Story: Silver Eyes
Chapter One: Precarious Caution
A small shift of her wet wrists alerted her to the position her hands had been forced into by tight ropes. Her eyelids lifted slowly only to see the sand on the ground. She swallowed dryly, her mouth tasting dirty as she ran her tongue across chapped lips. No luck there. It's been far too long before she's had a proper drink of water, not to mention some solid food and proper movement with her limbs.
"Up, woman," a guard said gruffly.
"You know some hospitality would be nice," she mumbled into the ground. "I am technically a guest — a guest held against her will, but a guest nonetheless."
"Shut it," she heard rather viciously and then felt him yank her to her feet. "Just give me a reason to gag you. I will."
She rolled her eyes rather lazily, too tired and dehydrated to really make much of a fuss. She let herself get shoved forward, barely using her legs. Where she was going wasn't a pleasant place to be forced down to. It was dark, barely any light shown through the cracks and crevices at the ceiling; and water dripped steadily, wetting her face and hair. She tried to ignore it as best as possible. She wanted to keep up her brave face and shove down the fear of approaching deeper into an enclosed space that held no escape.
"I want the woman," she heard Robert de Sablé say as his hand outstretched for her.
"Could at least take me out to dinner first," she grumbled under her breath. "Ow!" she exclaimed softly when she felt the guard smack her in the back of the head. He then shoved her forward.
She felt Sablé's hand grasp the nape of her neck, pushing her forward uncomfortably. With another shove to her back she was the leader in this potentially very dangerous cave. But she knew why it had to be her — she was the one who knew exactly what they were looking for was. But it wasn't that bad, she reasoned with herself, after all Sablé was right behind her and could do well to defend her in this shackled state.
"Well, which way is it?" he demanded from behind her.
"Straight," she said, irritation seeping in her tone. She didn't appreciate this rough treatment especially over the course of six months and was starting to get sick of it. "I'll tell you when we turn."
"Mind your tone," he said rather viciously.
She rolled her eyes irritably as they pushed her onward. Her legs felt like lead, both fat and muscle mass had shrunk considerably over the course of her stay. Even if she somehow miraculously gotten free she wouldn't run for long. That was probably their line of thinking. After all, she longed for food and water, growing moodier by the minute.
"Left," she grumbled.
They hung a left and she could feel that they were getting closer. Probably just a few feet away actually, now that she thought about it. It made her worry the inside of her cheek in anticipation. Then, somehow, she'd have to convince them that she was worth keeping alive. She had a few ideas that would mostly likely stick, but her credibility with them wasn't exactly stellar.
Nonetheless they arrived. Before she could even open her mouth to tell Sablé where this treasure was he shoved her into one of the guards to get to it. She grunted softly. The guard's chest she slammed into reflexively grabbed her arms to steady her. She looked up at his helmeted face and wiggled her brows at him amusedly. She didn't see the expression on his face, but she assumed it was one of disgust since he shoved her to the floor with a scoff.
"Wow, what a real gentlemen," she said under her breath, getting into a more comfortable position on the ground.
"Can we kill her yet?" the same guard asked. "She is of no use to us anymore."
She tried not to stiffen in fright, toes curling in her sandals, fingers digging into the sand below her — the whole nine yards. But she really couldn't help it. Who wanted to die especially when for the last few moments she was treated like a prisoner on death row? She wanted to live again.
"No," he said. "There surely must be more of these." he turned his head snappily towards her. "Right?"
"Yes," she said slowly, thrown by the sudden interest and the scary look on his face.
"Excellent," he said, admiring his precious with a huge smile across his face.
Well, today wasn't the day she died it seemed. She still had some sort of leverage over them.
But suddenly, her survival wasn't looking so hot when a hooded man killed two of the guards behind Sablé silently. She knew it happened, though, because he was in her line of sight, unlike the others. And for the life of her she couldn't keep the gasp at bay, letting Sablé know that someone was trying to kill him. So the bald man blocked the assault of his would be killer.
"Foolish child," he insulted, "you think you can sneak up on me and steal what's rightfully mine?"
"Rightfully yours?" he said, arrogance still seeping in his tone as if he was the one in control.
"Yes," Sablé said, tossing the shorter man out into a rock face that crumbled away easily. The man was most likely crushed by boulders and he was dead.
But the prisoner's eyes were locked onto only one thing: the skirmish between several other hooded men and the guards. A sword had flown out of one of their hands, stabbing the ground right in front of her. The blade wavered harshly, frightening her quite a bit for a moment, but then it… gave her an idea.
"Hell yeah," she breathed.
She forced herself up, pulling at the dirt to give her the strength to sit up with her hands bound. She placed the rope against the blade, rubbing it furiously.
Almost, almost, and… there!
The ropes snapped free.
It allowed her to yank them off and for her to make her escape without any hindrances. And boy did she want to get out of there. She scrambled to her feet and looked around desperately. The guards and Robert de Sablé that were fighting the hooded men were blocking the way she came in, and the exit the dumbass that tried to kill Sablé was completely blocked off. The only method of escape was the way the assassin's came in. Up a ladder.
"Dammit," she whined before forcing her legs to sprint over there.
"Wait! We're here to help you!" a short man said. She looked over briefly to see if he was close enough to restrain her. But this wasn't wise. His distraction lead to his arm being brutally chopped off. "Argggh!" he cried out in pain.
She winced, looking away quickly; it was too brutal.
With what little strength she had left in her muscles she began to climb up the ladder. Her limbs were burning, being pushed to their limits, and making her cry out in agony. But it was this or be captured and killed by either the Templars or the Assassins. She knew what her choice was: push her limits to escape.
She rolled over painfully on her side. She gasped for breath, fighting for it, and trying not to blackout. Her stamina, and muscles were pathetic these days. She hated herself for it, but there was little she could do about it now. All she could do was push forward.
"Yes, I'll go with Robert de Sablé. It's not like I have a choice; it's either him or death," she said sardonically. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Suddenly, a few rocks from the cave below Solomon's Temple fell and hit her painfully. She grunted and jolted from the pain.
"I got a rock stuck in my leg," she deadpanned.
She sat up, slowly getting to her feet, and grunting at the pain emanating in a horrible throb throughout her entire body. Her body was screaming at her to eat and drink something, and to rest for at least two weeks. But sometimes she couldn't always comply with what her body needed right away. It was escape for survival, or she'd be kept prisoner or killed. Sometimes, pushing yourself to the limits was necessary apparently.
She walked along the cave, hugging the wall for support. Her legs were beginning to shake. It seemed her body could only endure so much before giving out, but she was going to keep pushing until she was safe. She idly hoped that adrenaline did its thing and saved her butt from surely dying in a cave. She knew she wasn't going to go out like this.
She approached the growing light at the end of the tunnel before finally reaching it. The opening lead to a mildly busy street filled with people she had no idea worked for whom. Her delusional, exhaustion induced, brain went into panic mode. She started spinning around and around looking for something, anything to help her. That was until her sandal clad foot came across some hay, causing her to collapse into a giant bail of it.
"Drunk idiot," some woman commented.
Before a snide comment could even make its way out of her lips she was out like a light.
X
"Altaïr," Al Mualim acknowledged.
He turned from his personal library towards his prized pupil. He looked him over skeptically. He didn't see Malik, Kadar, or the Ark of the Covenant with Altaïr. But since the man in front of him was the best of his students surely he succeeded.
"Master," Altaïr said.
"I trust you were successful," he said.
"Robert de Sablé had more men than we expected."
It was clear Altaïr was dancing around the subject. He loathed to admit that he failed. He was the best assassin in the order, and the youngest to rise to the rank of master assassin so far. Did the success and accomplishments go straight to his head? Hell yes. But not only that, Altaïr didn't want to know what would come of him if told his master he failed.
"Well, these things are never easy," Al Mualim said. "Did you recover the artifact?"
"No, I didn't."
Al Mualim's face went from hopeful and stony to extreme anger and disappointment quickly. It seemed Altaïr was right. The man didn't handle failure well. It didn't surprise him, but Altaïr was confident that as his master's favorite pupil he'd be fine. After all, he was an important asset to the Brotherhood.
"What about Robert and the woman?"
"Escaped."
"I send you," he said angrily, "my most skilled man on the most important mission thus far and you bring back nothing but failure and excuses!"
"I—"
"Do not speak!"
He refrained from rolling his eyes at his mentor. Even if he was indeed an arrogant son of a bitch he had a certain level of fear and respect for the elderly man. Or maybe it was the way he was raised. No one raised their voice at the mentor because the mentor will make an example out of them. No "betrayal" among the ranks.
"I'll have to rally more men."
"I swear I'll—"
"You will do nothing!" he snapped. After a pause he asked. "Where is Malik and Kadar?"
"Dead."
Just then Malik showed up, proving how wrong Altaïr is. He was clutching his arm which was bleeding profusely and looked as if he couldn't move it. What little of its attachment left would probably be flapping in the wind if not for how hard Malik was clutching it. The look on his face spoke volumes: he was angry, mourning, and was in deep pain. He hated Altaïr with all his heart. He blamed him for this and he wouldn't be wrong to hate him. If Altaïr had followed the rules none of this would be happening.
"He's lying!" he panted hard. "I'm still live!"
"And Kadar?" Al Mualim asked, assessing the man.
"Killed," he said and then pointed at Altaïr. "Because of you!"
"Sablé threw me from the roof," Altaïr defended. "I couldn't get back to you."
That didn't stave off Malik's anger one bit. His excuses were falling on deaf ears, refusing to accept anything from Altaïr including an apology. He hoped Al Mualim would make an example of the supposed golden boy of their order. It would be a fitting punishment in his mind. One life for another.
"Excuses!" Malik exclaimed. "You broke all three tenets of our creed! If you had heeded my warning my brother might still be alive!" he then turned towards Al Mualim. "I have what your favored failed to bring."
"The treasure? The woman?"
In walked another man dressed head to toe in white clothing to fend off the heat with the ark of the covenant resting on a nice platform. He placed the treasure upon Al Mualim's desk before exiting the room without a word.
The elderly man's eyes didn't leave the ark's center piece. It was intact and that was all he cared for. Not the priceless tablets with the written Ten Commandments that people have been searching for for a about a thousand years. But before he got his hands on it one of his men said:
"Al Mualim! Sablé and his men are invading!" he shouted. "They want to take Masyaf and its village!"
"So, he seeks a battle, eh?" Al Mualim said. "Then so be it. I won't deny him this. Go, the fortress must be prepared!" when the informer left, the elderly man addressed his pupil. "Altaïr, you and I will talk later. Go and destroy these invaders. Just… get out of my sight!"
He did what he was told for once. He left the lovely fortress that was lined with men guarding the place. But now? Those men were scrambling outside the fortress with their fellow Assassins. Altaïr stepped out, looking around the area, and assessed the damage. Citizens and Assassins alike were running everywhere.
"Retreat!" he heard Abbas shout. "Everyone fall back! Close the gate!"
Curiously, he looked and saw that his fellow Assassins were indeed retreating from incoming Templars. For a moment, he didn't know what to do with himself. If they were coming back to the fortress what's he to do now? He was fantastic at fighting not retreating.
"Altaïr! This way! Al Mualim is not done with us. Follow me and do as I say."
Up the latter he went and followed his fellow Assassin. He walked along the tallest tower seeing the other men along several planks of wood sticking out of the openings in the tower. He was told to stand at one of them, so he did.
"Heretics! You will give me back what's rightfully mine!" Robert de Sablé shouted.
He and his massive fleet of Templars were at the gate. Sablé looked greatly angered, almost to the point of spitting like a feral dog. It was rather amusing to Altaïr.
"You have no right to claim the treasure!" Al Mualim shouted back. "Leave before we thin your ranks even further."
"You play a dangerous game! I'll lay siege for as long as it takes! How long will your men last when the food runs out and your wells run dry?!"
"My men do not fear death! They welcome it and the rewards it brings!" Al Mualim said and then addressed his men. "Show those Templars what it is to have no fear. Go to God!"
Altaïr looked down from his platform at a haystack just below. The distance between him and that pile of hay was rather great. In fact, most rational people wouldn't jump unless they were at sword point. But this man put his faith in Al Mualim and his teachings. So he jumped. Not a stranger to the adrenaline rush he flipped properly midair and landed in the surprisingly soft yellowed grass. He was okay. Nothing was broken and he felt fine. All was good.
"Ow! My leg!"
"Quiet or the Templars will hear you."
The man outside his own haystack bit down hard on his lower lip to keep the noises of agony at bay while his bone was snapped back into place. Unnerved by bones moving underneath flesh, Altaïr walked over to his fellow Assassin (the one that didn't break his leg) for further instruction.
"Cross that cliff there, unleash the trap we set, and rain hell on our enemies. Do so quietly."
Without a word he crossed the wooden beam with his arms out and in a low crouch for balancing purposes. He did this until he came across a fortified tower right above and adjacent to the Templar fleet below. He, of course, scaled it rather easily from years and years worth of training and building muscle.
Once in the tower, he drew his sword and slashed at the wooden support plank. Therefore, he unleashed several large logs onto the Templars. The thick logs rolled along the men's bodies in piles. They screamed, were crushed, and fled.
With thousands dead the Templars fled.
X
Crippling thirst and hunger woke her up plain and simple. She clutched her stomach as she shook her head free from some of the hay from last night. Her eyes searched around the area. No longer was she in that stack of hay but a dwelling of some sort. She didn't recognize it. After all, the prisons she was usually foisted into were barely functioning and disgusting. No luxuries for the criminals, and barely useful captives it seemed. Thankfully, this place actually had stability and looked… homely. Like she would actually be fairly content to live in a place like this.
This room specifically seemed like it was actually made for someone around her age, and of her gender. It was a small bedroom with an old, twin sized bed (she was laying on currently); the colors, as few as they were, were rather bright and typically effeminate; and the few items along the trunk were a few bright bracelets, and some feathers. From appearances alone this was probably the family's daughter's room.
She began to walk around in confusion, looking for water and food, and immediately fell. A painful grunt escaped her, and her limbs wobbled dangerously. She didn't know if it was the poor circulation or if her muscles were blown out, either way she wasn't walking without some kind of assistance. And it seemed she would be getting some given that she heard footsteps along the dirt floor.
Out of habit, her muscles tightened in fear.
"Oh… oh dear!" she heard a woman's voice gasp. "Amal! Get in here! Our guest fell!"
Silver eyes looked up curiously, cautiously. But the woman in front of her, nearing middle age, wrinkling only portrayed worry. It confused her. After all, it's been quite some time since she'd seen a look like that directed towards her. A little shock was warranted on the young woman's part.
The middle-aged woman grasped her guest's thin, frail arm to lift the young woman. The younger of the two, of course, put up a weak, but insistent fight.
"Don't worry, deary, I'm not going to hurt you," the middle aged woman said, attempting to be soothing.
"Fariha," she heard a male voice call as he entered the room. "What are you— oh, just give her here."
Amal, with a sigh, went to the other side of the young woman, and he easily moved her to a sitting position on the rickety, twin bed against the wall. The silver eyed woman easily used the wall as a backrest to keep her upright. Sure, it was a much needed rest, but she was nowhere near rested enough. It seemed escaping these people was futile.
"Who are you?" she coughed painfully.
"We could ask you the same thing," Amal said gruffly. "We find you in our haystack all beat up like you went nine rounds with the Templars."
She flinched. That was uncomfortably true for her.
"Oh, don't pester the poor girl, Amal," his wife said chastised. "She's probably been through a lot."
"Yeah, what she said," the silver eyed woman said immediately.
"Fine, just thought you might want some food and water," he grumbled, heading towards the door, seemingly no longer interested. "I'll let you ladies figure it out then."
With that he was out of the room.
The silver eyed woman rolled her eyes and shrugged. She was quite used to sour treatment by now, and she was not okay with that. But it is what it is.
"Sorry about that, Amal really is a sweet man," she said. "He's just a little on… edge since our daughter left to be a dancer."
"He should drink. I hear that takes the edge off," she said with a small smirk.
Fariha laughed softly at the young woman. The feeling of someone laughing at her jokes, and her particular brand of humor. Of course, no one even cracked a smile back at the prison back at home or the one in the ship. Never did she get a single form of amusement from the other side of the bars. So hearing Fariha laugh was nice. It made her feel an eensy bit better.
"Not after last time," she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "I had to pull his butt out of a ditch."
The silver eyed woman giggled softly. She could picture it in her head: Amal wasted from a local bar, tripping, and falling down into a ditch.
Pretty funny stuff.
After that, little morning fiasco, Fariha and Amal gave her some helpful advice and sent her on her way. Apparently, it was a dead ringer that the silver eyed woman wasn't from around here. And it supposedly wasn't just her face that gave it away.
They told the young woman she needed to cover as much as her body to prevent sunburns and blisters. So they gave her their daughter's old wrap the other girl apparently hated. And that the closest food and water stands were south of their dwelling if she was hungry or thirsty. Which the silver eyed woman was.
In her line of sight she witnessed none other than a woman setting down her fresh water, presumably from the river she saw in the distance, to take care of her crying children. Like a hawk, Pyrrha swooped down and chugged the water as quickly as she could without choking. The water dropped due to her sloppiness and splashed onto her clothes, but she didn't care. Her mouth was no longer dry and sandy. But this short little moment of bliss didn't last for long. "Hey! Get out of my water!" the owner yelled, running after Pyrrha.
"Eep!" she squeaked, dropping the jug, shattering it across the dirt before she took off running from the woman.
She felt a tinge of guilt for taking and breaking this woman's water jug, but it was survival. If she didn't drink something she was surely going to die. In fact, it's been so long since she's had a proper drink her body was in shock at finally getting some. And the dizziness was beginning to subside, so she could run the short distance the other woman chased her.
She came to a stop, hands on her knees, panting harshly. She knew she probably looked like an insane homeless woman running from the authorities, but she could careless. She didn't know these people and she didn't plan on staying in this country for long. As soon as she found out how to get out of here she'd hitch a boat ride back to the homeland.
She straightened up when she saw none other than a man selling bread at his huge stand. Before she realized it her mouth started watering at the delicious smell of hot freshly made bread. Then she started drooling.
"Ugh," she grunted softly in disgust, wiping it away.
But despite this, she was still drawn to the bread. She gravitated towards the delicious aroma, checked to see if the vender was even looking, and then started stuffing her face like no tomorrow. If she vomited from eating too much then so be it because this bread was so good it should be illegal.
She hummed pleasantly as she kept stuffing her face while she also began storing them in her wrap. There were three half loafs sticking out of her mouth, and her wrap was filled to the brim with them.
But she stopped when she saw none other than a hooded man in white and the incredulous look on his face said that he was probably a saint or a priest. The clothes and colors gave him away.
"What?" she asked softly through a mouthful of bread and her wrap.
He didn't say anything, just a quirk of the lips for a response.
"You the bread police?" she teased.
She heard the vender man's voice dying down and realized she should probably hurry herself up if she didn't want to be beaten to death for thievery. She slipped by behind him, barely registering how much taller he was compared to her — at least a foot she'd say. Then she took off at a run, leaving this place behind in the dust.
Altaïr watched as she ran off. She was odd. She wasn't accompanied by anyone, had an offbeat sense of humor and personality, and had a colorful — albeit dirty — purplish dress. It was odd. That and she seemed kind of familiar. He didn't see her face or anything because of the wrap, but something about her said 'I've seen this person before'. He wondered…
"Hey! You stole my bread! You're gonna pay for this with your life!" the vendor yelled at him, yanking him right out of his thoughts.
He took off running, scaling the building as quickly as he could, avoiding stones thrown at him by said vendor and the guards that were called over. That was the last time he'd ever let strange women distract him again.
Author's Note: please review.