A/N: This is the result of boredom on a rainy night at 1am. All mistakes are my own, be they historical, grammatical or any other kind. I do not own Assassins Creed or its characters, nor do I own the song Enter Sandman by Metallica.
EDIT: I've taken down the lyrics due to copyright. I recommend listening to the song while reading this or reading the lyrics before reading this so you get the vibe I was trying to get.
Enjoy.
Enter Assassin
Jerusalem was quiet. Calm, peaceful, tranquil… quiet.
A Templar soldier breathed deeply. The usual smells of the souk - the market, that is - of bread, spices, coffee, were all gone as merchants and sellers had taken down their stalls for the day. Now the air was clear and fresh – almost dewy – showing that the night ahead will be slightly cooler than the rest.
Even the sounds were gone. The peddlers, the beggars, the children, the speakers. The hustle-and-bustle of morning and midday were diminishing with the light of the sun, the crowded market empty and lifeless.
Quiet.
The Templar felt a shiver run down his spine. Too quiet. He scanned Jerusalem in front of him, thankful of his guarding position at the top of a wall. He was high enough to see trouble miles away and behind him were cliffs and rough seas. No-one could sneak up on him. Still, that did not stop the man from taking a complete three-sixty, just in case. He sighed in relief and relaxed slightly, swallowing the coldness he felt. His shift was ending with the day (to which he was thankful, as he despised the night shifts) and all he needed was the relieving soldier to come and take his place. The Templar said a prayer to comfort his still uneasy body and soul as the sun slowly set and the light dimmed.
"Greetings." The voice almost startled him and the Templar soldier was frozen in his place. When the man who had spoken received no reply, he tried again.
"Greetings. Is everything alright?" He asked.
The Templar sighed and mentally cussed at his nerves, turning to face his fellow soldier. No doubt this was the man to relieve him of his shift.
"Aye. The city is quiet." Again, too quiet. "Not even the proud eagle stirs in the skies." The Templar replied, glancing upward.
His relief nodded and spoke. "It is nice to know that the city can sleep peacefully despite the heretics that lurk in the shadows."
The Templar nodded. The Assassins. Twice already one of their men had managed to evade the soldier's guard, murdering two of their own superiors in almost full sight of everyone in the city. The bastard escaped with ease, climbing over their walls and buildings and becoming lost in the crowd, like a blade of grass in a large field. Those Assassins, those sneaky, deadly, dangerous vermin. Poisoning the people around them with their preposterous ideas of peace, breaking promises daily, murdering men in cold blood… An endless list, an endless cycle. Many a tale had been shared amongst the Templars of their Assassin enemies;
"I hear it is the same Assassin committing these sins."
"There have been murders in Damascus and Acre; no doubt they are the work of those devils."
"I saw him kill one of our own. It was quick and stealthy; if I had blinked I would have missed it!"
"Those Assassins are everywhere. In the buildings, in the streets, in the shadows. If you see one, or even suspect someone of being one, kill them on sight."
Again the chill was felt in the Templars spine. "Did you hear me?" His companion asked, a worried look on his face.
The Templar felt sweat beading on his forehead, underneath his helmet. "I apologise, I feel quite ill. What was it that you asked?" He said.
"I asked whether you were alright, but as it seems, you aren't. Please, take yourself to bed. Your shift is over and I will guard this post with my life. Rest peacefully and sleep well." The second man said, crossing his arms and turning away.
"Thank you. Best of luck." The Templar ended their conversation (or lack of, on his part) quickly and made his way down the castle walls, passing fellow companions also on guard for the night. He held the scabbard of his sword tightly as he exited the stronghold he was stationed at and briskly made his way home.
Too quiet.
His feet echoed as he walked and the Templar was on edge. There was something wrong; nothing was stirring tonight. He would usually hear the hiss of a cat or hushed whispers of late goers. He couldn't even hear the wind; the air was still tonight. Was it his own thoughts that deafened him to his surroundings? The man quickened his pace to a jog. There was no-one around at all; so why did he feel as if he was being watched or followed? It was his illness, it must be. Soon he would be home and in his bed. Soon.
The Templar never thought he'd been more relieved than when he finally reached his small house. It was built with brick, like many of the buildings in the city, and was sturdy, with two adjoining rooms inside where he kept all his belongings and needs. He walked in, the sun less than halfway in the sky. There was little to no light, so the Templar lit a few candles. Surely he was safe now.
He stripped off his clothes and gear, feeling the chill spread across his entire body. This illness was hitting him hard indeed. He hurried to change in the dim light, his bed-clothes not thick enough to warm him. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to crawl underneath the blankets he had.
The Templar however refused to sleep just yet, no matter how tempting it sounded. He would not be scared into sleep; he would live this night as he did every other, starting with something to eat, and would go to bed when he felt comfortable enough to. He held a candle and walked around the house, scanning every inch. He even popped his head out the holes in the walls serving as windows and listened out for any sounds. Nothing. Quiet.
Sighing, the Templar retreated back into his house and rubbed his eyes. Stifling a yawn, he made his way to the low sitting table in the centre of his room. He picked up an apple in a large bowl of fruit and bit into it. His stomach churned as it rejected the sustenance. He was too nervous to eat. Cursing himself yet again, the Templar threw the apple against the wall. He sighed and felt around under the table. A large book where he wrote down the major events of his life or things that were troubling him was hidden underneath some blankets. He brought it out of its hiding spot and set it on the table, where it made a slight 'thud'. Setting the candle down and fetching his feathered quill, the Templar opened the book to a fresh page, dipped his tool in ink and began to write.
When the Templar finally felt like his eyelids would refuse to be forced open any longer, he dotted the sentence he was writing. He left the book open overnight so as not to smudge any of his work. His paranoia had settled as he wrote and the chills he had were almost all gone. There was no light left in the sky and the city was still eerily quiet, however the Templar had forgotten his worries as the night drew on.
Yawning, the Templar stood from his spot on the floor and stretched. It was time for him to rest. He had a shift in the morning and a meeting with fellow soldiers who were discussing methods to further secure the city from Assassins. He used his candle to light the way to his bed on the floor and he lowered himself on his knees, mumbling a few words.
"Now I lay me down to sleep
Pray the lord my soul to keep
If I die before I wake
Pray the lord my soul to take"
The Templar blew out the candle and buried himself underneath the covers. His eyes refused to remain open and his blinks became longer with every passing minute. The quiet he was so afraid of was now soothing and calmed him down (still, the Templar decided to keep his weapons close to his hand). He was settled.
Until he finally heard a noise. It was soft, very soft, but the Templar heard it. A light thud.
The Templar's heart stopped. His eyes flew open and he stared at the ceiling, afraid to breathe. It was dark and he couldn't see anything no matter how hard he strained his eyes. The chills came crawling back, encompassing his entire body and he sat up, reaching for his sword. Holding his breath, he froze in his position and contemplated on lighting his candle before doing anything else. After a few minutes in which he took a few deep breaths, the Templar shook his head. It is nothing. He convinced himself.
It was quiet again.
The Templar put his head in his hands, tired. He was ashamed that he let himself feel so scared and vulnerable. He had gotten his position as a soldier for his bravery; how can he taint that image now by feeling afraid of the dark? Shaking his head again, the Templar lay back down and closed his eyes, determined not to let anything stop him from his slumber.
He felt something staring at him. There is nothing here...
He felt a weight lower itself onto his body. There can't be anything here...
He heard the clink of metal. It is impossible that there is anything here...
Then he felt pain in his neck and he gasped. Again his eyes flew open but instead of being met with darkness, he saw a face, close to his own. The face of a man. The face of a killer. The stranger's eyes bore into his own, unwavering as he pushed whatever he had further into the Templar's neck. The Templar tried to scream but all that came out of his mouth was blood and gurgles of words unable to reach his throat.
They hadn't met, the Templar and this man, but he knew him. He knew he was the Assassin, the one who murdered in Jerusalem, Damascus and Acre. The man with the hard features, steady jaw, scarred face, shining eyes. The man in white, who could lose himself in a crowd. The man with a hood, so that no-one could see his face, this face. The Assassin.
The one that will bring this Templar to his enteral rest.
The Templar felt his body grow limp and cold. The Assassin withdrew the blade he had plunged into the man's neck and it disappeared somewhere in his clothing. The Templar tried to speak, tried to form words, but couldn't. He coughed up blood. The Assassin lifted himself from the Templar's body and moved, ever quietly, to the table. He snatched the book and tucked it away in his robes. Stepping over the dying man, he lifted himself through the window and slipped out into the night, undetected, without taking a single look back before slinking into the shadows. The Templar could hold on no longer. He finally drew in his final breath.
And lay there dying in the quiet city of Jerusalem.
We're off to never never land.