March 18th, 1250

Burakgazi asks:

"Safety and peace, Mentor,

I have been pondering something for quite some time, and perhaps you can help me understand it. I am an apprentice Assassin in Kostantiniyye-yes, despite much resistance, we have managed to become established here- and my teachers are telling me the tales of your deeds.

But I am confused by your name, Mentor. I have heard stories of your father as well, and I know that he died when you were still young, but I do not understand why you would be called "son of none". Did you not wish to carry your father's name after his death? Or perhaps in Syria, you name your children differently than here in Kostantiniyye?

Honor upon you,"

Safety and peace upon you as well, friend.

I was a weak and helpless child when my father was executed. As you most likely know as a result of your learning, Umar was sacrificed so that the Assassins and the Saracens might have a truce. Little divulged is it that Ahmad Sofian was the one responsible for my father's death, but Ahmad himself showed valor when he took the blame. A few days following the execution, Ahmad approached me directly and begged my forgiveness for the grief and misery he had caused me.

And yet I did not know my father well. Whenever anyone asked me, 'what is your name, child', I would reply instantly with 'Altair, son of Umar'. Then they would nod and inform me that my father was an honorable man.

But in my time of childhood, it was strictly against the Creed for a boy to develop a bond with the man who brought him into this world. It was well known that if an Assassin should marry and produce children, those children would be forced into the Brotherhood and made to carry on its works as they developed.

I can understand this. In a way, parental bonding is weakness. If, for example, the enemy were to abduct my son and demand I obey them, I would be placed under much torment and sorrow, but I would still be forced to sacrifice my son. For the sake of the Brotherhood, it must be done. Such torture could easily be avoided, however, if parents and children were to be separated at birth.

When Umar allowed himself to be beheaded, I do not think he worried about me. In fact, I might have been the farthest thing from his mind that day as he was led to the stage where the butcher waited. He probably thought of his mentor, of his poor colleague Ahmad, of the loving wife he knew he'd soon see. But his present child he promptly ignored.

It was always that way between Umar and myself. Perhaps he abandoned me specifically because he was afraid of me, afraid of the damage I would inflict upon his conviction.

Afraid of the pain it would cause me to watch him end his life for the Order.

Because he did not care for me, the choice was easy. He could walk into his grave with eyes wide open, noting that he served his Brotherhood well and would now be allowed his rest. But for weeks after that awful day, I wallowed in misery. I had hoped that with time, my father would come to appreciate me; to love me. Finally, I'd wished so dearly that Umar would come to be proud of me. With his death, all such dreams dispersed, and I was left an empty child.

Until my training began. When I introduced myself to my fellow recruits, my father's name was delicate on my tongue. At first, the name had been mentioned with reverence and mourning. But as the months passed, Umar became a sharp click, something to be spat out and not repeated.

I resented my father for not loving me and for leaving so willingly. In the presence of my elders, I showed Umar the proper respect he deserved, but in private I scoffed at his mistakes and swore never to imitate his deeds. All those with consolations and sympathies were turned away, and bit-by-bit I erased the memory of my father from my heart.

Some of the things I told myself to blacken his reputation were true; some were not. The end result was that by the time I had turned eighteen, I had all but become the son of another: Al Mualim.

It was the Master who suggested I drop Umar's title from my own. And why shouldn't I have? In my greatest time of need, it had always been Al Mualim who had listened to me, had heard my cries. From birth, my father avoided me like a plague while the Mentor took me in and taught me principle. I was aware of the conditions of Al Mualim's affection, but at that point it did not matter; I wanted attention, and he gave it unquestioningly. Eventually, my desire to be noticed grew so strong it transformed me into an object of arrogance and pride.

And so I became Altair ibn La Ahad. Because in truth, Umar was a stranger to me. My father was a man I'd never been allowed to meet- why should I honor him by placing his name after mine? If one were to ask me for a list of persons I have loved dearly throughout my life, Umar would not be among them.

I wish you success in your studies. May fortune favor your blade, Assassin.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad