AN: Okay. I know. Another fanfic. My mind just keeps on working, I cant stop D: I'm a fan of the Assassin's Creed, and decided to write a story for one of the characters. And it is zzz one and only Altair. Read on and enjoy!
What We Can't Have
Order.
Everything is in order, from the grandness of the Universe to the complexity of the cells. Nothing could break their built structure, it just goes according to an already written plan.
So what if I told you what everything strived for could be breakable? For example, Fate. Could one perhaps make a mistake that could alter its direction, the conclusion of what was to happen? Could one even dare to try?
How could one possibly perform such an act? And if one, dare I say, does alter the direction of which Fate has chosen for us, does it still mean it is going according to the plan?
The things that are meant to take place will take place, it is simply inevitable. And yet... could it still be broken?
Chapter One
1190, Damascus, Syria
"Farah!" a rough male voice echoed against the walls of the room, maybe even rattling them by its ferocity. It shook Farah's insides, that was for sure. The girl quivered in fear and retreated deeper into the shadows.
Please, she begged. Please somebody help me. But, like always, no one did.
No one would.
"You dare disobey me? Me!" the voice roared, fury lacing it. Farah covered her mouth with her hand to stifle the sobs. Loud and heavy footsteps marched her direction, and all Farah could do at the moment was pray that he wouldn't find her. Please, please, please.
An amused grunt escaped lips and filled the space, and she, in the dead silence, slowly brought her knees up against her chest. The room was eerily quiet, even the roars and shouts of the man, and it triggered uneasiness in her. Where was—
Male features suddenly came into view, black eyes gleaming with demise. Farah shrieked in panic and scrambled back, her spine hitting the back of the wooden table she hid under.
"Found you," her father roughly said and latched onto her arm. She instantly started fighting back, her legs shooting forth and her body flailing like a fish out of water.
Her father dragged her out from under the table, and kicked her hard in the stomach, provoking her tiny body to roll across the floor. It instantly erupted in waves of unbearable pain, and all Farah could do at the moment was to not start crying—a weakness her father loathed.
He stomped up to her and grabbed her by the hair, emitting a whimper from her. He dragged her up to her shaking legs and forced her to face him sideways. "You will wed Edwardo, understand sweet daughter?"
Farah closed her eyes at the way he sneered the words 'sweet daughter', and felt her throat tighten.
Edwardo de Pablo, the man twice her age she had to marry. But she wouldn't. By God, she wouldn't dare. Not only was he quite older than her but he also was the literal characterization of a human pig.
From the information she had secretly gathered, Farah found out the vile things that man operated behind his overused public status. He raped his slaves and stole from his people. He slaughtered innocents and it mattered not to him if they were women, children, or even old. He was vile, and he was disgusting. And she was to marry the epitome of Hell?
Never.
Not now, not today, not ever. She was her own and she would stand up for herself—because no one else did and will—even if her father was to beat her to the very ground itself. If she was to marry de Pablo, Farah would be going from one abuser to another. Not to mention all the unlawful things he'd do to her. He was far from husband material, and she was far too proud to level herself with a nefarious being such as he.
"I don't," she at last croaked out with mustered vehemence. "And I never will."
"Is that so?" Her father literally spat on her cheeks with the force of his gritted words, and tightened his grip on her hair. Farah offered no response.
"Then let me show you the errors of your way," he hissed into her ear. And so he did. Farah tightly closed her eyes and held back her cries as he beat her for long, torturous hours.
-x-
1190, Masyaf
Altair Ibn La-Ahad stood before his master, Al Mualim, and awaited orders. His master calmly gazed up from the piles of paper scattered across his desk and at his student, forming a short nod of acknowledgement.
"Your next target is a Templar from Europe, Edwardo de Pablo," Al Mualim informed him. Straight to business, just like Altair preferred it.
"What are his crimes?" he asked.
"He stands between the Brotherhood and peace. De Pablo steals from his people, and when they're unable to pay him, he turns them into slaves and sells them for money. He's aware of our just Creed and wishes to eliminate it."
"And eliminate him, I will. Where does he reside?"
Al Mualim clasped his hands behind his back. "Damascus. He has a palace in the rich district. The Rafiq shall fill you in with the details."
The assassin formed a stiff nod, and turned on his heels to depart.
"Bring justice to the Brotherhood, Altair," his master calmly called out from behind him. And bring justice he would. He turned to a corner and instantly vanished from sight.
-x-
1190, Damascus, Syria
"Oh, Altair!" Rafiq Kadar greeted him as Altair accessed the Assassin's Bureau through the roof.
"Safety and peace, brother," he saluted as strode inside.
Rafiq Kadar was a retired assassin, and thus he spent his quality time selling and purchasing Persian carpets whilst keeping an eye on the city for any Templar and Crusader acts.
Altair walked up to the wooden counter and informed Rafiq of his target. "He is almost always guarded. He rarely leaves his palace, and deems it wise to perform his deeds under the cover of the night. I have learned that he will sell slaves tonight at the poor district. That is where I will take his life. Is there more I should know?" The Rafiq shook his head and wrote the information down in his black book of records. He handed him a pure feather to mark.
Altair took it, placing it inside a pocket to his side.
"You did well, Altair. You are welcome to rest here until the time of your mission," he kindly offered. He was an old man—nonetheless dangerous as any assassin should be—and thus Altair respectfully declined his kind gesture. The Rafiq nodded, not pressing any further.
"May fortune favour your blade, brother."
With that prayer, Altair departed back into the hectic city to gain more valuable information on his target. One might learn something of value. Since it was day time, he was confident the gossipers were having the time of their lives.
-x-
1190, Damascus, Syria
"Lady Farah, at least take your cloak!" her servant called out from behind Farah's running figure.
"I think after what I've been through, I'll survive without my cloak, Sarah," she shot back as she threw open the front doors. The guards allowed her passage. Her father's doing, knowing a dog would never stray too far from home? Sarah fell silent behind her, and Farah didn't hesitate stepping out of the palace grounds.
"Farah, where are you going? Come—" her mother asked but was interrupted by Farah releasing a, "Mother, please!"
Her mother fell into silence as well, giving her daughter enough time to sniff back the burning tears. "Come back soon, my dearest..." her mother softly murmured.
Farah quickened her pace down the streets. She had yet again protested, and her father had yet again beat her. Her mother was powerless to stop him, and rightly so. Every time she did, her father would pound his meaty fists into her after he had taken care of Farah. Her mother would then swell and bruise and bleed, and Farah would watch her mother suffer for her crimes.
Well, crimes in her father's eyes.
That is why her mother no longer interfered, no longer voiced her opinions, fearing she'd lay in bed for weeks to come. But Dominica would cry for her daughter's suffering; she would pray for her well-being and, watching her own husband abuse their own flesh and blood, wish death upon him.
What would happen to Farah if she was to marry Edwardo for reasons other than love? Would he abuse her, treat her below him, and then after Farah has given birth, beat her child like her father once did her, and she'd have to helplessly watch it unfold before her eyes?
The answer to those questions came as easily as breathing: yes. He would ruin her and she would quiver in fear just at the sight of his presence.
At the moment, Farah feared him not. She loathed him and used the hot energy of her hate towards him as her strength. She would fight both tooth and nail for her life. Her freedom. They would not take that away from her; she would not let them.
Farah barely left the safety of the palace grounds, and she did so with a servant and few guards. Now, she was alone, Farah thought, bewildered. Now, she was... free?
Not quite believing her eyes, she twirled around and took in the beauty of Damascus. Six full-moons have passed since her embarking from Europe. Due to her father's position in his circle of powerful entities, they were forced to travel, but she nonetheless loved the freshness this city brought forth. Unlike the cold, frosty Europe, the climate here was warm, sunny and blissfully ravishing.
The sun bathed her with its shimmering rays and caused her to sigh out in tranquillity. Now this was life.
Suddenly giggling, Farah once more twirled around, and abruptly halted. She brought her fingers to her lips and brushed them across the soft, pink flesh. Did she just...giggle?
Farah barely laughed. Even smiled. Now that she had freely let one escape was too astonishing to her. Gradually, her lips lifted again and Farah soon found herself beaming. She literally loved this warming feeling. This...freedom.
Give it up? No, never. Now that she had gotten a brief taste of it, she was suddenly thirsty for more.
Watching the civilians of Damascus go on with their daily routines—shopping, selling, gazing and with their kids playing—Farah leisurely blended into the crowd and disappeared.
It wasn't after hours of hours of wandering, laughing and, yes, even playing with children, reading them a book she bought from the Souk under the chilling shade of a tree, that Farah decided to at last sit down on a shaded bench herself.
Leaning back and resting her weight on her palms, she tilted her head up and exhaled deeply. What a hectic day it was...
Feeling her bare feet—she gave away her shoes to a poor lady, knowing she'd need them more than Farah—brush against the warm, rugged sandy ground, Farah lazily smiled.
She never wanted this day to end. And prayed it would stretch as long as it possibly could.
A sudden welcoming melodious voice broke the silence, the sound calling out loud and clear.
Farah hummed with the melodious tune of the man uttering it—even if she didn't know what he was saying. But, spending her time in this holy city, Farah knew it was a call for some kind of prayer for the civilians. It boomed across the land and the skies five times a day, and each time the civilians obediently responded.
They'd even close down their shops, rush to the sphered building that held the prayer, and then stand in straight rows next to each other, their shoulders brushing at the closeness. People never did that in Europe, it was...intriguing watching it happen before her eyes.
But what Farah found utterly mesmerizing about it was the fact that if there was no space in that sphered building, people would easily perform their prayer outside—on the very ground itself. After they were done, everyone would greet the other with a smile and go on with their daily routines—until it called for prayer again.
The soothing voice of the man ended, causing silence to greet her ears. The pedestrians shuffled before her, some walking with their friends, some alone, and others with their families and children.
Farah spotted an average man suddenly pick up his naughty boy, earning a giggle from the infant, and place him on his broad shoulders. He held the child's hands and gazed up with a smile. The child gazed down at him with obvious adoration and love. His wife chuckled and patted her husband's back, which earned her a kiss on the forehead from him. Farah could almost imagine the female purring in content.
Her chest constricted painfully, and Farah couldn't stop the pout that suddenly tugged at her lips.
I want something like that, she thought. A loving family; a husband who adored you, children who loved you, the atmosphere filled with mercy, affection and bliss, and a home that welcomed you. As if they were a dream she could never hope to attain, Farah lowered her eyes.
The civilians leisurely started to lessen, the streets emptying by each passing moment. Sighing, Farah glanced up, smiled at the blue sky, angled her head to the side, and suddenly stilled.
There, right beside her, sat a man cloaked all in white. She slightly shifted. He didn't seem like he was in a hurry. Half of his face was shaded by the hood swung over his head, and all kinds of weapons—deadly weapons—decorated his muscular form.
He possessed a sword swinging at his side and a thick steeled blade strapped against his shoulder blades with the support of brown leather. Other styles of blades protectively hugged his form, from the broad lines of his shoulders to the angles of his hips.
Farah gulped at the heavily guarded man before her, and hastily looked away. Then found herself gazing back up at him, his peculiar vibrant aura luring her eyes to him like a deadly mermaid would a sailor.
He sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin positioned atop clasped hands. He stared down rather than forth, and sat in such an eerie silence, Farah swore he looked dead if it weren't for the even rise and fall of his shoulders.
With her eyes skidding down, she witnessed his cloak depart from the sides, revealing black slacks and knee-high warrior boots. He possessed a knife strapped to the side of his boot, and it gleamed dangerously sharp when the sun caressed its form.
Brows furrowing, Farah glanced up at him and held her gaze. Why was he armed as if he was going to annihilate an entire army? Was he some kind of bandit? A guard? But the latter seemed impossible for guards wore a different attire. And if he was a bandit, why wasn't he in hiding? Why would he display himself to the public, for all to see? Hence, if he was not a bandit, then who was he?
Did he have freedom? Farah found herself suddenly wondering.
He looked like someone who had freedom. Hell, he radiated an aura of supremacy. He almost seemed...unstoppable.
With just a swing of that sharp sword, Farah was sure pockets would start emptying. She knew she would empty hers.
As though feeling a pair of eyes on him, the man's head jerked up and he, as slowly as one can be, angled his head to Farah's direction. She couldn't stop the sharp gasp that suddenly escaped her lips, and most importantly, couldn't look away. He arrested her in her sitting position.
The male, now shifting his posture and resting his elbow on his right knee, his left hand on his thigh, the wrist flicked backwards so as to permit the sharp angle of his left elbow to point directly at her figure, slightly leaned backwards, and allowed his shadowed gaze to study her.
Farah blinked at him, and rather admired his sloped nose, the tip angled stubbornly—but that only complimented his masculine features. Her eyes dragged down to his full, luscious lips, and she had to swallow deeply to keep her eyes averted from that area.
He had a scar marking the right side of his mouth, cutting through the thin specks of beard, and narrowing down to the curve of his stubborn chin. He possessed a sharp jawline and an angular face, almost angelic with a mix of deadly.
His skin was sun-kissed, indicating that he, indeed, spent more time outdoors rather than indoors. Yes, free indeed.
But even with what was revealed of his face, she could not make out the entirety of his features due to the shadows cast by his angular hood. A shame.
Farah stared forth more than it was welcome and, noticing her mistake, hastily gazed down. Red spilled over her cheeks, and she fidgeted. Still feeling the male's penetrating eyes on her figure, she gradually lifted her lashes up and formed a friendly smile.
"Salam," she said, smile never faltering. Farah was learning the Arabic language, knowing it'd be easier to communicate by herself rather than bringing a translator with her every time she stepped outside. The word meant peace, and was almost instantly returned to the spoken party.
But this man did not return her greeting, no. He examined her further, as if memorizing every curve in her face, and then simply glared away. Glared. Even with his eyes hidden behind the arched hood, Farah still felt the heaviness of it, and slightly retreated back her own gaze.
Had she done something wrong? Was Salam not the right word to use while greeting someone? Still in doubt, Farah thought on.
The man simply rose to his feet and strode away. Even his stride presented unmistakable dominance and authority. He left an air of confidence in his wake, and Farah found herself slightly envying the man.
Clearly by the way civilians stepped out of his way like he was some kind of lethal weapon, she acutely knew someone like her father or, she hissed, Edwardo de Pablo, would quiver in fear before him.
And she really wanted them to quiver in fear of her.
Watching the man walk away, she didn't know how or when, Farah lost absolute sight of him. Shrugging, she got back to enjoying the city's tranquillity.
-x-
1190, Damascus, Syria
Altair stared down at the people below from atop a rooftop. He was crouched low, the position blending him well with the darkness of the night despite his silvery outfit.
"Were you followed?" a rough male voice asked Edwardo—who Altair, from the information he'd gathered around the city, knew him to be the infamous dealer of slaves. The said man grabbed his overflowing belly and scratched it, saying, "Not in this life time." The buyer of the slaves nodded, giving his guards the order to take hold of the captives.
Edwardo opened his fat palm and awaited for the cash to flow down like rain.
Altair gave the scenery below a sharp lookover, taking every individual and outcome into account. With his trained eyes, he gazed back at Edwardo, who was receiving his promised gold, and then at the guards.
With de Pablo now distracted with the cash, the buyer with the slaves, and the guards by positioning them in a straight line, the assassin knew it was the right time to act. And so he did, ever so gracefully.
Legs sprinting into motion, Altair confidently leapt down, his fall emitting no sound. When his feet made contact with the ground, his mind already calculated how everything would take place. Moving with skill and flexing with the shadows, he mercilessly aimed two guards in the spine with his blades. With a thud, they fell.
As did the other two who had witnessed the act.
And the other four.
"Assassin!" one guard at last let out, spotting Altair emerge from the shadows. But by then, it was rather too late. Altair silenced him with a punch to the throat, evidently crushing his trachea. The man gurgled, and the man fell.
Acting faster than the blink of an eye, he withdrew two more daggers and nailed six of the guards out. Still clasping the two daggers in his hands, he turned his attention on his target.
While Edwardo hid behind his four guards, the buyer hid behind his five. Angling his head at the challenge, Altair allowed a slight devilish curve to lift the corners of his lips.
He stole a step forward, and all the guards gripped at their swords. Without squandering another second, he ran and, jumping, kicked against the surface of a wall. Speedily redirecting his movements to the guards poised before the buyer, his feet skimming across the rugged surface, he pushed forth, and used the pressure against the wall to his advantage.
When two of the guards leapt towards him, Altair flew above them and flipped mid-air. Landing behind them, he instantly daggered them straight in their necks, drawing warm blood.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Edwardo and his guards attempting to escape, and acted quickly. Sending the other three guards of the buyer to the Afterlife, Altair sprinted forth, jumping atop a dead body.
He rose high in the air, right above the buyer's frozen shocked face, and whipped out his Hidden Blade.
Shink.
Roughly landing atop his enemies chest, he pierced his sharp blade into his neck, sending them both to the ground. Sheathing back his Hidden Blade, Altair straightened. He took hold of the key and tossed it at one of the slaves—who watched him with awe and fear.
Squandering no more of his time, he bolted into action, running after Edwardo's escaping form. Withdrawing two more blades from his boots, he nailed two of the guards to the very guard. They shrieked out in pain, and unflatteringly slumped down to their deaths.
From all the way there, Altair could make out the harsh panting of his enemy, Edwardo. He spotted his belly jiggle up and down due to the force of his run, and leapt up atop a building. He climbed fast to the roof and quickened his pace.
It wasn't that hard to reach Edwardo. Or the two remaining guards. While de Pablo ran on land, he ran alongside him atop the roofs, his sharp gaze never leaving his enemies.
"Where did he go?" de Pablo yelled, holding up his belly as he escaped. The two guards tossed a glance back, didn't see the assassin's approaching form, and released relieved laughs.
"We lost him!" one guard naively informed. Edwardo sighed loudly, gradually decreasing his pace. Altair took that moment to act and jumped down from the roof, never once decreasing his pace, and never once showing any hesitation as he cut the throats of the two guards open.
They silently fell to their knees, and then their death, only leaving their corrupt leader standing. But not for long. Altair whipped out his Hidden Blade and aimed.
But before he could, Edwardo released a sudden amused laughter. The assassin paused midway, his brows furrowing.
"Oh, assassin." De Pablo chuckled, gradually turning to face him. "What a little, naïve assassin you are."
Altair instantly grabbed de Pablo by the collar and drew his fat, sweaty face closer to his shadowed one. "The only little thing here is the meaning of your life, Templar. Now, let me introduce my blade to your throat."
Edwardo's grin widened. "Did you really think I'd come unprepared for such a lovely night?"
"What do you mean?" Altair questioned. Edwardo chuckled louder. Then, everything clicked. Enemy. Ambush. Before Altair could dodge the coming attack, de Pablo abruptly gripped his wrists and kept him rooted in place. Altair bared his teeth at him, nearly gnashing them in the process.
The sharp point of an arrow slammed into his left shoulder, causing muscles to tear and hot blood to ooze out. Edwardo suddenly released him and stomped backwards, his ever present grin widening his red, fat cheeks. Altair growled low.
"How foolish," he said. "I expected more from an assassin. But I'll give it to you, you pest. You did well killing off the guards and freeing the slaves, because now I've enough hate to slaughter you. All of you. But I won't. Not tonight. Enjoy the poison, assassin." De Pablo snickered, splaying his arms apart. "I hope it does justice to your body."
Altair ground his teeth together as he broke the arrow's end, tossing the stick aside. His vision slowly started to blur, and his knees weakened, the poison taking its toll.
Grabbing his blade, he dizzily targeted de Pablo's figure. A sudden glint of light from atop a building instantly caught his attention and, without a moments thought, he threw his blade across the air and buildings and into the shadowed corner.
After a heartbeat, a body slumped all the way down to the ground.
"Oh, you got him," Edwardo provided with a sigh.
Gritting his teeth to stay awake and kill Edwardo de Pablo once and for all, Altair took a few steps towards him. His enemy shook his head and began walking away, never stopping but rather whistling an uneven tune into the breezy night.
Altair's vision completely blurred and his knees suddenly gave out. With a loud thud, he fell face-forward to the ground, his shoulder and body burning to dangerous degrees.
His lids slowly started to close, and as much as he fought to stay awake, his body refused to obey him. His muscles froze and, after a few heartbeats, his eyelids finally drifted shut. He was sucked into oblivion.
Altair Ibn La-Ahad, the grand assassin and Al Mualim's favourite student, had failed his mission. He allowed an enemy to escape. He, the son of Umar Ibn La-Ahad, had weakened to a shaming point and let a Templar run loose.
With rage unlike any other, Altair roared at the deafening oblivion, and fell into the depths of Hell.
-x-
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