The First Life: Birth and Childhood
Ladies and gentleman, this TRULY humble Author has become determined to rewrite some of the mistakes DelayedInspiration made, called Assassin's Creed: Transcendence - REMAKE. DelayedInspiration, if you reading this, listen very closely: AC and PJO are NOT horror stories! Not to mention DIAPERS being involved in this mess you created! And it's no thanks to you that i'm involved in this mess, rewriting some the horrid chapters (in some of our eyes of course) you made! All this could have been avoided had you been faithful to the two franchises, so here are thousands of shame and dishonor on you and your whole families, thank you VERY much asshole!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything
January 3, 1167
Masyaf Castle: Home of the Levantine Brotherhood of Assassins
Umar Ibn-La'Ahad, the Muslim Master Assassin and devoted spouse to Maud Ibn-La'Ahad the Christian Assassin, tightly held onto his wife's hand as she gave birth to their second child.
AltaÏr, their firstborn son, was being cared for elsewhere in the Castle. The lad would be three in a few days.
Umar winced, both at the sudden pressure in his hand via his birthing wife's iron grip, and at the pain in his ears at the volume of her scream as she gave one final push.
Finally, the wet nurse held their second child, a boy, the nurse said, but there is one small problem: Their son wasn't crying.
"Hand him here." Umar intoned silently. The nurse did as instructed, handing the infant to his father. Umar stared at his newborn son, unbothered by the nakedness or the sheen of fresh blood that covered him.
Fortunately, the Assassin did see something that brought great relief to him: The infant's tiny chest rose and fall, indicating that he was breathing; he was merely sleeping.
Then Maud's weak hand clutched Umar's robes.
The Master Assassin looked at her, and what he saw made his blood freeze: Maud's face was drawn and her eyes gaunt; her skin was ashen; and her hair was more of a mess than ever, she looked weak, very weak, and her breathing was barely there; there was an abnormal amount of blood pooling around her, soaking the bed red.
Umar was at her side in an instant, their son held tightly in his hand.
"Please… Give him to me…" Maud weakly whispered. "I want to see my baby."
Umar gently handed their son over her. The Christian woman, in her final moments on earth, gazed at her baby with so much love that only a true mother could produce. Maud brought her son to her face, and gently kissed his little forehead, causing the infant to start cooing.
"Faris… My little horseman… I want you to know that i will always love you…even when I'll be from this world…"
Maud weakly beckoned to Umar, and the Master Assassin was at her side.
"Yes, my love?" Umar asked shakily, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"Umar… Promise me… Promise me you'll be there for our sons…"
"I promise…"
"Promise me you'll raise them right… By the Lord…"
"I promise."
"Promise me… Promise me that you'll tell them no matter what… They are loved…"
"I-" Umar's voice broke. "I promise."
"Thank you, my love…" Maud managed a weak smile. "I'll be waiting for you… In Paradise…"
Maud Ibn-La'Ahad fell limp in her husband's arms, dead.
Faris, sensing his mother's death, began to cry.
Altaïr stared at his infant brother with a gaze that only a three-year-old could manage. It was one trepidation, hesitance, curiosity, and uncertainty. It was the look of bewilderment upon coming into contact with an unknown, and subsequently failing to dissect it into understandable terms.
Faris, for his part, stared up at his toddler brother with wide eyes of amazement, before gurgling happily and raising his pudgy little arms up to be held.
Altaïr's expression didn't change, but he did flinch back slightly at the infant's sudden actions.
"Go on, son." Umar urged gently. "Pick him up."
With great reluctance, Altaïr did as his father instructed him, and slowly reached out for his infant brother.
Faris' face, which had begun to fall and become a border-line sniffle at the lack of attention, picked right back up in a toothless grin as he was lifted out of one set of arms and into another.
Altaïr made a face.
Being a newborn, Faris couldn't have possibly known what that face meant, but he did set about running his pudgy hand over the not-so-pudgy face.
Altaïr squirmed as he was being literally felt up by his infant brother.
Umar, for the first time since his wife's death, allowed himself a ghost of a smile to cross his face.
As Altaïr looked at Faris out of the corner of his eye, his head angled back as to avoid his infant brother's overly-inquisitive finger, only on thought passed through the three-year-old's developing mind:
'You're the reason mother is gone.'
This thought would define the brothers' relationship for years to come.
June 23, 1173
Faris: 6
AltaÏr: 9
"Altaïr, wait!"
The Assassin-in-training scowled as his younger brother's voice reached him.
Over six years has passed since the siblings' first meeting, and their relationship had not gotten any better.
Altaïr kept Faris at arm's length, and used any excuse possible enough to escape his presence.
The older boy still blame his younger brother for their mother's death, and the reason why their father always seemed to be on a mission.
Still, despite the snickers from his fellow trainees, Altaïr stopped, and allowed Faris to catch up to him. The younger boy came to stand by his older brother, and, despite the intensity of his frantic sprint, was barely winded.
Faris smiled brightly at Altaïr. "Can i play too?"
AltaÏr ignored the quiet snickers from his fellow trainees behind him, and instead focused on staring down at his younger brother from the bridge of his nose, like he was no more than an insect scurrying in front of his boot.
Now being able to recognize facial expressions and emotions on a better level than he was an infant, Faris knew of the contempt that was directed at him, but he ignored it in favor of trying to get close to his older brother.
"No, you cannot."
Faris' smile lessened by a fraction, but the hopeful spark never left his eyes. "Please? I promise I won't be a burden."
AltaÏr was about to deliver a more forceful rebuttal, but Abbas Sofian piped out from behind. "Come now Altaïr, it won't hurt to let Faris join us in our game today."
Faris beamed. Altaïr scowled.
"What game were we going to play, anyway?"
Abbas smiled. "Climbing."
Altaïr was no longer scowling.
As trainees, Altaïr and his friends were being instructed in the arts of climbing and running across structures with ease, and to leap from building to building, scaffold to scaffold, and beam to beam without fear or hesitation.
As such, it was encouraged by the Masters for the trainees to practice and hone their skills whenever the opportunity presented itself, which typically led to the citizens of Masyaf Fortress to bearing witness to children performing stunts across the village.
Being a child of six, Faris had yet to be introduced to such arts, and was therefore extremely nervous about what was about to happen, but he buried his trepidation, and put on a brave mask, so as not to embarrass his older brother in front of his friends. Even as young as he was, the younger boy understood the concepts of pride and ego.
"follow us," Abbas said warmly. "and don't worry if you can't do it yet. You're still young, after all."
Whether that was a bard or a cushion Faris did not know, but he decided to think positive.
The chosen course was a simple one, just a stair-step series of boxes that led to a couple of beams, and then onto a rooftop, and the course would go from there.
Jamal went first.
Umar (not to be confused by the siblings' father) went second.
Abbas third.
And finally Altaïr.
Each boy was able to leap from spot to spot with almost what appeared to be ease, but each of them were panting slightly, except AltaÏr.
He was just silently staring at Faris.
The six-year-old swallowed heavily.
He could do this, he could.
Although the tunic that billowed about his legs might prove to be VERY difficult.
Faris readied himself, ignoring the exchanging coins from the older boys, and took off as fast as his little legs could carry.
He reached out for the box, leapt on it, then leapt onto the next, and then leapt on top of the final box.
Now it was just the beams and onto the roof.
Steeling himself, Faris jumped.
There was a terrifying moment of weightlessness, the absent feeling of solid ground.
The the younger boy impacted the beam via his stomach.
His little muscles weren't strong enough to propel him with enough force to reach the top of the beam.
Still, Faris refused to let go, and hauled himself up with all the strength he could manage.
He must've attracted quite a lot of attention by now.
Looking up, Jamal and Umar were snickering, Abbas hadn't lost his warm smile, and Altaïr continued to stare silently at him, his eyes hard and cold.
Faris took it as a challenge to do better and make his older brother proud of him.
Precariously balancing on top of the beam, just a few feet off the ground, Faris stood, his arms out wide to steady himself.
Eyes darting from where he stood to the beam, the younger boy tried to formulate plans in case he made it, and in case didn't.
Finally, confident in his ideas, Faris leapt.
Those feelings of weightlessness and fear returned, but this time, the boy made it.
Feelings of elation and pride coursed through his veins, making him warmer, making him smile.
Faris stood… And he wobbled.
His dark eyes widened as balance left him, and he fell backwards.
His arms rose in an attempt to grab onto something, but there was nothing there to grab.
Then he remembered that Altaïr was up there. Faris locked eyes mid-fall with his older brother, sending a desperate plea for air.
Altaïr remained motionless, and continued to silently stare at his falling brother.
Even amongst the horrified visage of Jamal and Umar, the wide eyed look of Abbas, Altaïr countenance never once changed in the event of Faris' potential death.
And so the younger boy fell, his older brother's uncaring visage burning in his memory.
Even though it couldn't have been more than eight feet, to a six-year-old, it might as well have been a fall to the highest point of Masyaf Castle.
Faris crashed down his back hard, knocking the wind out of his lungs, damaging his diaphragm, causing Faris to choke on nothing as his lungs refused to contract to draw in the precious oxygen his body needed for functioning.
As Faris' mind begin to drown into nothingness as his vision darkened from his inability to draw in breath, there was one last thought that crossed his memory before his supposed death: AltaÏr's face.
The uncaring visage, the cold gleam, the silent watch.
It hurt; more than the fall, more than his brain undergoing a feeling of constriction; it wasn't his older brother's lack of action that pained Faris so, no, it was the fact that AltaÏr chose not to act that was the source of his agony.
Faris was suddenly hauled to his feet, and air returned to his lungs, his brain cleared.
Looking at the one that had brought him to his feet, Faris stuttered, "M-Mentor…"
"Go. Return to your studies." the black-robed Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood of Assassin commanded. "I will handle this from here."
Faris merely nodded, before he said quietly, "Please… Please don't punish them to harshly…"
"I won't." Al Mualim assured. "now go."
The younger boy retreated into the gathering crowd, and silently made his way back to the Castle.
August 18, 1176
Faris: 9
AltaÏr: 12
Weeks ago, the Saracen forces under the command of Saladin laid siege to Masyaf.
The Assassins held strong during this time, stronger than what the Muslim warriors would have thought impossible, but all things must come to an end eventually, something Al Mualim understood greatly.
So, he dispatched a spy among the Saracen ranks, a spy by the name of Ahmad Sofian, Abbas' father.
Sofian was good, very good, and after a day of espionage, he located Saladin's command tent.
Upon receiving the news, the Mentor dispatched his top Assassin, Umar Ibn-La'Ahad.
The father of two was unhappy with the assignments, given his sons' rocky relationship (AltaÏr wanted nothing more than to be rid of his younger brother, and Faris wanted nothing more than to be close to his older brother), but he stuffed his displeasure deep into the recesses of his mind, and slid into the shadows of the night.
And he made it, almost.
it had been easy for Umar to slip into the camp, wind his way through the vast expanse of the tents, avoid the guards at every turn and juncture, sneak into Saladin's tent, and leave the warning stabbed into the Sultan's desk.
However, while it had not yet been discovered, Murphy's Law still applied to the late 12th century.
Saladin walked in on Umar just as the latter was about to leave.
Years of training took over, and the Master Assassin fled swiftly from the Saracen camp.
The only hiccup was the nobleman—most likely the father of a soldier—who had the guts to decide it was a wise decision to stand in the way of a fleeing Assassin.
While the tenants of the Creed strictly prohibited the taking of innocent life, the Creed also prohibited the compromisation of the Brotherhood…which Umar had technically failed with flying color, seeing as he was running for his life in a camp full of angry Muslims.
As such, Umar Ibn-La'Ahad made short work of the nobleman, and escaped with his life.
Things would not end well in happiness.
The spy Ahmad was caught, interrogated, tortured, and gave in to his weakness by giving the Saracens the name of the one responsible for the nobleman's death
The next day, Saladin's uncle, Shirkuh, came to the gates Masyaf Castle, to open negotiations.
It seemed that the Sultan had taken the Assassin's warning to heart, and had departed elsewhere, but Umar's killing of the nobleman was not without consequences.
While the Muslim army was willing to end their siege of Masyaf, they would only do it if they were to leave with the head of AltaÏr and Faris' father.
Al Mualim protested at this, both the accusation and stipulation, but when the battered form of Ahmad was brought forth, Umar had words with the Mentor…words of great sadness, but words of even greater honor, duty, and sacrifice.
"You are very brave to do this, Assassin…" The Saracen executioner said quietly to Umar. "May Allah have mercy on your soul."
The Assassin merely nodded. He was weaponless and clad only in his robes. His hood was down, revealing a face that looked much like his sons', only a great deal older and an even greater deal more serious. His hand was bound behind his back—a useless dark formality. There was no point in trying to escape. To do so would only bring about great pain and hardship for the Brotherhood…and his sons.
As a father, that was something Umar would not allow.
And so he did not fight as he was gently pushed to his knees, and made to rest his neck across the wooden block.
Decapitation: A swift and painless death.
Altaïr pushed his way up onto the rampart of the Masyaf gate, and pushed his way through the crowd so that he could see what was going on. Father hadn't been there this morning to oversee his and Faris' training, and that concerned the twelve-year-old. Deeply. It wasn't like father to miss morning training—oh my god.
"Father!"
Umar raised his head, and even from this distance, Altaïr could see his father's eyes widen.
"Father!"
"Your son?" asked the executioner.
"Y-Yes…"
"Bt Allah… This…this is… Do you have any words for him?"
"I do."
Faris, following quickly behind his older brother, made his to Altaïr's side. "Al'akh al'akbar… What's going—"
"Altaïr! You'll need to look after you brother for me, understood? You're the man of the house now, my son." Umar smiled, unshed tears brimming in his eyes. "I love you, Altaïr, and tell Faris that i love him too."
Faris, panicked and quickly becoming distressed, desperately tugged on his older brother's sleeve. "Altaïr! What's happening!? Altaïr!"
But the older Boy wasn't listening.
He was numb, and in great shock.
He was… He was… What? And he had to… Faris… But why him? Why did he have to look after that little nuisance? Why was this happening? What was happening? O Lord, why was this happening!?
"I was tasked with taking the head of an Assassin, but i am forced to take a father away from his children." The executioner muttered sadly. "Allah, please forgive me."
Umar smiled at his firstborn, unaware that his second-born was hidden behind the stone rising of the rampart. In his final moments, the Master Assassin thought of his wife.
'Maud… I'll be there soon.'
Umar heard the grunt of one lifting the blade, then the tell-tale whistling of metal through the air, and then everything erupted in a beautiful white.
That evening
In the late Umar Ibn-La'Ahad chambers, Altaïr sat numbly at the foot of the bed. His brother clung tightly to him, sobbing silently into the front of his robe, but the twelve-year-old paid this no heed as his mind was solely focused on what he had heard and witnessed that morning.
His mother, taken from him by his own sibling, and now his father, taken from him by a complete stranger, but not before handing down the responsibility of taking care of Faris.
On that thought, Altaïr's glazed, lifeless eyes traveled down to the unwelcome attachment to his torso, and he silently sneered.
Tears… Tears were for the weak… Tears were for those who could not bear the pain… Tears were for useless little brothers who spent more time crying like little girls, than working to better themselves so that they might bring peace to the land via the absolute power of the Creed.
The door creaked loudly as it opened, and Altaïr was once more stunned into an unthinking state as Ahmad Sofian entered Umar's chambers.
Faris, upon hearing the sound of the door, raised up from his older brother's chest and wiped his eyes.
Even at the tender age of nine, Faris understood what had happened today, and, like his older brother, freely blamed the man before him for the death of their father.
But something was wrong: Ahmad was crying.
His battered face was marred with tears, and what could be seen of his eyes was red and bloodshot. He walked with trembling steps, but he did not seem injured. Clutched in the man's hand was a knife, which put the brothers on an extremely sharp edge.
Ahmad fell to his knees, weeping. "I-I'm sorry… I-I'm s-so sorry… Had i not been so… So weak… Your father… Your father would b-b-be here now… This…" his voice broke, "This is my repentance…"
Ahmad stood to his feet… And slit his own throat.
Altaïr and Faris stared with wide eyes as the man collapsed to the ground. A pool of crimson quickly spread from Ahmad's corpse, staining the rug.
The boys continued to just stare at the body, completely horrified over what they just witnessed.
By the time the body began to cool, Altaïr's synapses finally began to fire once more. For the first time in what must have been ever, the older brother did something gently with his younger brother, as in he gently lifted him off his chest.
"Stay here," he said to the still-horrified Faris, "I"ll go… I"ll go get Al Mualim."
And so Altaïr left, leaving his little brother to keep the corpse of Ahmad Sofian company.
When the firstborn left, Faris whimpered at the sudden perceived loss of contact between himself and the source of comfort.
August 26, 1176
While one couldn't call Faris excited, or even happy for that matter, there was a certain line of… Lighter emotion about him.
His father had recently been decapitated in front of him, and then the man responsible for said decapitation had come in the middle of the night and slit his own throat right in front of him…and then his older brother had up and left him alone with the corpse for several hours.
Que traumatized nine-year-old.
Of course, no one knew such details aside for Al Mualim and Altaïr, but on orders of the Mentor, the story of Ahmad's final moments were to be kept secret for all time. The lie that Sofian had run away in the night into a self-imposed exile for reasons.
Abbas had taken it about as best as one could expect for one hearing that their father had just left for some vague purpose, but at least he hadn't developed a grudge against AltaÏr and Faris over it.
Back to the present, the reason for the younger brother's… Positive feeling was that today he would get to watch his older brother and Abbas train together in the art of the sword.
In the middle of the castle courtyard, the wooden practice ring stood proud and bold. Assassins milled about aimlessly, chatting idly with one another. Even Al Mualim was present, although the majority of his attention seemed to be focused on talking to the masters around him. There were a few that paid attention to the fight between AltaÏr and Abbas.
Faris' eyes narrowed when he saw the dark light in Abbas' eyes, and his dread grew when the older boy asked to use real swords as opposed to the wooden practice ones. Was Faris the only one picking up on the wrong feeling in the air right now? Apparently so, because no one else thought it strange that two novices were being allowed to use real blades.
Altaïr and Abbas stood apart, swords brandished.
Labib, the current training overseer, gave the order to begin, and all Hell broke loose as Abbas charged, screaming and yelling in fury, accusing Altaïr of lying about his father's suicide, saying that he was a hero.
Faris became anxious, dancing on the balls of his feet as Abbas' assault continued unabated. The second-born's anxiety grew when Abbas a cut on Altaïr, and knocked him to the ground.
Faris whined in distress as Abbas began to ferociously punch his older brother in the face, and no one seemed to have noticed yet, despite the massive amount of commotion going on in the practice ring. Labib didn't seem interested in stopping the fight either.
Abbas' anger consumed him, but he was not so singularly focused on Altaïr's face to not hear the rapid pitter-patter of approaching feet. However, he looked up too late, and when he did look up, he did so just in time to see a fist ramming into his face.
Abbas hit the ground, his nose broken, but it didn't stop there.
Now it was his turn to have his face broken in.
Faris did not have the greatest relationship with his brother, no, but despite the uncountable number of time Altaïr had not been there for him, Faris refused to give up on his brother, and he refused to stand by ans watch while his older brother is being beaten to near death.
Still, there was only so much the nine-year-old with barely any training could do against the twelve-year-old with a few years under his belt.
Abbas threw Faris off of him with a grunt.
The last Sofian bolted to his feet, his anger now directed at the younger boy.
Once more, Abbas' sole focus on a singular thing cost him, as he completely missed Altaïr fist meeting his cheek. Abbas stumbled, the blow dazing him, and a miracle happened.
Faris was next to his older brother, and the two launched a brutal assault against their mutual attacker. They worked in perfect tandem, their strikes flowing like water, yet hard as rock.
One would grab, and the other would hit; one would push, the other would lash out; one would pull, the other would punch.
By now, the full courtyard was watching, their attention glued to the beat down before them, and they were stunned.
Even Al Mualim was finding it difficult to discover the will to act.
The dislike Altaïr had for Faris was one of the most well-known secrets in the Brotherhood, so to see them doing something together, and doing it well together (seriously, it was as if they were linked mind-to-mind), was astonishing.
The two brothers knocked the barely conscious Abbas back, sending him tumbling into the wooden railing lining the practice ring. His eyes were rolling about in his head, and his head was lolling from side to side.
The signs of a mild concussion.
The brothers looked at each other, a silent message going between their eyes, before they nodded in tandem.
They both rushed forward, their arms cocked back.
They got to Abbas and landed a dual uppercut straight to the jaw that lifted the last Sofian out of the ring, and out of consciousness.
Al Mualim finally found his voice. "Boys! Library! Now!"
It was if an invisible barrier had been broken, a nonexistent ice shattered.
Whatever had held Altaïr from loving Faris was no longer there.
Now the two brothers seemed inseparable, and Al Mualim had the decency to put the two in the same class, seeing as how Faris had made it a rather bad habit to skip his own classes to be with AltaÏr.
At first, there had been concerns to the teachers that Faris was biting off far more than he could chew by skipping three years of learning.
That was not the case, however, as Faris picked up on everything that Altaïr did, just as fast, if not faster, and with an equal amount of skill.
It was unnatural.
What was also unnatural was the two brothers' bodies.
Their stamina was something out of a myth, being able to run great distances at to speed for long periods of time, being able to fight off their entire class and come out with barely a sweat, being able to shrug off what most would consider to be debilitating wounds—and then those same wounds were seemingly healed moments later, and being able to climb almost anything without issue.
Years past, and the two brothers became nothing short of prodigious in their studies of the deadly art.
Their skills with the blade were second to few, with only Masters and a small handful of lower Assassins able to match them; their skills with the short sword were just as superb.
The siblings also had a way with throwing knifes, and they made it a competition between the two of them to see who could throw the most, and the most accurately; this practice often led to dummies being riddle with holes and lacerations, with the straw spilling out like water from a waterfall.
Faris had also begun to devote his time to a personal project of his.
When asked by Altaïr what it was supposed to be, all the budding teen would respond with was: a bow, but smaller; a lot smaller.
The older brother gave up trying to figure out what it was after the first drawings were complete.
He may have finally come to love his younger brother, but he was still far from understanding how Faris' mind work.
Now, tonight, an important event was to take place.
A ceremony held in the upmost regard by all members of the Brotherhood, held in even higher regard than the promotion to Master ranking, and even higher still in regards to the receiving of the title of Mentor.
The ceremony held in the highest regard is one of honor, sacrifice, and the upmost devotion to the Assassin Brotherhood: the removal of the ring finger.
January 1, 1182
Faris: 14
AltaÏr: 17
The chamber was dark, the only light coming from a fire gathered in the middle of the room in a brazier that provided enough illumination to reveal the entirety of the chamber in a painting of flickering reds and oranges. The entire brotherhood, those that were above the rank of Novice at the very least, had gathered, all wearing cloaks that hid their bodies, with hoods that were bigger than what was necessary.
Before the brazier was a stone table, a high one, one that had been intricately and meticulously carved with several scenes and moments from the Bible: The Crucification; the stone rolled over the entrance to the tomb; Daniel in the lion's den; the Fiery Furnace; Haman hanging from his own noose; the Judgement of Solomon; Samson pulling down the pillars; and Jesus carrying his cross.
This was the stone in which an Assassin sacrificed in the name of their Brothers, in the name of their Order, and in the name of their Lord.
Twas a ritual that showed the commitment of the Assassins, their willingness for the cause, and their devotion to the Creed.
Al Mualim stood on the side of the table facing the fire.
In front of him, AltaÏr and Faris stood, both looking nearly the same, and both with identical looks of steel on their faces.
Clasped behind the Mentor's back was the sharpest, most revered knife in the whole of the Brotherhood.
"Laa shay'a waqui'n bale loulou moumkine. The wisdom of our Creed is revealed through these words." Al Mualim spoke clearly. "Altaïr… Faris… Both of you have shown exceptional talents in our ways, and have displayed a devotion to the Creed few you're age posses. As such, it is only fitting that the of you become a member of the Brotherhood as one. Hold out your Hands."
Altaïr brandished his left arm, his left ring finger extended.
Faris brandished both his arms, both his ring fingers extended.
Beneath the cloaks, many pairs of eyes widened at this development.
Altaïr said nothing, for he knew that his younger brother wanted to do this.
Al Mualim said nothing as well, for he was old and wise, and had come to expect many things about the two before him.
This, while not surprising, was most definitely out of the ordinary.
And the Mentor was proud of that.
Al Mualim raised the knife. "We work in the dark to serve the light. We are the Assassins."
In a soft streak of gold, the knife glided through the flesh and bone as seemingly as though through the air.
The two brothers did not flinch.
They did not grimace.
They did not cry out.
They did not hiss.
Nor did they so much as twitch.
The stumps of their fingers glowed dully for a moment, before fading and revealing nothing but curved skin. The Mentor looked proud, but in the shadows, it was hard to tell. He swiped his hand over the table, and the fingers vanished.
"Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember…"
"Nothing is true."
"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember…"
"Everything is permitted."
The fire in the brazier went out, bathing the chamber in darkness. Soon, the silvery light of the full moon directly overhead shined down into the chamber via a hole in the roof. Revealed upon the stone table were three bracers with five metal plates across the top, and what could only be described as sheath on the bottom, with a hidden blade inside it.
The two brothers donned their Hidden Blades, and, with a distinct SNIKT, extended the blades.
Death came swiftly through the space where the ring fingers once were.
Altaïr smiled at his younger brother, and Faris smiled back.
"Let's go for a run."
And so raced the two brothers into the night.
They gracefully climbed the battlements, scaled the towers, bounced from beam to beam with practiced ease, and there was no fear to be held in their bodies.
Not anymore.
Such a fear had been trained out of them.
Now what they did was mere routine, just another part of your average day, no more odd or nerve-racking than breathing or eating.
Soon enough, Altaïr and Faris reached a point where the only to go was up, and the only destination was the very top of Masyaf Castle.
So they climbed, swiftly, easily, effortlessly. From beam to beam, ledge to ledge, and over the stone barricades at the tops of the walls. Finally, they made it to the final stretch before they reached the top of Masyaf.
Altaïr went first, scaling the wall till he could grab the outcropping, then he leapt sideways to the beam. From there, he scaled up the wall, leapt out and grabbed the outcropping, before hauling himself up to the top.
The firstborn looked down at his younger brother with a smile. "Well? Come on, then."
Faris smiled, and repeated the same moves as his older brother, but there was something dangerously different about his absent.
On the final outcropping before the roof, the stone came loose when Faris grabbed it, and he fell.
Unbidden, memories of so many years ago came back through his head.
The memory of weightlessness, of falling, of failing, of reaching out for something that wasn't there.
The memory of desperately pleading with Altaïr to save him before he died.
The memory of his older brother's stony face, his steely eyes, his uncaring stance, his resolute aura.
The memory of betrayal, and the feeling of being stabbed through the heart with an icicle.
SNATCH
Faris blinked away a few tears when Altaïr's arms shot out, grasping his own before death could claim him.
The elder teen smiled. "You need to be more careful, little brother. I won't always be there to save you."
With a grunt, Altaïr hauled his younger brother up with a single arm, bringing him to stand up on top of Masyaf's roof.
Faris smiled. "Thank you."
Altaïr patted him on the back, and moved to stand at he edge of the roof, next to a statue of an eagle, the symbol of the Assassin Brotherhood.
Faris stood on the opposite side of the eagle. Below them spread the whole of Masyaf, and further than that were the mountains and valleys of the Holy Land.
Across the village, hundreds of lights shined like stars as the candle of families lit their homes inside.
"It is a good life we had, brother." Altaïr said.
"The best."
"May it never change."
"And may it never change us."
SpartanWartastic presents…
Assassin's Creed: Transcendence - REMAKE
Finally, it took a LOT of time to finish the first chapter, so thank you guys for you support. As a reward, I give ANY of you permission to write a PJO and AC reading Fanfiction