Adhan.
"Hasten to prayers.
Hasten to deliverance.
Hasten to the best act."
- The Adhan (Call to Prayer)
.
The morning opened up with dreary skies over Masyaf, dark clouds hovering low and dumping torrents upon the rolling landscape. It'd be good for the crops; the harvesting season was almost over. Barrels filled with rainwater outside wooden buildings, and heaps of dust, dirt and manure from ass and horse turned to suctioning mud in gutters and dark alleyways. In their stales, lambs bleated and lay lazily in heaps of straw, napping with their ears folded against their heads. Flies buzzed about, seeking shelter from the rain on curled eyelashes and in thick hair.
Merchants moved quickly to pull their wares inside, lest the rain render them unsuitable for sale and children moaned as parents closed the doors and windows; the weather was improper for play today. And, as though to support this decision, a bolt of lightning struck the tallest tower of the fortress belonging to the Brotherhood, connecting, for a moment, the earth to the Heavens through a thin of white hot light and skull-rattling rumble which rolled over the mountains like a ripple through the water.
Women boiled pots over the hearth, warming the stone structures and heating water for bathes or broth for breakfast. Men wove string or sharpened farming tools or played games with their children, or sat on three-legged stools by the fire, telling to them stories their fathers had regaled to them: stories of epic battles between the prophet and the pagan worshippers of Saudi Arabia, whose vile deeds were foretold and avoided with intelligent trickery, and stories of the brave and victorious Saladin, the great Kurdish Sultan and honourable warrior who would, if the need arose, deliver to them the Holy Lands.
On the floor with his brothers, one youth – Malik was his name – stared up at his father in awe and decided one day that he too would learn the ways of honour and battle and become an esteemed warrior.
Over the crackling flames and bubbling pot and rumbling thunder beyond the boarded windows, a sound of utter delight cracked from a youthful throat. Hoots of laughter followed the thumping of hard shoes on rooftops and the child and his brothers and sisters hurried to the window, parents in tow. They threw open the shutters just as a child of about ten years or less soared by, arms stretch as though to catch the breeze and take flight as a bird.
The boy leapt off the boarded rooftop at a height which would make most ill and disappeared within a bale of hay, only to jump out a moment later, covered head to toe in straw and sink his shoes in dirty puddles. He took a moment to gather his bearings before continuing at gaining speed down the sloping village towards the bottom of the mountain.
Malik's mother, turning back to her preparations, shook her head and said with a tsk, "No manners, that boy. One of these days he's going to hurt himself, or worst yet, someone else. I suppose such is when one has no parents, no guidance." She noticed Malik still at the window, watching the youth grow smaller along down the path. "Malik! Away from the window. You'll soak the floor. Go, put that child out of your mind and join your father; he hasn't finished his story."
.
Whomever had named him – be it his parents, whom he knew nothing of, or Al Mualim, his sole provider, both mother and father in every right – had done so accordingly, for as a bird he felt; caged indoors, free to spread his imaginary wings upon entering the outdoors. Sun or cloud, dry air or rain, rough grass or grasping mud, he loved it all and turned his chin to the sky to feel the chilled drops strike his face with force as though alive.
He wore dirt upon his clothes and skin as badges of honour, joyous did it make him to feel the elements of the earth like adoring friends wrapping him in their embrace. Nature was his friend, his guardian and lover.
"Altair!"
The sound of his name barking from the guttural throat of his master brought him to a startling halt. His shoes slid upon the slickened earth, throwing him into imbalance and he waved his arms to steady himself. But all was in vain and with a grunt, he fell upon his back in the mud and stared at the dismal clouds, his vision blinding in the oncoming rain.
A figure loomed menacingly over him, though in the shadow of the black hood, all he saw were wisps of greying beard hair. A guilty grin crept across his lips. "Good morning, Master."
"Get up, you insolent child," ordered Al Mualim, by no means hiding his frustration, and beat the side of his walking stick into Altair's shoulder. He shook his head dismally. "Look at you, boy, covered in filth. Who taught you to act as an animal?"
Dragging his feet, Altair followed his master back towards the fortress, though his spirits were down only shortly. It was not the first instance in which his actions were reprimanded with disproval and beats of that wooden stick – he cringed momentarily at the lashings he was to endure – nor, he knew quite well, would it be the last. In his innocent mind, punishment was worth it for a few moments of freedom, of wholeness with the world.
They crossed the creaking bridge that branched the fortress with the village, traveling under the stone arch and through the scattered stands and pottery that lined in the inner courtyard. The practice arena, a small, circular patch of dirt where future assassins honed their skills, was currently occupied by men of considerable age, leaping and rolling out of one another's way, trading weapons and locking in otherwise mortal combat. There would be injuries, as always there were, though none in the ring were ever fatal. Altair often mulled over the authenticity of such practice. Were it not the case that they took ease on one another? True foes would not pull back after a simple cut to the shoulder or disarm of blade. Instead, one's opponent held back only when the heart ceased to beat and the threat extinguished.
Al Mualim tugged on his collar when he lingered too long, and together they entered the warm halls and hushed whispers of those within the firm walls. Servants rushed to their side, offering dry robes of Al Mualim, and ushering the young child down the winding steps to the bathes underground.
There they washed him in warm water touched with honey and rose until he winced beneath their fingers and only when he was raw and pink and his hair free of dirt, did they allow him to climb out and seek refuge in warm towels and a clean tunic. He slipped his feet into a pair of light cloth sandals and walked the long hallways in search of something to occupy his attention. He played with the idea of spending the morning in the library, reading from the ancient texts, or practicing in the courtyard, but an elder assassin, one who had, until yesterday evening, been out on a mission, relayed to him that Al Mualim wished to speak with him in his study.
He walked slowly up the steps to the third floor, where Al Mualim paced, hands clasped behind his back, his wrinkled face troubled.
"How may I be of service this afternoon, Master?" he asked with a respectable bow of his head, as always he was taught. Humbleness was a strain to his nature, but vital for one of his talents. Even animals like birds – eagles, falcons, those of prey – required tamers to contain their strength and might, lest chaos reign. He knew it did him well to mind his tongue and manners.
It was a while until the old man spoke again and for much of that, Altair wondered if he'd heard him at all. Perhaps in his age his listening skills were fleeting.
"Do you know why it rains, Altair?" he asked. It was certainly not the first thing the child imagined. He'd been well prepared for punishment for his earlier actions.
"No," he replied in earnest. "I suppose...well, some might say the angels in Heaven are sad and crying."
Al Mualim shook his head. "If that is so, why are the storms violent? Why do the winds tear away trees, and the waters flood villages? Why does lightning kill?"
"I don't know, Master," he offered, not sure exactly what kind of answer his master was searching for. He was no scientist by any means, though he was intelligent for a child of only eight.
Al Mualim abandoned the scenery and, turning to the boy, touched his hand to his shoulder. "Come with me, Altair." And as they walked, he said, "The Crusades have picked up again after hundreds of years. Saladin wants Jerusalem back for the Muslims. He is a strong leader – though no ally of the assassins – and sure to claim victory from those Christian swine."
Altair nodded, wondering if there was purpose to this discussion besides knowledge and how it related to his earlier comment about the rain.
"But – and I hesitate to say this – he is also a just man. Unlike the knights of the Church, Saladin plans not to slay the Christians already living in Jerusalem, and even to allow pilgrims access to the spot where Jesus was crucified. Such was more than the Christians ever offered Muslims."
"This is good then," Altair said, "is it not? Peace is what the assassins strive for. If this Saladin can offer that, then our work is only aided by his services."
"Yes, and no," he said and they reached the library where Al Mualim scoured the weathered texts for a particular handful and touched his thumb to his finger for easier access to the thin pages. "Saladin, like the Church leaders, is blinded by his faith. It is that blindness that has lead to this chaos in the first place." He opened to a page but did not read from it. Instead, he asked,
"What is a city, Altair?"
Altair was as lost as he was with the rain question and stole a moment before answering. "It is a section of land which people live."
"Yes, but what does it mean? What does a kingdom mean? Why do men divide themselves into these groups? Why do we speak different languages and eat different foods and wear different clothes? Why can't we all just be men?"
Again, the child was lost so Al Mualim turned to the book in his hands.
"'The (selfish) soul of the other led him to the murder of his brother: he murdered him, and became (himself) one of the lost ones. Then God sent a raven, who scratched the ground, to show him how to hide the shame of his brother. "Woe is me!" said he; "Was I not even able to be as this raven, and to hide the shame of my brother?" then he became full of regrets. On that account: We ordained for the Children of Israel that if any one slew a person - unless it be for murder or for spreading mischief in the land - it would be as if he slew the whole mankind: and if any one saved a life, it would be as if he saved the life of the whole mankind. Then although there came to them Our messengers with clear signs, yet, even after that, many of them continued to commit excesses in the land.'" He looked up. "Do you know what that is from?"
That, Altair knew. "It's from the Qu'ran! It's the story of Cain and Abel."
Al Mualim nodded. "And what happened to Cain after he was cursed for the murder of Abel?"
"He went on to found a city, though – forgive me, Master – I cannot recall the name."
Al Mualim shook his head. "It is unimportant. But you are right. He founded a city. And what of his parents?"
"Adam and Eve? They had another son, Seth, to have children because Abel was dead."
"Oh, no, no, no. I apologize, Altair. I mean, when they ate the Forbidden Fruit. What happened to them?"
"They were expelled from Eden and cursed to live on Earth."
Al Mualim startled him by jabbing a finger in his face. "Exactly! Now, tell me, Altair, does that not then make Earth a sort of punishment? We were cursed to live here – if the Holy Book is correct – because we defied God. Cain was forced to live elsewhere because he killed his brother. Cities, countries...these are contemporary possessions birthed from a curse. They are not something to be proud of, only to cause more strife.
"But because Muhammad ascended to the Heavens, and Jesus was crucified and Moses led the Israelites there from Egypt, all men lay claim to that single patch of accursed earth and shed more of their brethren's blood in the process. Their faith blinds them to their faith!
"If the rains are Heaven's tears, they fall upon all equally, for we are all equally sinners. It matters not if you are Muslim or Christian, if you call Him God, Allah or Jupiter. Remember that, Altair. Man puts too much in the worship of a God with a name, a God with flesh and distinguishable power, and at the very same time, forgets that it is this God that offers kindness and goodness as a path to redemption, not bloodshed and chaos, lest it be for a purpose to squander evil in its tracks."
Now, Altair was lost. What was Al Mualim saying? Assassins killed. They shed blood in the pursuit of peace. Crusaders and Saracens fought for a Holy City they believed granted peace and salvation. Were they all wrong?
"You may go now, Altair. But mind that it's back to training for you soon."
He raised his head, numb as though awakening from a dream. "Master?"
He could very well read the boy's thoughts in his face. "All you need to know, Altair, is that nothing in this world is true, but everything is permitted. God exists as much as He does not exist. What the assassins do, what the Crusaders do and what the Saracens do is wrong. Killing is wrong, but can be justified as right in the eyes of those who practice it because there is purpose. A man can be both terrorist and freedom fighter, both villain and hero." And at last, he smiled, something that was always a rare sight. "It's confusing because it's supposed to be. You will never fully understand. Even I do not."
He patted the back of Altair's head, a gesture to be on his way. "Rest while you can. The coming days and years are full of work and strife, my boy. You best enjoy this semblance of peace while you have it."
.
Disclaimer: All Assassin's Creed characters are property of Ubisoft.
Author's Notes: This is perhaps the most religiously influenced piece I have submitted to thus far. It's a sensitive issue, I realize, and therefore, I feel that I must make a note so that readers understand the reasoning behind my choice to include such content.
I myself am religious to the extent that I believe in God. I appreciate the religions of the world, but I dislike the fact that they have provided means for people to kill one another and thus rendering the messages they convey obsolete and as a result refuse to follow one single branch. That said, I still feel that just as theists should not harass atheists, atheists should not harass a theist.
Why did I go to the trouble of these notes? Because I'd like to avoid any possible flaming reviews containing religious debate or comments that I am not staying true to the context of the games. This isn't a preachy fic; I don't care what others believe.