A sudden burst of inspiration hit me.
Assassin's Creed © Ubisoft. Lucky bastards.
I would have killed them if I didn't have two spears practically lodged into my throat.
The small row boat swayed underneath me, though I could not see the rolling waters, likely a brilliant navy-black in the cold night. The heavy blindfold covered my eyes completely—they had torn my hood, so I could not hide under it. I did not give these men the benefit of my emotions. I sat, perfectly immobile, stoic though my stomach rolled desperately against the waves that rocked the precarious craft.
There were at least a dozen other men on this boat, some rowing, some keeping the spears against my neck. There was nothing I could do. Heavy leather chords kept my wrists bound in front of me, currently weighed down by something made of iron, connected to my bonds by a heavy chain. My feet were bound, too, connected to the same weight. I wondered if they intended to drop me in the water and sink me.
No, they could have done that an hour ago. We had pushed off the shore and into the Mediterranean nearly two hours previous, when the sun was setting. We were not rowing into open waters—but my mind drew an image of the jagged cliffs that were a few miles from the city I had been in, those waters too dangerous to traverse in. These people seemed to know a special route—I did not try to trace it. I was feeling seasick, though I dared not show it to these bastards.
It seemed only like this morning—well, it was this morning—I was in the city, creeping through the slums, stalking around to get information about my target, a corrupt merchant who was threatening to cut off trade with Acre. My mission had been simple—find him, kill him, and thus stop this nonsensical blockade.
My investigation had been going fine until I'd slipped up. It had been an accident—I hated to admit it, I never make mistakes—but that damned drunk had been in my way. He'd caused the guards to see me, to question me, and then they'd figured out who I was and I was forced to disappear.
Or, I had tried to. I got lost and wound up by the docks. Docks were a dangerous place to fight, but I was soon cornered. My short blade had made quick work of many guards, but then I slipped on the blood of one—and I was falling—
I had panicked when I hit the water. It infuriates me to admit it, but I panicked. My only weakness, my only flaw—I could not swim. I struggled blindly for air. Some of the guards fell in after me, and I thrashed against them, using their bodies to keep my head above water until my hand found purchase on a small ring on one of the dock supports, where one would tether a boat. I held on for dear life, spluttering, choking. My short sword was lost to the depths of the sea—the loss was hard to register while I was busy trying to breathe.
Then some of the captains found the scene of the battle, and before I could recover from nearly drowning, they'd grabbed my shoulders and were hauling me out of the water, pinning my arms painfully behind my back. I tried to fight back—but my lungs were still full of water, and I was still coughing it up, still regaining my senses.
They'd hit my head brutally with a blunt object. I blacked out for a second, stunned, and by the time I had regained my senses they were ripping my weapons off of me and the captain of the guard was stooping and grabbing my chin and jerking my head up, so he could look me in the eye triumphantly.
"So the Assassin can't swim," he leered, like he'd seen the entire affair. I stiffened involuntarily. I did not want to admit it, but I could not deny it, either. They were taking my hidden blade, the very essence of my profession, my being. I was still choking on salty, filthy water, hot and murky with the sun and the waste of the city. I could do nothing. "Even the greatest killers cannot truly master death."
They were binding my hands at that point—I snarled and lashed out at him, but I could not get my wrists free, could not do anything. He laughed and smashed my head back into the docks, and then stood and kicked his steel-capped boot into my stomach. I grit my teeth in pain, then his foot smashed into my temple and I knew no more.
By the time I had awoken I was laying on sand. They were shouting about boats—they were not speaking Arabic so I could not understand them. My wrists were bound in front of me and my feet as well—they had literally picked me up and thrown me into the boat, wading through the water. I smashed my face into one of the seats—blood spurted from my lips, cracked with dehydration. How long had I been out? The sun was going down. I was on the shore, a few miles from the city.
They had grabbed my robes and pulled me back into the seat, forcing me to sit down. I could not fight at that moment—I was reeling from the most recent hit to my face. They tied the leather chords to the chains and the heavy iron weight, then the captain came forward with a knife. I wondered if they were going to kill me here and now—slit my throat, then drop me out to sea. No, that would have been too simple.
He jerked my hood off my head, exposing my face to the sun and these guards. These Templar who had managed to catch me, because of my uncertain footing and my one damned weakness. Oh, wouldn't the others be laughing if they saw me right now. I glared at this captain, fierce. They could kill me if they wanted. I was not afraid of death. I was an Assassin—the best Assassin there ever was. The Angel of Death.
He grabbed a fistful of my short hair and forced me to meet his gaze—not that I wasn't already, but it probably made him feel like he was in control. I snarled at him, baring my teeth fiercely. He was not intimidated—why would he be, I could do nothing to him. Just glare and sneer and bark. I had no bite, not with my limbs bound, not without my weapons. Oh, I could easily beat this man into the earth with my bare fists, but my hands were so heavily weighed by this iron that I could do nothing.
"You are going to be given one chance to live," the Templar said coldly, pulling on my hair until it hurt. He had blond hair and blue eyes, a common trait of these western dogs. His eyes were a peculiar shade of sky-blue, almost too light for the average Frank or Englishman. Those sky-blue eyes attempted to pierce my own golden-brown eyes, but to no avail. This man was a Templar, a crusader, and I was an Assassin. Albeit, I would likely soon be a dead one.
"I will tell you nothing," I said stiffly, dangerously, before he could propose an offer. "Death does not scare me."
He drew a knife and pressed it against my throat with his other hand, watching to see if I reacted. When I did not, he trailed its point up my neck and jaw line, curving it around my cheekbone until it rested on the outer corner of my left eye. A small bead of blood trailed down my face where he pressed the blade down, and I ground my teeth angrily. What was this man trying to do, scare me?
"No, death does not scare you," he affirmed. "Death never scares your kind. " He suddenly grabbed the front of my robes, hauling me into a half-standing position, making the boat rock precariously. It was pushed a few feet off the shore, anchored by a rope and stake, and the water surrounding was probably three feet deep. He grinned, picked up the iron bell with his other hand, and threw me off the boat.
I landed face-first in the water, startled. I tried to push myself up out of it, but I couldn't—the iron was weighing me down. I was trapped under the water. Panic swelled against my will. No! I was going to drown! I was not afraid of death, but drowning—it terrified me. The one fear I had never mastered.
I struggled wildly against the iron and leather bonds, my survival instincts overpowering my ego and dignity. The bastards! If I didn't drown I would rip their throats out with my nails! But the water pushed heavily against my chest, my lungs clawing at my ribs, desperate for air. There was no air to take in. I was going to drown.
Then, just as my vision was blacking, and my body could take no more of this lack of air, hands grabbed my front and I was hauled out of the shallow water. I gasped desperately for air, coughing deeply, agonized by how close the water had been to entering my lungs and ending my life.
I was not given much time to recover from my near-drowning before they had hauled me back into the boat. I slumped against its floor, hacking water out of my throat, water that had nearly killed me just now. It was salty, and it burned my sinuses. How pathetic I must have looked.
The Templar captain grabbed my hair again, now drenched and clinging to my face, and pulled me up and back onto my seat. I kept wheezing, my bound hands clutching at my chest the best they could. He grabbed my face violently and forced me to look at him. I glared at him furiously, blinking back the water that dripped into my eyes.
"But I know what you fear, Assassin," he hissed, grinning viciously, getting right in my face to intimidate. He smelled repulsive—his breath was rotting. "I will make you break into a thousand pieces and be swept away by your nightmares until you are nothing more then a shell of terror. I do not even have to lift a finger. I will make you afraid."
I held my breath and kept glaring, though now I felt that first twinge of fear, a foreign feeling. They knew my weakness. They knew what stopped me, the Angel of Death, the most dangerous killer in the Holy Land. And it seemed they intended to use it against me.
The Templar threw me from his grasp and stepped away, attention distracted, and I ducked back down, flicking my hood up so it would cover my soaked face, hiding my gaze. He noticed this, and his fist was grasping the white fabric and the knife was coming down—then he cast my hood aside, torn from my robes, letting it flutter out into the surf. The waves would eventually either pull it out to sea or leave it on the sand.
They had blindfolded me at that point, and not long after we were pushing out to sea and they were taking me somewhere.
Now, two hours later, we were still rowing. I was thoroughly nauseous at this point, but still I hid my sickness, my fear—damn that emotion, it betrayed me! I did not know what was going to happen to me. I was stupid for having let these bastards catch me, for letting them learn these things about me that most of my Brothers did not even know. Not even Malik knew of my terror of the water. He knew swimming was not my strongest suit, but not that I simply could not do it. That I was too nervous—too scared—to even try. Ever since that day, on my first mission as a novice, when I'd been spotted by guards and they had tried to drown me—any desire to befriend the water was gone. Done.
The wind was chilly against my skin, cooled from the water, and I shivered involuntarily. I could almost sense the men holding their spears to my throat grin—they thought I would break under the tension, that the sense of foreboding would crack my steel exterior. I would disappoint them, though. If I was to die, I would die like a man. Die like an Assassin.
Finally, finally, the boat came to a stop. I do not know what we had stopped for, but the Templar were shifting. The boat rocked under their feet, and I stiffened, sore from sitting for so long, waiting to see what happened.
There was a loud clatter, and a splash—then the Templar removed the spears and grabbed my arms, dragging me stiffly up to my feet. There was a hand at my temple—then the blindfold was jerked back onto my forehead. I blinked sharply at the pale moonlight.
We had sailed along the cliffs until we were far out of sight from the city—the cliffs themselves were perhaps half a mile from where we were. The water was open, but shallow—shallow enough that a single, half-rotted shaft of wood stuck out of the water, perhaps nailed to a rock below. How they had managed to put such a thing in place, I did not know—but it didn't matter.
A single iron ring had been pounded deeply into the wood, nearly piercing the other side, perhaps two feet above the water surface. It was designed to stay in no matter how much something tugged on it. There was a loop of chain hanging off of it, heavily rusted by the salt water that constantly pounded at it.
I could not figure out this wooden shaft's purpose—perhaps to anchor large boats?—when the Templar captain had grabbed my face again and I was looking up at him.
"You fear the tears of God," he said. "The cold blood of our earth, the very source of our life." He dug his nails into my cheeks. "This is your last chance, Assassin. Tell us something worthy of your survival."
His grip tightened, and I snarled like a wounded dog. I still was uncertain of the fate they had in store for me, but I did not doubt it was going to be awful. I debated for a long moment what would be an appropriate response. Then, I sighed shakily, bowing my head the best I could in the Templar's grip. Make them think they had cowed me.
I suddenly snapped my head back up, and spat in this man's face. "Go fuck yourself," I hissed. A lowly insult—Malik would have laughed, taunted me for stooping so low—but it felt appropriate for the moment. The Templar blinked my saliva from his eyes, startled, then his hand came viciously across my face, and I reeled, seeing stars.
The Templar were talking again, and they grabbed my arms and dragged me to the edge of the boat. Someone kicked my knees out from under me—I fell harshly, giving them room to grab the chain on the iron ring on this lonely wooden post and tie it to the biting leather chords on my wrists. At this point, I was figuring out what exactly they were planning.
Someone grabbed the blindfold, jerked back over my eyes, and I felt an involuntary wave of terror wash over me. They were going to leave me here. Tied to this post, a half-mile from shore, at the mercy of the elements—of the water.
I opened my chapped lips to speak—but my feet were grabbed, and I was thrown overboard.
The iron bell that had kept me from fighting before pulled my entire body into the water, until the chain and leather bonds caught on my flesh and prevented me from sinking. I gasped involuntarily as the leather bit harshly into my wrists, digging into my skin and drawing blood. The water was cool with the night, and it weighed heavily at my clothes and these damned chains! I could not move my feet to find purchase on the post—besides being weighed by the iron bell, they were still tied. I could only hang uselessly, my chest to the pole, my hands pulled cruelly above my head and the water lapping hungrily at my collarbone.
The true realization of what they had brought me here for hit me, and I tried to jerk my head around, to see where they were—but this damned blindfold would not give me such a pleasure. I was able to discern their position from their laughter. The Templar captain laughed loudest, sneering, utterly evil.
"God will judge you now, Assassin," he chortled. I hated this man. I wanted to rip his throat out—but I could not move. I was trapped. And if I even managed to cut the iron bell off my feet, cut the leather bonds that pulled against my entire body's weight, levitated slightly only by the swell of the sea, I would die. Because I could not swim.
Because I feared water.
"Don't let the sharks eat you," one Templar added, and I felt the sea stir as they put the oars back to the water and started to leave. "Not they'll like the taste of your devil-tainted flesh!"
Laughter. Clinking of bottles. Were they drinking? I bit my lip until it bled. I would not show fear. I would not. Show. Fear.
Their voices faded, the shifting of the boat, and soon the only sound was of the water, beating against the cliffs distantly, surging against the wooden post whose purpose I now understood, greedily pulling at my clothes, occasionally my face—I turned my chin up against it, gritting my teeth. No. No, this was worse than drowning. I could not believe this. I had never felt fear like this—I was the Angel of Death, I did not KNOW fear!
But it set in my chest so thoroughly. My fate was sealed. The water, the sun, the creatures—they would kill me.
I was going to die here.
I've spent most of the past few hours reading fanfics about Altaïr learning how to swim or nearly drowning and other silliness like that, and I wondered, "What would happen if the Templar knew he was such a little girl about water?" Cue my sadistic nature, something any of my regular readers are familiar with.
This story is going to be delving into his psyche as the sea slowly kills him. What better way to break a man who does not fear death than by making him fear it? Different then my usual plot-driven blobs of text. Let's see how my hand tries at a psychological roller coaster, though after writing Unforgiven and delving into a the psyches of a rape victim and his rapist—even though that was 3 years ago and I barely knew ANYTHING—I think I'll be fine };)
Oh, and I've never played the first Assassin's Creed. I think I've got a pretty good grasp on Altaïr's character, though. I tried watching a play through then got so fed up with his arrogance I had to stop and go back to watching Tobuscus fail at Brotherhood.
/Long Author's Notes.
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With love,
the Moose.