Original prompt for this fic:

In the AC games, you end up killing a lot of guards. However, this isn't something that seems to affect any of our Assassins at all. I know it's a video game and all, but I at find myself thinking that not all the guards can possibly be corrupt and evil. Some of them are probably just doing their jobs, and have families and people who care about them.

I'd like to see a fic where any of the Assassins happens across a funeral for one of the guards they've killed. Cue some angsty soul-searching once they see the guard's distraught family and friends mourning his death.

OR

Any of the Assassin's feelings/reactions the first time they kill someone.

I approached this prompt by telling the story of one of the random guards who we might have randomly killed in the game without a second thought. Beware of somewhat abstract thoughts and observations. Hope you all enjoy!

To Sink into the Earth.

It was Altair's father who taught him to write. Not Al Mualim, not the fortress nurses, but it was Umar himself who took the time from his missions and training to teach his son the word of Allah. Umar taught him Bismillah and taught him the Qur'an, even read to him from the hadiths and the work of the Great Poets. From Umar, Altair learned compassion. Love for every man and every woman and every living being born of the breath of Allah. Umar held his son close and tried to make Altair understand- desperately, because in the back of his mind he knew his life could amount to nothing if he could not do this. But alas, Altair had been too young at the time, all compressed energy nervously clutching at every possible thing and latch because it just wanted out already. In his stupidity, in his ignorance, Altair hadn't thought of what would happen to all these stories should his father suddenly disappear from his life. When Umar died, Al Mualim took over Altair's education and taught him a different sort of compassion: that all men were equal under Allah, but that some were more equal than others. From Al Mualim he learned hate and distrust and suspicion. With the Holy War ravaging the land, such burning was not hard to come by. It was Saladin who ordered his father killed, but Altair would not blame the Sultan. It was the wretched Crusaders whose fault it was that battles drenched the vast deserts red, that good women were raped and killed in their homes, that children were slaughtered in the name of their false God, that his father Umar was killed before young Altair's eyes.

The child had never known anger the likes of which he felt that day, that week, those months, that year.

"Why did my father have to die?" he would cry at night, clutching his threadbare wool blanket to his face so he could pretend he was nuzzling against his father's chest. "Why, Allah?"

And Malik would kick him from the cot beside him and tell him to be quiet. "Because of the war, you dumb goat! People die." Malik was only being blunt because he could not truly comprehend Altair's loss. His own father was yet still alive, after all, and he could indulge in his embrace each day if he wished. Altair had no one more, nothing but a deep blazing hatred steaming with all the urgency of a kettle at a boil. He hated every Crusader and every white man. At one time he even began to harbour some resentment towards his own mother- the European woman who'd brought him into this tortured life and then left him with no escape but to himself die for glory.

Al Mualim was not surprised to see Altair diving into weapons training with the greatest ardour.

It was Xavier's mother who taught him to pray. Not the priests, not the knights, but it was his mother herself who slipped away from her duties to teach him how to bow his head in prayer to God. When she was young, she had a lovely singing voice. She used to sing at all the church choirs. But when Xavier was born and her husband went away to the war in Outremer, the Holy Land, she was left alone to fend for her lonesome family. Not being able to read or write, she worked at the small town's only church all her days in exchange for a bit of bread and cheese, and occasionally, if the weather should be so cruel, a roof over their heads that did not drip. Amelie made certain that her boy knew when to stand and when to kneel, when to switch from one psalm to the next. Every night she prayed that her husband would be safe, and taught Xavier all that she knew of God and of guardian angels because she knew in the back of her mind that her life would have been for naught if she could not instil in him a healthy fear and respect for God. From a young age, the bishop himself remarked that Xavier had Amelie's voice- if he could be persuaded to use it. He was always such a quiet child, starry grey eyes brimming with profound insight that only a child pure of the sin of experience could know.

Bishop Moulay could point out the exact moment those eyes stopped shining.

Amelie had not the strength to see Xavier out of their tiny living space. She collapsed in tears and shook all over, sobbing uncontrollably and incessantly. The messenger knight deposited a small trunk of his fallen comrades' belongings and slowly, with much uncertainty, uttered an apology.

"Who are you?" asked Xavier to the stranger, distressed at his mother's suffering.

"I am Robert," said the man sadly. Sadness did not suit him- this knight had broad shoulders and a kingly frame, but nonetheless he hung his head in shame. "Your father has gone to live with God, good child."

"Who did this?" Amelie cried shrilly, her face so red and distorted that the full impact of what had just happened finally hit Xavier flat in the chest. His father was dead!

"The Saracens," the knight named Robert replied, keeping a polite distance from the mourning woman. "An Arab dog cut him down, my lady. Your husband died with much honour. There is nothing-" his voice broke momentarily, but the knight composed himself quickly. "There is nothing to be ashamed of."

At this moment Bishop Moulay's gaze drifted from Robert to Amelie, and then to young Xavier whose face took on a concentration the likes of which he had never seen. The Bishop knew immediately that Xavier would no longer be the next head choir boy in the House of God. Xavier would become something much more.

Master Nazir taught the novices that if a choice must be made, a Crusader should always be killed as opposed to a fellow Arab, no matter how dastardly or corrupt.

"But Allah has declared all life holy," argued Malik, "what right do we have to kill a dutiful man of Franj descent over… say… a corrupt Arab rapist?" The entire class of young boys gasped scandalously. "Never kill the innocent," Malik challenged further, audaciously, "is that not our creed?"

Nazir scratched his beard for a long moment, composing a response. Finally he seemed to have come to a conclusion. He took too long strides forward and slapped the young novice across the face.

"You deserved it," Altair said afterwards when they dispersed from weapons training. Malik gave him a half-hearted glare, halfway in the gateway of argument and halfway nonchalance. "The Crusaders are all infidels who renounced Allah as the one true God, and thus they do not deserve His mercy. They are the worst of the djinn, absolute abominations to mankind. Allah delights in the death of every white skinned infidel killed in His name. It is what Al Mualim has said, and he is wise."

A profound sadness settled over Malik's face. "Do you honestly believe that?"

"Yes, of course!" Like a cockerel, Altair puffed up his chest and stared long and hard into Malik's open face. Already he was readying his every muscle for fight. "Allah the Merciful obviously meant that we should not kill other children of God, but the Crusader infidels are not included in Allah's prohibition, nor under the prohibition of our creed, to never kill the innocent. They have invaded our lands and we are at war, and so it is right to kill each and every last one of them, for by existing they have proven themselves guilty."

Malik pulled Altair aside and dried his forehead of sweat before handing the same cloth to Altair so he could try his face as well. After a while, Malik sighed. "I fight for Paradise, I fight for Allah. My loyalty is with Allah. You, you fight for Vengeance, and you fight for Al Mualim. Your loyalty is to yourself, and that is what makes a man lose his honour."

Unused to such philosophical nonsense from someone like Malik, Altair drew back his fist and struck Malik square on temple for implying that he was a dishonourable man.

Against the discretion of his advisors, Robert de Sable allowed the young stowaway to be let in. "I remember you," he gave a low gasp when at last the boy came to view and wiped off the muck on his face so that his features were at last discernable. "You are the boy Xavier, son of my good friend Pierre St. Lawrence!"

"I am, my Lord." The lanky boy was no less than sixteen years, but had worked himself already to the bone under the ship's deck, unknown to Robert who rested each day in his cabin and took meals of meat and good bread. "I wish to be a Crusader, sir."

To test his dedication, Robert asked him if he was ready to kill in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ.

"I am, Sir." Xavier nodded anxiously, though he himself had not the least idea of what it meant to end a life by his own hands.

"But that would go against God's commandment against killing, does not it?" Robert wanted to see if the boy was able to think on his own, to make his own moral judgments in accordance to the King's plans. Too much thinking, Robert was all too aware, could lead to a man's ruin.

"Well," said Xavier, his jaw shaking from the combined stares of so many men upon him. "I- I don't know."

Robert smiled grimly. "I will tell you, my boy," he leaned forward on his seat, wiping his greasy fingers on a piece of linen. "The commandment does not apply because the killing of Saracens is with the blessing of the Holy Father in Rome. The Saracens are the worst scum of the earth, known for their lives of dissolute sin and of fornication and of thievery. Every dead Saracen is a pleasing sight to our Lord, and to kill an Arab is to be assured of a place in paradise."

Xavier had never even seen a Saracen before. He nodded dumbly, simply wanting nothing more than to be offered a piece of bread from Robert's table and to be given some warmth for the night.

Despite his own assertions, Altair never went out of his way to kill a Crusader. In fact, the first time he killed a Crusader was an accident.

And it had been so easy, for the soldier had a steel plate helm covering his face and looked every bit like an inhuman, like a monster. The soldier discovered Altair while he was on patrol, the assassin's blade buried deep in his target's jugular and the telltale squirts of blood blossoming over the ground on which he had collapsed. There was nothing between them now but the distance between two buildings. On the roof of the next building over, the Crusader was momentarily stunned by the sight but sprang into action quickly enough.

With his left hand reaching back to grab at his bow, his right was already waiting to load with a steel-tipped arrow. Altair was not willing to gamble the soldier's shot.

Altair moved faster. In the space of time between a thought and a word, Altair had thrown a small blade right into the crusader's neck, where his plate armour and chain mantle began and his helmet ended. The man dropped to the ground, a puppet with all its strings cut, and sprawled out dead.

The assassin was not unfamiliar with killing, and had long since had the breakdown that every novice experienced during his first kills. He considered himself numb now, and his split second decision to kill the Crusader guard was justified in his mind. After all, the infidel would have tried to kill him.

It didn't change the disturbing fact that had the interrupting man been an Arab guard, Altair would have fled instead.

After laying his target to rest by closing his eyes and murmuring a brief prayer to Allah, Altair stood and looked in the direction of the dead Crusader. Blood leaked from the mouth openings of his helm. Altair battled with himself- should he give the infidel last rites, or leave him to be found by his own brethren? The crest of the soldier's unit was displayed prominently over his chest, and a red felt cross was pinned over his left breast as a symbol of his loyalty for the Crusade and for his false God.

He was more than surprised when, after lifting the man's helmet from his head, Altair felt a sudden surge of guilt roll up from his chest and into his throat. The man died with his eyes open, and his eyes were warm and dark as potting soil, of the nurturing earth. Somehow, by some demonic trick, this man had the same eyes as Altair's father. Crying out, Altair dropped the helmet and ran but a few paces before he sank to his knees and vomited.

Xavier was not born into aristocracy and hence did not allow himself to even dream of one day becoming a Templar Knight. It was simply impossible, and so he contented himself with pulling on the common footsoldier's mantle and taking on the responsibilities of the Crusader. His mother had not wanted him to go- not her little boy, not when she'd already lost so much. But Xavier had no choice but to leave her behind. Outremer called to him, Jerusalem tempted him, the footsteps of his father haunted him.

Robert de Sable was declared Grand Master of the Templar Knights after some years had passed, and Xavier never saw him again. Still, even though he forbade himself to dream of this, he still thought that maybe if he were to meet with Robert again by some Godgiven chance, perhaps Robert would offer Xavier a spot among the prestigious Templar Knights. It was a silly wish.

Xavier found his days stationed in Acre as a patrolman utterly boring in its seamless monotony. Other soldiers in his platoon were known to bother and harass Saracen women, sometimes even children. They stole treats from their baskets and laughed at the womens' headscarves, sometimes going so far as to touch their bosom against their will. Xavier watched all this with a detached sort of interest, and did not interfere for each man was here for different reasons. Xavier was here to continue in his father's footsteps and to live a life outside of a small town on the edges of France. Others came for the coin, some to absolve their sins, and some just to run from their bitch of a wife. Not all of them had their honour or wits about them.

Xavier killed his first Saracen two years ago during the siege of Acre. It was not a moment to be remembered, since after that Saracen dropped there was another and another to take his place. On the same day Xavier killed his second, third, fourth, and sixteenth Saracen. They had been inconsequential. Whenever one infidel fell, four or five sprang forth.

Like cockroaches.

Xavier was stunned by how heartless he felt in these moments. Certainly as a human being he should mourn death if only to be respectful. To kill a Saracen on the battlefield was one thing. To kill for naught was beyond Xavier's moral decision. It was simply not to be done, lest it sentence his soul to damnation.

He missed his maman dearly. He prayed every night and sometimes during the day to the Mother of God to hold Her protective hand over his mother. He prayed she was not ill. He asked the Archangel Michael to bring parcels of his love to her on her dark nights so she would feel warm when the roof leaked. During the campaigns and battles this had been impossible, but he felt during those times his maman was praying for him.

Altair and Xavier crossed paths many times but never spoke to one another, nor did they ever make eye contact. They did not speak each other's language and made no outstanding efforts to understand each other's culture. Altair had his Qur'an. Xavier had his Bible. Altair had Allah. Xavier had Jesus Christ. Altair was an Arab, or at least appeared so, and Xavier was clearly a Crusader. Altair was a master of throwing knives and scimitars and short swords and hidden blades. Xavier was known as a prodigy of the bow and arrow, the longsword, and the crossbow.

Nonetheless, the two men shared striking similarities to one another that neither of them knew of each other. For example, both Altair and Xavier sorely missed their mothers even though they loathed to admit it, Altair in particular. Both of them were driven by the deaths of their fathers, both were dutiful servants to higher authority. They both prayed daily. Funnily enough, they shaved their faces at nearly the exact times every day before breaking fast in the morning. They both liked the taste of mustard but thought it ruined the natural flavour of lamb. They both liked reading poetry, but they were both horrible at writing it.

If Altair and Xavier had met on common grounds, if one of them could understand the language of the other, perhaps they could have made fast friends. They would have bonded over a plate of lamb, blessedly mustard free. They would have put their religious restrictions aside and Xavier would respect that Altair refused to eat pork and maybe Altair would tolerate how Xavier stank because good Christian men were not allowed to bathe more than once every one or two months.

But it was not so.

The assassin was a smear of white and red in the corner of Xavier's vision. Always suspicious, but Xavier never personally caught the oddly clothed man doing something wrong. His overabundance of weapons did worry him, though, which is why whenever Altair strolled past in his arrogant manner, Xavier's hand flew straight to the hilt of his sword at his waist. Then Altair would do a stupid thing- he put his hands together and pretended to pray or something of the sort, perhaps hoping he could pass as a scholar. It was obvious to any guard that he was obviously not a scholar, especially not with all those weapons, but no man dared strike him down while he was thought to be praying. To do so would be to sentence one's own soul to damnation. He would come into Xavier's vision and slip out of it just as quickly. Xavier never even saw his face.

Altair did know Xavier's face. The man refused to wear helmets on the grounds that it made his face sweat too much. Altair knew this because he'd seen the man take off his helmet many times and wipe his brow and blink out the sweat in his eyes. Eventually he just stopped wearing it, and went about with a bare head. Altair quite liked the colour of Xavier's hair – a dark honey color- and found it rather silly that he would think such a thing. Luckily Xavier was never nearby when Altair found himself stepping in to 'intervene' when innocents were accosted by the guards and knights.

In actual fact, Altair rather liked Xavier and hoped they wouldn't one day be forced to face each other in battle. Xavier had a habit of being very punctual, and Altair could always count on him to be away from his post at certain times of the day. They never fought and Altair had actually seen Xavier laugh once or twice. It made Xavier stand out in Altair's mind since Altair knew his face, knew his voice, and knew the sound of his laugh. He even overheard others calling out for him, and hence even knew his name.

All of this made it astoundingly difficult when Altair was eventually forced into a situation he really did not like. Xavier's sword pointed towards him, with the man's eyes –unshielded eyes, eyes so clear in a face so open without the steel demon's mask- boring into the shadow of his peaked hood. Altair had slipped up. He'd revealed his position, an amateur's mistake, and now two of Xavier's friends lay dead at his feet.

"In the name of God, halt!" Cried Xavier in his limited Arabic. His accent was thick but the words were discernable at least. "Come quiet and there will be no-"

Altair had already flung the blade he was carrying at Xavier, which he sidestepped just in time. "Infidel!" He cursed, and pushed towards Altair with his sword. Walking around the bodies of his fallen comrades, Xavier had to breathe to control his anger. Now he understood why no soldier had ever seen this man do any wrong- to see him commit his crimes was a death sentence in itself.

Xavier became acutely aware of the fact that he was going to die. This man, this assassin, was stronger and faster and more skilled than he was. Xavier was never going to land a blow on him unless he retreated to a faraway distance and picked the man off with a crossbow. But as soon as he turned his back, Altair was going to throw a knife into his spine and that would be it. His duty commanded him to give chase, but his heart- the heart that loved his mother and the heart that felt fear- begged him to flee.

Certainly when he had pulled on his chain and mantle this morning, he had not thought something like this would happen. He had even broken his schedule to buy a piece of sweetcake from the market, and that was why he happened upon several guards giving chase to Altair. Erich and Octavio were of the chase, and Xavier dropped his cake to join them. Now they all laid dead at his feet, pools of congealing blood connecting Altair and Xavier together life and in death.

There was no going back now.

His movements were not of import. Altair had slashed and stabbed and sidestepped and dodged attacks and retaliations and grabs more times than he could remember. He moved with fluidity, lucidity at the edges of his fingertips, barely there, never really gone.

Altair chose not to run. He watched the other man's arm veer sharply to the side in preparation for an attack, and Altair was ready. As soon as he moved, the assassin lurched forward, deflecting his attack with one arm and using the other hand to drive his hidden blade into Xavier's neck.

Hot blood spilled over his hand, down into his sleeves, spurted out in droplets staining his face. Xavier's eyebrows slowly drew together in a frown of weighty anguish. Every detail of his face, the freckles peppering his nose and cheeks, was made clear to Altair in that moment that stretched so tight and thirsty. A soft sound came from his lips, a foreign word that Altair could not understand. The assassin cradled Xavier as his legs lost their footing and eased him to the ground, feeling an odd urge to lay this man properly to rest.

In his years of killing, Altair had come to notice tiny things that people and beasts were ought to do when they were on the brink of crossing over. Even with their lifeblood spilling, they would try to speak- sometimes there was too much blood in their mouths and this was impossible. On one or two occasions one's tongue grew lax and one could even choke on it. Imagine that, choking on the very muscle that was so familiar to you, that helped you eat and love and laugh. What betrayal.

Another thing- no one ever just decided to close their eyes. Oh no, eyes were wild and dancing and crying and shining with all the stars in the sky before they glazed over- a cloud coming to sit over the moon. Altair wondered what they were seeing at these times- Allah, perhaps? Then what would this Frankish soldier see? Did he see his false God, or did he see Allah also? If he could, would his lips form Bismillah?

Altair was not surprised either when Xavier's hand darted up with incredible strength- even in his last moments- to grip at Altair's hood in a desperate attempt to pull it down. To see the face of the man who took his life. Normally Altair pulled away so that his white hood would not be dirtied, but this time he lowered his head and allowed Xavier to see. Glassy grey eyes flecked with blue; disgustingly kind eyes for a Crusader. Was this what Altair meant when he said the Crusaders were the worst of the djinn, absolute abominations to mankind? Did Allah truly delight in the death of every white skinned infidel killed in His name?

"God bless you," said Altair in the tongue of the Faithful, for he felt the strong desire to pray for Xavier. He knew the man was a devout Christian, and would join his hands together in prayer now if he could. Since his consciousness was slipping in and out at the moment, head lolling back and forth, Altair decided he would pray for Xavier. "O Allah! To he among us whom You grant life, help him to live in Islam, and to he whom You choose to die, help him to die in faith." Never had he done this for any guard he'd killed in the past. These words were reserved for Altair's own comrades and fellow assassins, and occasionally an Arab target if Altair felt exceedingly kind.

A moment came where sound abruptly stopped. Smells and feelings removed themselves huddled together and starving. A sliver of existence pulsing strong- the time when the sun, brilliant and full, peaked over the untouchable horizon. If time could be bottled and made to keep, this is what it felt like. Altair felt the exact moment when Xavier's soul left his physical body. The entire world wormed its way back to existence, noise and stench and feverishness bubbling to life with vulgar insistence.

"I'm sorry."

In a trance, in the silence between sleep and waking and sleep again, Xavier felt death insinuating itself through his body from every bitter gasp. Someone was holding him now- the Saracen. No, don't touch me, he wanted to say, leave me alone, leave me be. Let Father Richmond give me my last rites, don't…But instead what came out was a lonely sigh.

Where was God? Where was Michael and the Holy Virgin? Xavier was searching- searching. Maybe God was not looking. Maybe God was not here anymore, not in this world of bloodshed and sad discovery. And why would he remain? Oh- what was it, this profound longing, this thirst for something which cannot be found… In his life Xavier had known the pleasures of food and wine and the sweetness that hid between a woman's legs, he knew what it was to be rich and what it was to be poor. He had treasures of his own. What would happen to them now? What would happen to his maman?

Poor maman! Never did she think that her boy would die before she did, her little Xavier, the one with the pretty voice, the one who was never meant for war. And maybe she was sitting at home now. Could she feel his pain? Xavier himself felt nothing at the moment. Even the pressure on the back of his neck from how the assassin was holding him was a dull sweet presence acknowledged and nothing more.

A green thing sprawled inside Xavier's body, a lazy body, it wasn't long before it edged into his vision and Xavier could not see anymore. He reached higher and higher- was his arm moving? It seemed some other appendage he has never known was moving now. How much time had gone by? He didn't know. What he could not touch was formless, nothing of all things.

He was run through with formless images, fleeting ideas, shapes and colors, tête-à-tête with deep dark eyes looking down on him. A flying eagle, murmured words of reverence met his ear. Papa. Papa used to sing to him when Xavier was small and could not sleep at night for fear of the dark. Papa was not good at singing, and so papa used to just murmur in his deep baritone many loving words that made no sense.

Papa was here, then. Xavier was now struck with a sudden, unexpected guilt. Papa must be angry at him for leaving maman at home all alone. By dying, he had sentenced his family name to obscurity. Maman had no other sons, and all his cousins were sisters. There would be no one to carry on his family name. He wasn't ready to go. Not yet!

I'm sorry, Papa.

The world rolled on, and there were things that Xavier did not know. There were things that no one knew, lurking out there, in the cracks of the rocks and beneath the feet of men. These were things for others to discover, then. There was nothing more left in this world for Xavier.

I'm sorry, Papa. I wish I weren't so stupid. I wish I hadn't gone off to buy sweetcakes today. I wish I hadn't chosen to come to Acre. What a horrible place. I wish I hadn't left maman. I wish I hadn't met Robert de Sable. I wish you weren't dead. I wish

What happens when your words cannot come as quickly as your thoughts can push at your head? What happens then to all the thoughts that don't make it out the narrow doorway?

There was an easy cure: don't speak at all.

But then there was another problem: what if you cannot think and make sense of your thoughts fast enough as the thoughts are fluttering around? Fragments of ideas to be pieced together- what happens to all the pieces that don't get put together in time?

Altair felt his head was close to bursting. His target was eliminated and Altair should return now to Masyaf. But he stayed. He returned to where he left Xavier and followed from a distance when they found and retrieved him.

There was no funeral, no procession through the streets of Acre. Of course not! Death was too commonplace nowadays, and the death of some random soldier from the south of France was utterly inconsequential. Still, the men of the barracks raised a mug of beer in a solemn toast, each of them not able to form the words in their mouths. Xavier, Octavio, and Erich were not important enough for their bodies to be delivered back to France, or in the latter two's case, Germany. Bitterness gathered in the men's mouths, and it wasn't just because of the hops in the beer.

Altair perched himself on a ledge and watched the men down below as they stood there in a circle around the Acre cemetery, where Xavier was buried. The men held themselves up on slack legs with their mouths open, too drunk to cry, not drunk enough to be free of the pain.

"Xavier was a brother to me," one man said to another, and stared hard at the white wood crucifix driven into the dirt where his comrade was buried. What Divine Plan have you, God, in taking a good son from a faithful widow?

"He was a brother to all of us," the other man corrected his friend, taking a long swig of his beer before extending his mug and pouring some of the beer onto Xavier's grave. Octavio and Erich were German, and so their bodies were taken by the Knights Teutonic in the morning and buried at another cemetery. They never even got to say farewell.

One of the men brought a crossbow and set it on Xavier's grave. "They were too short of swords to let us bury Xavier's favourite sword. Hogswash, if you ask me. But Xavier has always felt more at ease with a crossbow, I think."

His friends nodded numbly, "aye, tis fitting. Good thinking, Jean."

Jean set the wood and iron crossbow against the cross and coughed. The coughs turned into dry, heaving sobs. Never would he tell his secrets to Xavier in the night, when Jean received letters from his sick wife back in the Provence and had no idea what to do. Xavier always taught him to pray, and pray he did. But no amount of praying would bring Xavier back now. They shared the worst of times and the best of times. Xavier was a good soldier and a good man, a good brother and an exemplary son. Jean had to be carried away by sympathetic hands, sobbing the entire time.

Altair watched all this from the sky, as God would have watched. If God was even here. He did not understand the words of the men, but he knew their body language. He knew what it meant when men lowered their heads, when their hands shook, when their knees buckled and when they took so much time to look at each other as if to assure themselves that they were yet alive. Altair had put Xavier in that grave, in the ground.

One less pair of lungs to share the air, one less heart beating to the rhythm of life, one less soul walking the earth. This man had a mother and father, perhaps would have gone on to do great things. Maybe he even had children. Altair had just stolen his life away without permission, without right. He had been innocent, having done nothing but to avenge his friends whose lives Altair also took.

Distressed, Altair leapt off the ledge and nearly tumbled right into a thug as he went.

Altair returned to Masyaf and met with Malik, who asked him how the mission went. Altair told him everything except what happened to Xavier- he himself had not yet understood the full implications of that dense moment of crisis, and needed to decipher it himself before he chose to share it. He never told Malik about Xavier, and it was just as well.

Jean and his friends scrounged up some money by drinking one less beer a week to purchase a tankard of beer which they brought to Xavier's grave. On some days they drank it among themselves, reminiscing over the week like Xavier was there with them. Other days they poured it into the ground because sadness was already too thick to swallow.

Xavier's mother was calm. When the knight came to give the news, she had not cried. After he was gone, Amelie took her son's helmet in her left hand and her husband's helmet in her right. She said goodbye to the bishop and walked to the river. She walked along the side of the river and sang low in her breath a farewell lullaby, one that she used to sing to Xavier in his childhood. She tossed the helmets into the running water and jumped into the river. She couldn't follow her husband and son to war, but she would follow them in death.

Once in a while when Altair strolled the cities, he would catch sight of some random guard or knight that reminded him of Xavier. The sound of someone calling out "Xavier" made him freeze in his tracks, though of course the Xavier he knew (did he really know him? Did he have a right to say he knew him?) was long dead. Interestingly enough, Xavier was not the first guard he killed, nor was he the last. Still, it was his visage that Altair saw when he closed his eyes- his face was etched into the backs of his eyelids. It took Kadar's death and Malik losing his arm for Altair to finally learn his lesson. He fell to his hands and knees and screamed that he had been too idiotic to see it sooner. This war of God, this hatred for one another- it had taken so much from them, and for what? Was this war worth fighting? Was Al Mualim worth following if it meant the men Altair had to assassinate were innocent? How could Altair redeem himself in the eyes of Allah if he had already fallen so far?

Time rolled on. Children were born and children also died. Men and women sank into the earth and were blown to the winds by fire. Altair eventually decided it best to outrun the guards instead of killing them. All children of Allah were under His protection, whether they were of the Faithful or if they believed in Jesus Christ. Even the wandering gypsies who believed in Goddesses and animal spirits deserved to be loved. Allah meant for all men and women to be equal, but sadly it was man who took His words and twisted them for their own gain. Only when they passed in death were they truly equal in judgment.

God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son as proof of his faith. Which son Abraham sacrificed varied between accounts: was it Ishmael, the illegitimate son born of a servant, or Isaac, born of Abraham's wife Sarah? Either way, Abraham proceeded to the site of slaughter with a knife and lit a fire, while his son to be sacrificed (either Ishmael or Isaac) trailed behind with a bundle of firewood. In each account with Ishmael as the sacrifice, he was written to be a willing participant, while those on account of Isaac claimed he was tricked.

"O father!," said the Ishmael in one version, "Do as you are commanded. Allah willing you shall find me among the steadfast." (Qur'an 37:102)

"Behold the fire and the wood," said Isaac in the second, "but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?" (Genesis 22:7)

Which son was offered? Which version of the tale was true? Was there a truth?

In the end, neither boy was sacrificed. The Angel Gabriel brought forth a ram to be offered instead.

End.

Djinn are spirits which can be evil or good. But usually when they are spoken of, they are meant to be evil. According to Islamic legend, they can possess people.
Bismillah means "in the name of God". It is used in praise sometimes when one of Allah's faithful observes something profound or beautiful. It is also the beginning of nearly every Sura in the Qur'an.
Saracens are the collective population of Arabs in the Holy Land.
Outremer is another name for the Holy Land.

If the ending was not clear, I was making a jab at how horrible a war over religion is, and how ridiculous and sad the Crusades were. There is always a better way out- man just cannot see it, unfortunately. We are probably all guilty of this. I don't mean to make any comment on any religion in general. I am not Muslim, nor am I Christian. Hopefully I have not offended anyone more than is necessary for a work of this type.

I welcome and encourage all feedback to this fic! Please review. I think there is something magical that happens when a writer receives something in return for their writing. All writers, I think, write with a reader in mind. It means a lot to that writer when that reader responds.