding her is not so easy. She hounds his thoughts, his dreams, and possibly his steps. He does not think she follows him to Masyaf, but when he is in Acre again, she makes her presence known.
A missive left for him on William de Montferrat's recent movements. A letter pick pocketed from a well connected source, left for him to find at a viewpoint. A few guards that would otherwise have harassed him on rooftops, found already dead. He thinks perhaps she is trying to apologize, in her own way.
Even with the added information, assassinating William de Montferrat is not easy. Or rather, escaping after the fact is the difficult part. There are so many guards, and the main gates to the Keep are closed. Altair is surrounded by no less than eight of them when she appears, springing out of the shadows with a grace as natural as breathing. Israh takes down two before the guards realize they have another assassin to contend with, but she does not intend to stick around to fight. Grabbing his wrist, she bolts, and he follows without hesitation. She leads him up ladders and across rooftops to the castles outer walls, and shows him where they can drop down safely. They are still being pursued, and in their haste they are not as careful with their bodies as they should be. His joints are screaming in pain, but they make it to the Bureau.
As she leans against the wall and catches her breath, he presents the bloody feather to the Rafiq, who bids him return to Al Mualim. Israh is turning to leave when he enters the room again, and catches her around the waist. They are both bruised and bloody and sore, but once he is inside her the pain melts away. He does not care if the Rafiq hears them this time. Or the next.
She insists they don't impose too much on his hospitality however, so they leave in favour of lodgings in the rich district. She tells him she sleeps here whenever the residents are not home. He cannot say he approves, but it is an easy thing to forget in the wake of her hot mouth and clever hands. In periods of rest he runs his fingers through her hair; he knows she enjoys it, unlikely as she is to admit it. When she sleeps he curls around her, and thinks of how glad he is to have a companion, a friend such as she. He has been lonely for a long time.
Yet she is not without her secrets. In the hour before sunrise they come for her, though they are not particularly well trained, because she is readily up with a knife in her hand at the first unexpected noise. He follows her lead, and waits silently for the last one to sneak through the window before slitting his throat. Israh dispatches the other two; one stabbed in the back and the other unable to dodge a knife thrown towards his face. Altair simply stares at her, awaiting an explanation.
He does not get one until she is finished 'hiding' the bodies, by which she simply throws them out onto the street. Then she turns to him, her countenance serious, "I think they were my friends, once."
That does not bode well for him.
In the morning, they do not rush to part. He must go back to Masyaf, but he takes his time getting ready for travel. He snags the hairbrush from her hand and brushes her hair for her, and she practically melts. He slowly braids it too - though it is not as neatly done as her own skilful work – better to fit her long, dark hair underneath her hood.
She turns to him with a small smile once he is finished. He takes all of her in, standing before him in her gray robes, and takes a leap of faith.
"Come with me?"
Her smile breaks into a grin. She does not refuse him.
The journey to Masyaf seems shorter, with Israh by his side. Altair tells her about the Brotherhood; he wishes for her to join them, and to his pleasure she does not seem adverse to the idea. He will have to convince Al Mualim.
His brothers throw him bewildered or suspicious looks when he strides into the Keep, with Israh following just a step behind. There are no express rules forbidding women from entry, but it is an odd sight to see one outside the gardens. He ignores them all, and begins to lead Israh up the stairs to Al Mualim's study.
She stops suddenly. When he turns to her she is picking at her sleeve. He realizes she is nervous.
"Are you well?" he asks gently, touching her arm. It is in full view of the assassins standing guard in the hall, and he sees them whispering, but he does not care what the others think.
She makes a noise somewhere between affirmation and uncertainty, "Why don't you speak to him first? You have questions to ask, yes? I can wait."
He disagrees, but he does not want to push her. So he meets Al Mualim without her, for now. She hears raised voices.
"I have given you a chance to restore your lost honour!"
"Not lost, taken." Altair refutes angrily, "By you, and then you sent me to fetch it again like some damn dog! You said the answer to my question would arise when I no longer needed to ask it, so I will not ask. I demand you tell me what binds these men!"
She knew before the word was spoken.
"Templars."
Israh begins to ascend the stairs gradually as they continue to talk. She feels strangely calm now, but is glad for it.
"What about the treasure Malik retrieved from Solomon's Temple? Robert seemed desperate to have it back."
"In time Altair, all will become clear. Just as the role of the Templars has revealed itself to you, so too will the nature of their treasure. For now, take comfort in the fact that it is not in their hands, but ours."
And so it was. Right there, on his desk. She dared not believe it could possibly be so easy.
"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?" Al Mualim is asking, as she rounds the corner with careful steps.
"Truth be told Master, I didn't."
"But you would have," she asserts, addressing Al Mualim directly, "if there were another you could trust to do your dirty work."
"Israh." Altair chides, but there is no heat behind it in his surprise.
"Ah, so this is the cause of your misdirected thoughts." The Master shakes his head, "You should know better than to allow a woman to come between you and your brothers, Altair."
"She is one of us." He argues firmly.
"No."
The answer comes from Al Mualim and Israh both, before she springs at him.
The execution is perfect, and her hidden blade is released at exactly the right moment. But the old man is spry, and experienced, and thus predicted her moves exactly. He counters by grabbing her arm and leaning into her momentum, carrying her almost overhead and throwing her through the large window; it shatters but the sound does not drown out her scream. Yet she manages to grab the ledge and swings herself back up, making for another attempt. Altair acts on instinct. He runs and tackles her, sending them both through the window frame, but he twists their bodies midair to take the brunt of the fall. They land in broken glass.
He is severely winded, but otherwise miraculously unhurt. Israh's back is a latticework of cuts. She is obviously dazed when she looks at him.
"Kill her!"
The order is loud and clear, and all at once a keep full of assassins are out to spill her blood.
Except for him. It does not occur to him to hurt her, even now.
She smiles.
Then there is a loud noise, and he is surrounded by smoke. It obscures his vision and enters his mouth and nose; he coughs while he feels her weight lift from his body. There are more explosions, and panicked shouting.
When the smoke finally lifts from the courtyard, she is long gone.
Al Mualim is sympathetic. "She was using you to get to me, my boy."
"I see."
Altair feels his heart harden.
Majd Addin, Jubair Al Hakim and Sibrand all fall to his blade. Once he is finished with the nine, Israh will be his next target; Al Mualim wants him, specifically, to do it. She is a threat to his master, and all the Brotherhood. He will approach her from this perspective, like any other target, and not from the hurt in his heart that festers in resentment. He will not kill her out of revenge. He is not that kind of man.
He is changed. Less arrogant now. Altair hopes to be wise.
It is less wise to look for her in Acre. The assassin does not go out of his way while gathering information on Sibrand, but he looks for her in all the merchants he encounters, in every healer he sees, in women wearing gray. A part of him wants to find her, to end this. Another part wants her to run, as far away from him as she can get, that he may never find her. He cannot decide what he wants more.
Jerusalem. Robert de Sable was within his grasp. Altair is ready to put an end to the designs the Templars have on the Holy Land. He takes the feather Malik offers him and slips it into his robes.
"I've been a fool."
Malik throws him a look of both agreement and suspicion, "Normally I would not argue, but what is this? What are you talking about?"
"I never said I was sorry. Too damn proud. You lost your arm because of me, lost Kadar. You have every right to be angry."
"I do not accept your apology."
Altair is somewhat hurt, but knows he deserves it, "I understand."
But Malik turns to him, and his expression is open, "No, you don't. I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man that went with me into Solomon's Temple, and so you have nothing to apologize for."
"Malik..." He wants to say more, but is not sure how to put his feelings into words. He is so grateful. He is so sorry. He loves him so.
"We are one." His brother is better at articulating such a sentiment than he, "As we share the glory of our victories, so too should we share the pain of our defeat. In this way, we grow closer. We grow stronger."
"Thank you, brother."
She wants to see them meet for the first time. Only she understands the weight of it; they themselves have no idea. It is probably not healthy for her to watch, but Israh would rather they not kill each other. She wishes to make sure everything plays out as it should. While she is there she can help Altair, from the shadows of course. She has betrayed him, and does not want to know what it's like to feel the fatal kiss of his blade.
Israh takes out a few archers around the funeral gathering and hides their bodies in haystacks. Altair's first instinct will probably be to stand and fight, and the fewer archers around when he is vulnerable, the better.
She is correct in that assumption. Altair retreats only a ways to get out of range, before he draws his sword and settles into a strong fighting stance. Israh peaks out from behind the drapes of a rooftop garden to watch. As expected, Maria fights fiercely and gives the assassin hell. She lands solid hits, and Altair looks to be losing. Israh thinks perhaps she and the female Templar could be good friends, if things were different.
'We shouldn't be here.'
'We? You finally admit we are one?'
'No. We never will be. Even with the Apple.'
'You can't know that. I know more than you do about the Pieces of Eden, and about the future. Hush.'
For once, she listens to herself. But her head still hurts so badly she has to squeeze her eyes shut and just breathe. Israh wishes she had the aid of Garnier de Naplouse. He could quiet the other voice.
'Other?!' She is outraged, 'You are the intruder here, not I!'
"Shut up! Shut up, shut up!"
It takes her only a moment to realize she was screaming out loud, and then comes a wave of shame and upset. She needs the Apple. It will help.
When she looks up again, Altair is pushing Maria away from him, letting her go. Letting her live. He will ride for Arsuf to speak with King Richard, and kill the real Robert de Sable.
But what will she do? She must have the Apple, and she is not strong enough to stand against Al Mualim to get it. When he unleashes its full power, only Altair may stop him. Once Robert de Sable is dead, the Master of the Assassins Order will turn on his own people.
Israh leaves her hiding place in all due haste. If she can get to Masyaf before Al Mualim learns that Robert is dead, she may stand a chance in taking it from him. It is reckless and foolish, but she has to take the chance. It may be her last.
"Ironic isn't it? That I – your greatest enemy – kept you safe from harm. But now you have taken my life, and in the process, ended your own."
Robert de Sable's last words haunt him. Altair wants to believe it is not true, yet he knows it is so; he has suspected for perhaps longer than even he would like to admit. His master has betrayed him. Betrayed them all. He is starting to believe the only person he can truly trust is himself.
He arrives at the gates of Masyaf after running his horse a little too hard. The mare walks off in search of water while he takes in how quiet the city is.
"We walk the path. Al Mualim, guide us."
It is eerie, how hollow their voices are. How blank their stares. So many innocents. Even his brothers' minds have been overthrown. Though he is sorry to do it, he must cut down a few to clear a way to the Keep.
He does not want to fight this many.
But suddenly three drop unexpectedly, and the others scatter. Altair looks up to see Malik, and has never felt more relieved.
"You picked a fine time to arrive." Even though their circumstances are dire, he is happy to see his dearest brother.
"So it seems."
Malik tells him of Robert de Sable's journal he found in the ruins of Solomon's Temple. Al Mualim was working with the Templars all along. They part ways after forming a somewhat cohesive plan.
Admittedly, it is perhaps not the best plan, but it was all they had. He soon realizes that this is a battle he is very unlikely to win.
"I've found proof." Al Mualim is ecstatic.
"Proof of what?" Altair struggles against the binds that hold him, to no avail. The golden glow sticks to his skin amid a strange and immovable pressure.
"That nothing is true, and everything is permitted!"
Fighting the nine men he had previously assassinated shook him a little. They were supposed to be dead. He could only assume, hope, pray, that they were not real. Like a fever dream, or a mirage. Yet they felt solid when his sword ran them through. Was the Apple truly so powerful?
"Do you have any final words?" his former master asks.
"You lied to me! Called Robert's goal foul when you shared it all along!" Altair refused to be cowed, "You won't succeed. Others will find the strength to stand against you."
Al Mualim sighed in exasperation, "And this is why so long as men retain free will, there can be no peace."
"I killed the last man who spoke as such."
"Bold words, boy, but just words."
"Tell me master," he puts a mocking lilt to the word, "Why did you not make me like the other assassins? Why allow me to retain my mind?"
"Who you are and what you do are twined too tightly together. To rob you of one would have deprived me of the other. I did try, but you saw through the illusion."
"What you plan is no less an illusion, to force men to follow you against their will."
"They live amongst an illusion already." He responds, as though he is justifying it to himself, "I am simply giving them another."
"It isn't right." He argues back, with more conviction.
"It seems then, we are at an impasse."
"No, we are at an end." One of them is going to die today. He is not afraid that it seems it will be him.
Al Mualim shakes his head slowly, before his gaze fixes upon something over Altair's shoulder.
He cannot turn to see, but his worst fears are confirmed when she strides into his line of sight. Israh moves to stand at Al Mualim's side, and Altair is suddenly fearful. He does not care for himself, but she is different.
"Let her go." He growls, his determination renewed twofold.
His former master laughs at him, and it makes his blood boil.
"I am not holding her against her will. Her mind is her own. Or at least, what's left of it."
More secrets revealed. He is not sure he can stomach any more revelations. Israh looks at him, and her gaze is clear. Al Mualim hands her his sword, "Kill him, and I will merge your minds together. This will be your new body. The Apple will ensure you can stay here permanently, without need of your old one."
Altair is beyond confused, but she levels the sword at his chest before he can ask any questions. Then he can only look her in the eye in defiance. If this is truly her choice, he won't try to change her mind. He refuses to beg.
She doesn't shy away from his gaze. Her eyes are dark, and hold an almost desperate want. He does not doubt she will kill for it. But she is not so depraved.
He realizes she can't do it before Al Mualim does, and by then it is too late. She turns too abruptly and swings; the sword slices into Al Mualim's right arm, almost severing it clean. He screams and drops the Apple, finally releasing Altair from its hold. Israh dives for it as he leaps forward, sinking his hidden blade into the neck of his Master.
"I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also was a chasing of the wind. For in much wisdom, is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow."
As he stands and turns away from Al Mualim's body, he spies Israh, sprawled on her side and clutching at the artefact, turning it over and over in her hands. She half lays in water and shade; she shivers and shakes, her gray robes spattered with blood. She seems somehow awfully vulnerable and exceptionally dangerous all at once.
Therefore, he approaches cautiously, "Israh. Put it down. It is not safe. It must be destroyed."
"No!"She protests immediately, horrified, "I need it!"
Altair raises his hands in appeasement. He does not know what to make of this. All of this. She knows more than he, he can recognize that much. He does not want to fight her. As he draws near, the Apple projects an image. It is beautiful and enigmatic and powerful. It promises so much knowledge.
"Destroy it! Destroy it, as you said you would."
"I...I can't."
"Yes, you can Altair. But you won't."
Israh looks about ready to bolt, but she too is mesmerized by the Apple. It gives him enough time to crouch next to her, as Malik and some of his brothers arrive.
"Israh." He tries to make his voice peaceful and soothing, and places a hand on the curve of her waist, "What do you need it for?"
She looks him in the eye, and seems to calm slightly, "To stay here."
He does not understand. But he soon will.
She holds the Apple, and he holds her. Only a blanket covers her body, but they are alone in his quarters. Malik is tending to their newly freed Brothers, and the villagers. Altair's job is to deal with the Piece of Eden.
"You knew what would happen." He speculates, his lips brushing her ear as he speaks, "You always knew too much. Is this why you tried to assassinate Al Mualim?"
"Yes, in part." She whispers, "I knew he would turn on the Order, and I needed the Apple."
"Why?"
Israh takes a breath, and finally her story spills forth. By the time she is finished, his back aches from leaning against the wall for so long, but still he holds her close. She tells him that she is from another time. She has possession of another Piece of Eden almost a thousand years into the future. Suriah, not Israh. Israh is Suriah's ancestor. She is an assassin, but Suriah knows techniques that are centuries in the making. She does not tell him too much of the fight between the Assassins and the Templars. She does not want to tamper with history.
"But I did." She confesses, "I wanted to stay here so I tried to merge myself with my ancestor, through a Piece of Eden. It wasn't enough. I thought that if I had a Piece from this time too, it would...balance out, perhaps. I tried to change things; to stop Al Mualim before he hurt anyone. I shouldn't have. It was arrogant of me. I just wanted so desperately to stay here. To wash my hands of my life and return to a simpler time. I was selfish. That's why those other assassins tried to kill me. They can't find where my body is in the Animus so they're trying to force me out of synchronization. Your life narrative is too important to risk, you see. Your legacy is felt over centuries. Everything you do for the future is essential to our survival. I shouldn't be interacting with you at all."
She looks at him, and her lip quivers, "I'm not supposed to be here."
It makes sense. This is how she knew where he would be and who his targets were. Garnier de Naplouse could have helped with her split minds, which is why she tried to protect him. He had also thought it strange how little time she spent mourning her sister. This explained much.
"You are influencing your ancestor through your genetic memory." Altair concludes haltingly, "Through time itself?"
She nods, "I am my ancestor. We are the same. It's like...a reverse bleeding effect."
The Apple glimmers in her hands, gently projecting red and gold lettering and symbols in response to her words.
"We're losing." She says, and the Templar symbol appears over all, "The War. I'm supposed to be a leader, but..."
He brings his hand up to smooth her hair away from her face in comfort. It seems to be enough, for she continues speaking, "They're so much stronger than we are. In this time, we seem evenly matched. I thought perhaps – if I can't help in my time – then I could do something here to have a positive impact on our chances in the future. I could use my knowledge to alter history in our favour. Or I could inadvertently make things worse. I don't know what will happen. And while I'm here, time marches on, my people are struggling on without me..."
She buries her face into the blanket, and her words come out muffled, "I don't know what to do."
He is greatly concerned. Altair worries that she has put herself and her mind under so much strain that she no longer knows what she wants, or even who she is.
He does not know which part of her he is in love with.
One of his hands slips under the blanket; his touch on her bare skin seems to ground her somewhat. His other hand reaches for the Apple. Israh lets him hold it, but is obviously reluctant to let it go.
"It is not going anywhere, my love."
Her breath falters at his words as he gently extricates the Piece of Eden from her grasp, and places it on the floor next to them.
"I didn't mean for that to happen." She breathes apprehensively.
"Hm?" He questions as he slowly tugs the blanket away.
His fingertips trace a path up her inner thigh before she replies, "This."
He stops. He is unsure of what she means exactly, but his heart is beating strangely hard.
"This?"
She does not know what to tell him. Already she has said too much about his future. She should have never been involved with him at all. He is meant for Maria. But she wants him for herself, so badly.
When she is silent for too long, Altair removes his hands from her body.
She kisses him. It is a goodbye, so they draw it out.
"You must do what you believe to be right." He tells her sadly. He thinks she has made the decision to go back to her own time. He thinks he understands, but he doesn't.
"Yes." She agrees regardless, "It's all I can do."
She can tell he does not want to leave her alone with the Apple, but eventually he must; many of his brothers want him to be the next Master of the Order, and he must attend to them.
She uses the Apple, along with the other Piece of Eden, to merge her two selves together. Then she leaves.
He writes to her, in a fashion. There is nowhere to send the messages. Still, it helps calm his mind to put his thoughts to parchment, so he tells her everything. Altair carefully seals the newly finished letter and places it in the small oaken chest with the rest.
I am planning on leaving information behind for Assassins of the future, such as you. My memories will be the messages. Perhaps you will be the one to find them, perhaps not. I hope the pieces will fall into good hands, regardless. I hope they will assist in this war your generation is losing. I will do everything I can to set up your generation for success, I swear it.
His hand had paused here momentarily in hesitation, but soon forged swiftly on.
Maria Thorpe is staying in Masyaf for the time being. I have much to tell you of Limassol and Kyrenia and the recent death of Armand Bouchart, now that I finally have a moment of relative peace. It is a long story however, and thus requires a letter of its own. Maria plays a large part, but in short, her eyes have been opened to the folly of the Templars goals. She has expressed a want to travel East, and I would like to accompany her. We both have a thirst for learning, and philosophy. She is rather remarkable, and I am somewhat relieved the two of you are not destined to meet; I would fear for the leaders of the world if so.
As always, I pray you are alive and well. I hope these words will one day reach you, somehow. I wish you strength in your fight, and happiness in your home.
Safety and peace, Suriah,
Altair
So this is based on a dream I had, which is strange since I haven't thought about the Assassin's Creed series in ages, much less the first game. As a result, I am sensing this could have gone down from my head to a computer much better than it has, so if there are any glaring discrepancies, I'd like to know. I may do a second part as a continuation.
Thank you for reading.
- LaWren