Altair is in his head on the day that Arno is initiated as a novice in the French order of assassins. Arno is sort of grateful for that- he's still not sure about joining the brotherhood, but Altair's pride in him is enough to soothe away some of his lingering fears. He's slowly getting to know the people that (for better or for worse) are sharing his head. They're not one mass of people anymore, they're six individuals with their own personalities and opinions. Sometimes it gets a little chaotic, especially when there's more than one around, but he's starting to pick things apart.
For example, it's obvious that Altair is the one that holds the most pride for the order as an entity. He is the oldest, the one with the greatest influence over the future of the order, and he's proud of Arno for joining, in a way that no one has been since his father died. It's exactly what he needs at the moment, after meeting with Elise, after learning that the death of her father is his fault. He can't stop noticing that his responsibility for Elise's father is jarringly similar to Desmond and Shay's responsibility for his own father. Forgiveness comes much more easily when he realizes how easy it is to make horrible mistakes.
And joining the assassins seems an easy way to show that forgiveness. He has accepted the half dozen insane men inside his head, the least he can do is accept the order they fight for. He gets halfway through the ceremony before Altair starts to recognize that something is wrong. Or different, more accurately.
"That's… not typical," he says, and Arno hears the concern in his voice as the council orders Arno to drink. "What's in that goblet?"
"This isn't normal?"
"Maybe in this time." He sighs. "It does seem that the assassins in this time are more prone to… dramatics." Arno glances up at the silently watching council and can't help but agree.
"I'm going to drink it," he decides.
"You don't even know what it is!"
"So?"
"So-" Altair sounds exasperated. "You would just put any strange liquid in your mouth?"
"Apparently," Arno says, and keeps himself from smiling only because of the severity of the atmosphere around him.
He raises the goblet and drinks. It smells sweet but the taste on his tongue is dark, and the goblet falls from his numb fingers before he can stop it. Gravity betrays him, and he stumbles forward. His mind feels like fireworks are exploding against the inside of his skull, and he closes his eyes against the pain and numbness.
When he opens them again, he's greeted by some kind of nightmare dreamscape, all fire and no logic. He's back in Versailles, and he can hear his father's voice and he knows that if he can just get there, there's still enough time to save him-
He stumbles forward, half blind and senseless. There is someone in his head calling his name, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is getting to his father before it's too late. He runs, hard and fast, but it's not fast enough and he stumbles and then he's on the ground and-
There are hands on his back, on his arms, on his shoulders. Pulling him to his feet, carrying his weight, helping him forward when he can't walk on his own.
And Shay says, "You don't need to keep running, Arno."
"He's stubborn," Altair complains.
"Fits right in," says Desmond.
"Shush," Haytham scolds them. "This isn't the time."
"But really," Connor says. "Arno, be more careful."
"Unless you like these hallucinations," Edward says.
"No," Arno gasps. "No, I don't. What are you- you're all here." He can feel them in his head, now that he's a little calmer.
"You're welcome," Altair says. "I went and got them, since you weren't listening to me on my own."
"Thank you," Arno says. "I can't deal with these memories on my own…"
This is the first time that he really understands what it means to be able to rely on the people in his head. He had appreciated them in his jail cell, when they helped him learn to fight, but now he needs them to lean on, and they are there for him, no questions asked. With them helping him, he is able to walk with confidence, to cut through the hallucinations until he is back on the floor of the council chambers, glaring up at the men and woman that have drugged him.
He has passed their test- he can see the satisfaction in their eyes as they nod and order that he be given a hidden blade. But Arno barely cares about that. He is more concerned with the strength that comes from the people in his head.
The weight on his left forearm is familiar and comfortable, even though he has never worn the weapon before. He knows it from Altair, and Edward, and Haytham, and Shay, and Connor, and Desmond. Strapping the hidden blade on feels like coming home after a long time away. It feels safe in a way that nothing has for a long time. Because Arno feels at last that he is really one of them. That he is more than just a mistake they need to atone for, or a child that needs careful minding. He is an assassin. One of them.
"Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine," Someone says, in a voice of one repeating words carefully memorized and given great meaning. The voice is strong and proud but not familiar, and it is quickly drowned by the tumult of six others in his mind. The voice fades away, and he forgets about it within moments.
