Today I went to my favorite spot in the Garden for a little solitude and meditation. Apparently one of my students, Omar, had the same idea, for he was seated in the exact spot I often return to.

Omar is a new Assassin with only three missions under his belt. He shows tremendous potential but lacks confidence - except when he wields a blade. For this reason I've taken him under my wing and have resolved to drive the self-doubt from him by any means necessary.

When I approached him in the Garden he jumped up so quickly I was afraid he would fall right over the edge of the cliff. He apologized for disturbing me and laughed nervously when I pointed out that surely it was I who had disturbed him. The poor boy did not know how to respond.

It is probably wicked of me, but sometimes I cannot resist presenting my students with some off-handed comment to knock them off balance. My potential wickedness aside, it does benefit an Assassin to be as nimble of mind as he is with foot and blade.

I invited him to sit and we discussed his latest mission. It had gone well, save for the unexpected arrival of a guard as the deed was done. Omar dispatched him, but not before the guard's blade had grazed his cheek, leaving an ugly gash. He will bear the scar for the rest of his life.

We fell to silence, then Omar hesitantly spoke: "It is said a Templar gave you the scar on your own cheek."

"No," I replied curtly, leaving no room for further questioning on the matter.

Omar quickly apologized, realizing he had crossed an invisible boundary. I sent him away telling him I would see him in the training ring in the morning.

My thoughts of meditation were displaced by memories as I traced the line of scar tissue with my finger.

After an assassination I crave motion and often walk for hours as I reflect on the mission and the life I've taken. So it was that I walked through the nighttime streets of Damascus, the shadows and side streets protecting me from the alert patrols.

I was preparing to take to the rooftops when I became aware that I was being followed; a pair of watchful eyes marking every step I made. I turned, heading toward a dark alley. Quickly hoisting myself up onto a beam, I waited.

When my pursuer appeared, creeping along in the darkness, I dropped behind him, throwing him against the wall. My blade was at his throat before his heart thought to skip a beat.

"You will tell me who you are or you will die," I threatened.

I can still hear his brave reply quite clearly. "I am Azzam, son of Tamir!"

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. His voice betrayed his youth. I withdrew my blade but held him against the wall. He was nothing more than a gangly boy. Even in the dim light I could see the hatred and pain that burned in his eyes. I had killed his father, after all.

My words to him were cruel. "Run home to your mother, Azzam, before her grief is doubled." I shoved him away from me, the bitter irony of the situation stirring my own memory. I knew this boy's blind rage well - had felt it after a Crusader had slain my own parents.

With such intimate understanding, why I turned my back is a mystery. This boy had tracked me, an Assassin. But still, he was an innocent and I would not raise my blade against him. I was walking away when I heard him yell. As I turned, his blade bore down on me, aiming for my neck.

Some conspiracy of fate decreed that my effort to dodge would save my life but grant me a vivid reminder of the day. The blade bit into my face as I reached for his wrist, still determined not to harm him. I swept his feet from under him and pinned him, throwing his sword away from us.

"Someday you will understand. Your father was an evil man who had to be stopped." I had planned on rendering him unconscious and leaving him. Why I was explaining myself to this boy was beyond me. I only know that I was compelled to do so, even as the blood poured from my wound.

He spat in my face. "I will avenge my father, Assassin. I know where you and the other murderers like you hide yourselves and I will not rest until you are all dead!"

Hoping that he bluffed, I questioned him further. My heart sank as he described in detail the location of the Bureau. I knew that he would do his utmost to follow through with his mad and utterly doomed plan for vengeance. At that moment, he ceased to be an innocent.

I imagined that somewhere, a mother and wife was screaming as my hidden blade slipped into his neck, quieting his rage. "Peace be upon you, Azzam," I whispered. The anger in his eyes was frozen momentarily, then faded as his soul departed. In death he looked like a boy again – a child.

The night was so quiet, I remember. I sat back on my heels, anger and sorrow twisting my gut until a sob threatened to burst forth from me.

As I write these words, I feel it anew. With time, I've come to understand the nature of the empathy I felt. I have many times imagined finding that nameless Crusader and giving vent to my own desire for revenge. Fate is a funny thing. Were it not for that Crusader, I would not be writing these words.

Occasionally, for a fleeting moment, I will think I see the boy's face in a crowd. What I could have done differently… I do not know. I wish there had been another way, but the Brotherhood must be preserved; our secrets must remain hidden. It is, at times, a heavy burden.

Masyaf

1192

iA/N: Some pictures of Altair show the scar and some don't, so I thought the injury could have happened on one of the missions. I chose Tamir because Altair's still reeling from what happened in Solomon's Temple, not to mention being stripped of his rank. Thanks for reading!