Upon seeing her breathing slow, Altaïr observed her more closely. Her robes were tattered and blood stained; but identical to his, even her armor and red sash were the same. No doubt that these were her father's old robes.
Shifting his weight ever so slightly, he leaned over her shoulder and peered down at her left hand, curious to see if her ring finger was about as existent as his, which would ensure that she would also be equipped with a hidden blade.
Her eyes fluttered open, catching him red-handed. "It's rude to stare isn't it?"
He scoffed, leaning back. "There's a difference between inspecting and staring."
Nisrin smiled faintly. "But there isn't between ignorance and stupidity."
"Women!" he muttered exasperated.
Nisrin ignored his comment, gazing out at the endless abyss of sand dunes stretched out across the land, letting her thoughts wander.
It all seemed so wrong; wanting what she did and being what she was. To ride to Masyaf and see the city of her fathers' birth, the city that was his greatest joy; hearing all too many tales of its' beauty told to her in stories he would weave. She would often find him perched on the tower near their home in Jerusalem, able to tell by the gleam in his eyes where his thoughts were; that somewhere in his mind, he was reliving the days when he was on the top of his game.
To her, it was the picture of pure serenity.
Her thoughts returned to Masyaf.
The city of the Assassins.
She would be shunned by the others, a bizarre picture she would paint for herself being the only female assassin. Surely this would be unacceptable, a woman trained in such arts. Women were supposed to be fragile, uneducated, and helpless. Not the opposite. She heaved a long-suffered sigh, passively aware of Altaïr's scrutiny.
Frigid gusts of wind rolled over the land, causing the sand to stir, grains of it flying upwards, nipping at their faces as Amin galloped freely.
Seeing an oasis not far from where they were, Altaïr gently pulled back on the reins, urging Amin to a stop.
"We'll camp here for tonight." he spoke in a barely audible voice. Nisrin leapt off of the horse with noticeable grace, walking beside him as he led Amin towards the small pool of water. Without a word, he began removing all of his equipment from Amin, including his saddle, save for his reins, using them to tie him to a nearby tree.
"How much longer till we reach Masyaf?" Nisrin shifted her weight from foot to foot with impatience.
"Long enough." was his reply. He splashed water on his face, removing all of the caked on dirt and blood, grimacing. He sighed, approaching Nisrin with a rope in hand and noticed her eying it with curiosity. "Give me your hands."
Recognition washed through her, as she stared down at the rope, letting the words almost automatically slip out of her mouth. "I refuse."
She quickly avoided his gaze and backed up, realizing what she had said.
"I will use force, Nisrin." He said sternly.
She regained her posture, defiance sounding in her voice, "I refuse to be tied up like some dog and delivered to your damned master!" She gasped as he leapt forwards. Avoiding his frontal attack, she dodged to the side and began sprinting through the underbrush that decorated the area around the small water pools.
Moonlight glinted off the metal of his small throwing knives as he gingerly reached for two of them, expertly throwing them with deadly speed, knowing that he had hit his target. Pushing aside a few stray branches, he looked at the young woman with sympathy, her head facing down so that the shadow of her hood fully concealed her face, her raven coloured hair draped around her shoulders. He approached her cautiously, eying the one knives, lodged into her shoulder, and the other that pierced through the cloth near her left leg, both pinning her to one of the many palm trees.
"Does it not disgust you," Nisrin paused, glaring at him, "to know that once we reach Masyaf, that I'll probably be killed?"
He watched as he noticed her sharp intakes of breath. "That the one to kill me will be your master?"
"As you sit by idly, and watch him take my life? Is this the greatness that the assassins of Masyaf hide behind?" She spat.
Altaïr pulled back his hood, cautioning her with the sound of his footsteps. She looked up at him, stifling a gasp.
It was as exactly as the women back in Jerusalem would chat about. It was like staring down an angel. He had short black hair, slightly ruffled by his hood, a strong jaw-line and fine lips, a scar that adorned his features and eyes that seemed to see straight into her soul.
Ignoring her queries, he bent down, removing the throwing knife that was dangerously close to her leg, placing it back in its' original place.
"If I enjoyed this I wouldn't really consider myself human." He mumbled, staring at the blood that was staining the white fabric and spreading at an alarming rate.
"I'll be back in a moment. Try not to move to much." He breathed out a sigh of agitation before disappearing, leaving Nisrin alone as the night continued to get even colder.
Minutes later, he returned carrying an armful of bandages, a small vial filled with a clear liquid, and a damp cloth. Pulling out the second throwing knife, he rolled up her sleeve, exposing the stab wound that the knife caused.
"I'm curious... how did you do it?" he spoke, cleaning the wound with the strange liquid. A burning sensation ran up her arm.
"What?"
Altaïr stopping rubbing the cloth over her wound and gazed up at her. "I meant how did you become an assassin? I'm sure your father probably opposed to idea at first."
Nisrin nodded, recalling the day she asked him if he could train her. "He harbored hatred towards me at first for even thinking of 'staining my soul'."
Altaïr gave her a lopsided grin. "He certainly had an interesting way of wording it, but it's true, we stain our souls with the blood of others. Even if our target is presumed to be evil." He murmured the last part, seeming to be caught in a daze. He finished bandaging her arm and tugged on her sleeve lightly, causing it to fall back down.
Finally arriving at the makeshift camp, Nisrin glanced up at the night sky and then back to Altaïr, who was caught up with his own thoughts, sensing that he was no longer as in tine with his environment.
"I'm sorry Altaïr." Her voice was sincere and filled with regret, as she fluidly unsheathed her sword.
Altaïr looked up to meet her gaze for only a fraction of a second before the hilt of her sword connected with his head, sending him to the ground, unconscious.
She quickly saddled Amin, leaving all of the equipment that had belonged to his master was now resting safely on the ground.
"It was an honor to meet you, and I'm sure if we had met of different circumstances, we could have been," she toyed with the word before speaking it aloud, "friends." She mused, regret marred her words.
"Safety and peace be upon you... Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad." she whispered, sparing him one last glance before giving Amin a sharp kick in the thigh, sending him into a fierce gallop.
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A/N: Sorry for how craptastic the last "chapter" was. I know it really was bad compared to how much more carefully I had the prologue written. I did edit the document for it, but unfortunately, all of the editing that was done to it doesn't appear on the story itself. (The already posted part.) I hope this one is a lot, and I mean a lot better, I tried to edit it.
Digitalcoma Comparing our stories when we're done will be pretty interesting wont it?