January 8th, 1195

Numbah1367 asks:

"Dear Altair,

When and how did you get the infamous scar on your lip?"

To the anonymous,

I would like to begin with a word of introduction. This entire idea of receiving and responding to letters from people I will never meet nor benefit from seems very foreign, but my editor has been explaining it to me slowly. She tells me that my inquisitors already know my name, my history, and my future. I find this difficult to grasp, but I am trying hard to understand. If there are any mistakes or oddities in the letters that are to come, please bear in mind that all this is new to me.

Now, in response to your question. The scar you are referring to was a punishment for insolence, and a very direct punishment it was.

I will digress:

It was an afternoon many years ago (the date escapes me). I was a brash boy of sixteen, finding my place amidst the rabble of novices that walked Masyaf's halls. Through effort and practice, I rose to the best in my grade, and was given the appropriate respect from my peers.

On that day, our instructor decided to hold a race. A race was a very exciting thing- races determined who was ready to move up in rank and who needed more training. A race could make a man's reputation or defile it. Needless to say when my troupe arrived in the neighboring village we were to use, it buzzed with anxiety.

The village leader was aware of our needs, and had cleared out the rooftops and alleyways for our use. His kfar was under Masyaf's protection, and so he complied peacefully with our requirements.

We all lined up on the widest rooftop, a gaggle of chicks about to leave our nests. Our instructor paced before us, a long blade's tip rested on his palm. He was a very crude man, a fine teacher, but someone who had experienced hardship and crisis.

It was excruciatingly hot that afternoon as he explained the race parameters. When we'd first arrived I'd half-hoped the race would be called off, for the heat was so strong. It beat upon us in waves, and even the shade (where we could find it) offered no respite. Our hoods were the only reason our minds had not yet left our heads, fried to a crisp by the sun's warmth. Sweat dampened the faces and necks of all the recruits, only to evaporate upon hitting the air.

The master, it appeared, remained unaffected. I don't remember any of the things he said or whether they were important. I do know that when he gave the word, I bolted forward. My body obeyed me subconsciously, and the wind felt wonderful on my skin (hot though it was). I was so young, and oh so fast. For a long while I held the lead and nothing could slow me. I was a stallion that had been set free upon the grasslands.

And then…slowly, to the right of my eye, another recruit picked up his pace. He was a smaller fellow than I was then, and very swift. Soon he and I were shoulder to shoulder, leaping in time, scrambling up walls in synchronization. It would have been enjoyable, had we not both been so desperate to win.

As we ran, we began to pant. I was faring well, though my lungs ached and my robes were sullied beyond repair. The recruit beside me, however, was not coping as such. From what I remember, his face was flushed red with heat and exertion, and his movements became clumsy and sloppy.

It occurred to me around then that holding a race on such a day had been unwise, and that we students had been irrational to attend. The heat was so intense that day… it was unbearable simply to stand- to push oneself to the breaking point was just stupid. And yet we did it merely for a pat on the head.

While I was thinking this, my companion collapsed into the dirt. For a moment, I was torn: to stay and help him would be to forfeit victory. To forfeit victory was to forfeit my favor in the master's eyes, to be deemed unready to progress. To stop on the field during a race for any reason was an automatic loss, punishable by demotion and, in some cases, suspension.

But this was my brother, and his life was in danger. Therefore, I skidded to a halt and returned to where he lay, calling his name in my weak voice. I dragged the boy from the sun's relentless beatings and brought him into the shade of a nearby garden, where he slowly began to recover his wits. What little water I had with me I immediately gave to him, the poor wretch. He drank it greedily and coughed up sand.

It was apparent the boy was too sick to move. When I hopped out of the garden to fetch help, our instructor appeared with a few others of the apprentices. I told him of the young man's condition, and soon the entire situation had been taken care of.

Later that day, however, the instructor returned for me. I had been sitting in the bureau with my brothers, speaking earnestly of the race, when he called me out.

"Altair," He began in a tone I did not like, "You stopped out on the field today. I would like to know why."

"You know already, mentor," I told him honestly, "my brother was sick with heat."

"Yet you disobeyed my orders and helped him," My response had been in the wrong, it seemed, for my instructor grew angry, "These tests are designed to pick out the weak and highlight the strong. That boy fell because he was weak."

This reply struck something within me. A blush spread across my cheeks, for he had embarrassed me before my fellows. But he had also made me cross, and though I knew I shouldn't have, I said hotly:

"He was not weak. He is but flesh and blood, and he could not protect himself from the heat of the day because you would not let him."

The master said nothing, but his expression grew dark. I continued to speak, noting that I had gained the attention of my brothers.

"You forced us out on the course despite knowing its dangers. Every single one of your students could have died this day, and you would have considered them 'weak'. It was a fool's errand, and you the fool for it!"

There was silence in the bureau for a long time after, and I began to wish I could take my words back. It was very clear that I had crossed the line; I had shown an Assassin extreme disrespect.

"Altair," My instructor said calmly. I almost apologized right there, "Close your eyes."

I bowed my head and did as I was commanded, knowing that the gaze of every man in the room lay on me. Fearfully, I wondered what the teacher intended to do.

I learned soon enough- a searing pain spread across my mouth. I cried out, and then my tongue was cut as well. Soon my entire jaw was wet with blood, and my lids flew open. I held my face with my hands, feeling out the stinging wound. The taste of blood was everywhere, coating my teeth, staining my hands and robes. It was vile and abrasive, and I spat the red liquid onto the floor and coughed it from my throat.

"Learn from this," The instructor yelled to the rest of his apprentices, "Do not wag your tongue against your better, lest you wish him to cut it out."

But he had not cut out my tongue, for he had heard wisdom in my complaint. Of course, it is possible that when I had hissed with pain, the dagger had slipped and cut my lip instead of my mouth. I still believe this cut was intentional, and that my teacher had mercy on me at the last moment.

However, as I grew and continued to train with my fellows, the scar on my lip did not heal. It was a constant reminder to myself and to those around me that I had spoken out of turn and brought shame upon my mentor.

Even today, when I find myself short with my friends, my wife, or even our little son, I take a look at that scar. It reminds me not to wag my tongue, lest my actions bring punishment upon us.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad