Author's Notes: As you can see, my dear lovely reader, I am going through the previous chapters, aside the first one naturally, and revising parts that I find be rather repugnant. And the plan is, once I am satisfied with that, to completely redo Chapter Four, because, though I like the concept, it felt rushed. Probably because it was. Curse those bloody smoke detectors...I sincerely believe that this version is much better than the last. Of course, that could simply be a brief moment of uncharacteristic optimism on my part.
Low Place Like Home
. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . .
Save yourself from Hell
"Mother, I had another dream last night."
Echoed words so far away, from another time another place.
"That assa…I mean, that man was in it."
A vast canvas painted in varied shades of crimson, and a ginormous black disc hung suspended in the air.
"Again."
Amongst the tapered peaks of the rooftops was an intricately carved cross, swirls loops and sharp knots decorating the four expanses, and upon this emblem was a small figure perched on the top most limb, shrouded in darkness.
"Mother, what does it mean?"
Wind passing through fluttering feathers. A yellowed elongated beak, emitting an ear-shattering cry. And a pair of sharp sharp talons clenching and unclenching. Clenching and unclenching towards the figure.
"Why do I see his face every time I close my eyes?"
They jumped. Down, down, down they rapidly descended towards the ground. Air whipping through dark auburn curls, green eyes stinging with tears, the landscape melded into one as an endless stream of blurred colors and indiscernible shapes. The ground-if there was one-drew closer and closer.
"Is this some sort of sign from God?" [1]
Hands, white as white could be, decaying flesh hanging from the bone, fingers impossibly long unfurling from the black underneath, erected towards the sky. Reaching for the figure.
"When you're older, perhaps I'll tell you…"
The faces soon followed suit. They too rose from the inky darkness, lacking eyes and noses and ears and mouths. Upon their foreheads red crosses were branded into the rotting flesh. Their voices gathered into a collective choir of forlorn [2] moans groans and screams.
"Tell me what? Mother?"
Into the sea of destitute faces and eager hands and blazing crosses did the figure drown. They rose from the depths abruptly, shoving and striking out at the dead souls clutching at the figure's body. The darkness that had once shrouded them was melting away, replaced with the decomposing white that slowly devoured their skin.
"Worry not, my love."
The lone cross in the sky hung as both a beacon of hope and omen [3], but the figure looked to it for salvation regardless. They thrust their arm into air and grabbed for the icon. But it was to no avail for the dead souls intercepted and dragged the figure down.
"Go back to sleep."
A familiar screech. Wings soaring through the air. Talons. Golden eyes.
Jacqueline awoke with a start, a silent scream ripping from her throat. Her undeveloped chest heaved as her lungs desperately fought for every ragged breath. A violent tremor racked through her body, which made her baby teeth continuously click together. A bead of sweat rolled down the expanse of her face, and into the dip of her neck where the scarce curls clung to her damp skin.
She hazarded a glance into the darkness of her room, almost certain a dead soul or ghostly hand or a hostile eagle would be staring back, then eased herself on to her back flat. The breath she had subconsciously withheld gushed past her trembling lips.
"Again…it happened again…" She whispered.
Her small feet gingerly landed on the floor, and she wearily hoisted herself into a sitting position. Using the heels of her palms, she rubbed the sleep-and remnants of the nightmare-out her red eyes. [4]
"Why…?" She didn't have the answer. Her mother didn't have the answer. Her father-was it acceptable to refer to him as such?-certainly didn't. Not even the restless monsters hiding in the shadows [5] offered suggestions.
There was only one question she could provide an answer to, one factor that was discernible from the rest of her chaotic psyche.
Some sort of nightmare hounded her sleep, virtually every night, since that fateful Red Day a year ago. The one when she saw the assassin with gold eyes.
She spared another look around her room through her fingertips. But, as most know, when staring into the darkness for far too long the mind conjures false images. So, when little humanoid creatures began to dance around each other in circles, she decided that then was the time to go see mother.
The trek between her and her mother's room was brief, five steps really. What should've taken a mere few seconds, however, gradually turned into a minute for a noise had stopped her dead in her tracks. A low, very muffled, very faint humming from the kitchen. [6]
It was against her better judgment, defied all common sense, and everything in her begged her to ignore it and crawl into bed with mother. But what eight year old has the capability to dismiss their ever-growing curiosity? Jacqueline was no exception.
As she drew nearer to the kitchen, what she had thought to be soft humming became clearer.
"So, your master has finally sniffed us out?"
It was her mother. Who was she talking to?
"I knew this day would come eventually. Just not so soon."
It was not their native tongue she spoke in, but the language of the Arabs. [7] Which meant that the mysterious visitor was neither English or French, but a child of Eastern soil.
"We come for you and the child."
A man's voice, laden with the gentle yet prominent rolls of tongue and vague slurs [8] so commonly found on the lips of Arabs. [9] Jacqueline always found the accent to be charming, and even though this man's voice made the corners of her lips tilt upwards, it was the emotions it wrought that ceased all movement.
Confidence that border-lined arrogance, an assurance that he was not to be trifled with. It belonged to a person who demanded respect and so easily received it without hesitation.
"Al Mualim is aware of your presence here, is aware of the child's existence, and demands you to be brought to Masyaf." The man said.
She could picture her mother's thin brow narrow, her pretty mouth pulled into the slightest of sneers, and weight leant into one protruding hip.
"And upon my refusal?" That was her mother's rebellious tongue.
"Dead or alive was never specified."
"Altaïr!" Another man, though nowhere near as cynical or foreboding. "You and the boy will not be harmed, which was direct order, but you will come."
"Of course we shan't be harmed. We are but mere investments, tools meant to be used for his 'benevolent' cause. 'Twould be wasteful. But as a mother, my concern lies with my child, and I'd be damned if I ever allowed that monster to lay his claws on him. Tell your master he can hang himself and your misguided creed."
The pregnant silence that followed was heavy with tension, felt even from where Jacqueline hid. She lowered herself to the ground until both of her knees supported her. She bore her upper weight in to her palms, and crept forward ever so slowly. The light from the lantern was dim and barely spilled into the hall. Many could pass through without detection, so long as they remained as silent as the dead.
Considering the exchange, without discretion she (and her mother) could be.
Cautiously, one hand followed the other, a knee shuffling after its partner, and her breath ghosted passed her trembling lips. The tension, she sensed, caused her heart to beat faster, and her fear brought the image of a black moon in a red sky with a large eagle and a sea of the dead to mind. Her crawl ceased for a moment long enough to breathe the air she withheld and clear her head. No need to dwell on a horrific fantasy when reality was just as terrible.
Her mother stood before the two strangers with her thin arms crossed over her chest and one hip leaning to the side. Her brow was furrowed slightly with her lips pulled into the faintest of sneers, a lovely blank canvas to most. However, it was the daring arch to ridge and the tug to those luscious lips that revealed the challenge she posed.
Jacqueline averted her gaze away from her mother to the men across the way. And what she saw nearly made her arms collapse from shock.
Both, upon first glance, appeared to be twins with their matching robes. Starch white like the caged cooing doves she had seen in the seasonal caravans, with hoods to match. There was no denying the red sashes either, or the emblem glistening in the faint light. She certainly didn't need to count the numbers of fingers both men possessed to know the fourth one on their left hands was gone, remembered only by the smallest of nubs.
Assassins.
"So be it."
In perfect unison, as if the act was practiced routinely, the men rotated their heads until both sets of eyes were staring directly at her. One pair glittered maliciously, and with the flicker of a dying flame, she could see the liquid gold iris.
It didn't take her much time to realize she had been spotted, and even less to register the ominous presence and cold sweat that rolled in waves down her back.
Again, the sea of decaying flesh and the hostile eagle looming overhead sprung forth.
Run.
With one last burst of energy, the tiny flame in the lantern burned out, taking with it the remainder of light and sight.
The house was bathed in total darkness.
[1] I'll leave it up to you which deity she speaks of.
[2] Accidently wrote THEN typed "Forsworn".
[3] There be no bashing of religion-whether it be Christian or not-here. Be a bit too hypocritical if I did, and hit too close to home for me. (If you get my drift.)
[4] As in blood-shot. (I'm realizing that some may not understand what I'm saying in particular moments of my work.)
[5] I'm referring to when your mind plays tricks on you when you're sitting in a pitch-black room and you just stare. Psychological stuff and all that.
[6] I…have no idea what that area would've been called during that time.
[7] Though I despise the whole idea of political correctness, I'm not out to offend anyone, and I know not if this would be.
[8] As much as I love the accent, I wish Alex Hutchinson had kept Phil Shahbaz as Altaïr's voice actor. Gah, I love that man's voice.
[9] Seriously, I don't know if that's offensive. My apologies if it is. (No sarcasm.)