A Few Final Words
By GreatAngemon
"You have seen to my books?" Ah, his books. The one source of joy he'd had through all the years.
"Yes," his son said, looking the old man straight in the eye. "Some we went with the Polo's. The rest will go with me to Alexandria."
The old man's heart fluttered for a moment at the name of the great city. Alexandria… He'd had many hopes for that beautiful place. The people were kind, and they had the second greatest library in the world. But now it would be gone.
He'd arranged for a fire to be started in the library after his books had arrived. The knowledge they contained was too tempting to be left. It was a sacrifice, he knew, but one that had to be made, to keep not only the Brotherhood, but the whole world safe.
"Good. Very good." He smiled very slightly at his son, a rare gesture.
"Father, I do not understand… why did you build a library if you did not intend to keep your books-"
"You should go," he said, cutting across his son's words, rather brusquely. Then, trying to sound warmer, he added, "When the Mongol's return, Masyaf must be empty."
Darim's eyes lit up with understanding. "I see. This is not a library at all. It is a vault."
"It must stay hidden, Darim," his tone was devoid of its previous warmth, and now commanding. "Far from eager hands. At least until it has passed on the secret it contains."
"What secret?"
The one thing that he knew Darim would ask and the one thing that he could not answer. It wasn't his secret to reveal. Not yet. Not to Darim. "Go, son. Be with your family, and live well."
Briefly Darim hesitated, but then stepped forward and embraced the old man. Their robes clinked quietly as knives and swords clattered, and Altaïr gripped his son's shoulders for a moment. Then they both stepped away from the other.
Altaïr nodded and then, slowly, almost as though he was forcing himself to do it, he stepped back, not once, but twice. Two long, agonizing steps. As the door to his once-great-library slid closed before him, he watched as Darim, who had been standing, his arm raised across his chest in a respectful salute, turned and walked away.
Altaïr turned, and walked down the well known stone passage, towards the torches that blazed on the wall. One by one, he walked to each of them, and put them out in their own turn. As he did this, he spoke aloud, although only to himself, "In much wisdom, is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow."
Then he walked across the stone floor, past his many bookshelves, and the chairs in a circle in the middle of the room. And now he was remembering his beloved, Maria. "What does it tell you? What do you see?"
And his own voice rang in his head, as he had once answered her question. "Strange visions and messages. Of ones who came before, of their rise, and their fall…"
"But what happens to us, Altaïr? To our family! What does the Apple say?"
Then, and even now, he left her question unanswered, for he had his own questions. "Who were the ones who came before? What brought them here? How long ago?"
"Get rid of that thing!" Oh, how she'd hated the Apple. How he'd hated it himself. But the knowledge it had contained was too much to be wasted, and he'd yearned to know more.
And he'd answered her. "This is my duty, Maria!" And it had been, for his many years. He'd been the man who could tell the future, and he was the one who would pass on the knowledge of his times.
And then another memory, just as clear as he continued walking. "Maria? Where… where are you? Where is she!"
And now Darim's voice, un-aged, entered. "Gone, father. You do not remember? She's gone!"
And now at last he was where he had meant to go. At the far end of the library. Here there was a small alcove in the wall, with a pedestal. And here, he placed the object he had long been carrying, and he heard his words to Darim.
"If you are asked, say that I sent the Apple away. Tell them I sent it to Cyprus, or Cipango, or that I dropped it into the sea. Tell them anything to keep men away from this place. This Apple must not be found, not until the time is right." And now he pressed on a tile in the wall, and two small stone doors slid shut before the Apple, sealing off its golden glow from him.
Without it's warmth in his arms, he felt old age crawling upon him, seeking to overtake him. And he would let it, but first he needed to make sure. His last act of certainty, and defense of the world.
He walked, even slower now than before, to his chair, in the circle he had earlier passed, and sat. And now he took from a pouch on his belt a scroll of parchment and a quill, and began writing.
My name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. I am an Assassin. Many times have I sat here, reading from my tomes, or staring at the Apple. Learning from it. But its power is too great. No man should hold that object.
But I know that if have found this letter, you are the one truly worthy to wield its power. And I tell you now, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, do not take that weapon, for it is indeed a weapon, which is now in slumber behind me. It is great, yes, very great, but it is terrible as well. Its power will make you immortal, perhaps, or it may drive you mad with power and lust for knowledge.
It told me a great many things, least significant of all, your name, but it also showed me the future that may happen if this Apple ever leaves this room. A world of ruin, and fire and death. That is what will happen if you take it.
My name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. I am an Assassin. My mission was to protect the Brotherhood, and the men and women of the world, and to pass on knowledge of this era. I have done this, to the fullest of my abilities. I now leave this choice in your hands, my child. But take an old man's last chance to give any person some help.
Do not take that Apple. Leave it buried here, for all eternity. Its power must never be brought forth, onto this earth.
My name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. I am an Assassin. And this is my last advice to you, Ezio.
He dropped the quill, hearing the tip scratch on the floor. He rolled the scroll up again, and clutched it tightly in his left hand. Then, with his right, he pulled out a small disc from his belt.
It glowed with the same beautiful golden light as the Apple had done, and focused. He felt his memories slide away, from when he had left his son at the entrance to his Vault, to now.
He could not remember ever feeling as old as he did now, but at last, he knew that he was old enough. He had lived long enough. He had taught, and learned and seen enough. And all that he knew would be passed on to live in the future, through Ezio Auditore, and Desmond Miles.
And he smiled. A genuine smile that he was not accustomed to giving anyone, and especially not himself. At last, he was at peace.
"I am coming, Maria," he thought, as he felt cold rush up his body, and felt the tight, almost loving, embrace of death.