Author's Note: Whoop whoop! First Assassin's Creed fanfic. Fear it, bitches.
Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed © Ubisoft.
The leather of his boots made an awful racket as they pounded against the cobbled streets of Jerusalem. He was pursued, as he always was, by merciless city guards and sentries, all because that buffoon hadn't had the sense not to scream. Civilians were like that; he tried his best to help, but often times there was just no gratitude to be found. Altaïr fought the urge to groan in annoyance when he reached another dead end, instead opting to be proactive and scale the damn thing before any more guards could arrive to harass him.
Not that he didn't deserve a little harassment...
Altaïr had scarce covered three blocks over the rooftops when those oh-so-annoying archers posted to guard the city from above began to pester him, follow him, and ultimately knock their arrows and attempt to shoot through his very soul. Feeling mighty perturbed by this development, the assassin swiftly dropped back down into the street with otherworldly agility, bounding around a corner before he was spotted and promptly planting his bum on a cedar bench between a robust man who smelt of roasted animal fats and girl who wore a small pink pout as she swung her legs moodily.
Hide in plain sight. It was a concept that, while at first contemplation seemed both incredibly stupid and suicidal, was actually the most brilliant tactic Altaïr knew. With carefully calculated nonchalance he leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees and bowing his head to hide his face. Unbeknownst to him, his foot rapped a tattoo against the well-worn stone beneath him subconsciously and a pair of curious hazel eyes sized him up.
"You're the one they're looking for," the pouty girl announced at length as a smack of guards rushed past their bench in a tizzy. Altaïr didn't need to look to know that the fat man on his other side was suddenly at attention; uncertain of what he should say, he replied as plainly as he knew.
"Nothing is true," he said lowly, hoping that at best, she would be confused enough to leave him alone and he could get up and leave without hassle. The little one giggled and pressed her hand to her mouth.
She opened her mouth and whispered against her palm, "Everything is permitted."
Altaïr turned his head sharply to examine her closer. She looked like any other child he had seen since arriving in Jerusalem, if not a little younger than those he usually spotted in the street alone. She grinned mischievously at him and Altaïr found the expression almost malicious for the sheer amount of razor sharp milk teeth the girl seemed to possess.
"My daddy doesn't have that finger, either," she said, gesturing to his left hand innocently. "He won't tell me if it hurts to get it cut off..."
Her eyes glistened brightly up at him and Altaïr lifted the hand in question into his lap almost self consciously.
He decided then that no matter how dire the situation was in the future, there would be no blending with young and curious children ever again.