A/N: I want to take the time to thank you all for reading this! It means a lot, and I hope I maintain your expectations!
Now, this one was a bit tricky to write, mainly because I originally had a different idea for this, but then I decided against it because I wouldn't have been able to get very far with it. Altaïr may be OOC to you in this chapter (or in all of my chapters), but I needed to write him with powerful emotions in this (and will continue to do so).
So, just bear with me as I push out these chapters for you!
ONWARD!
A cool rush overcame Altaïr's entire being, and he sighed in relief as the heat from the tropical sun faded away for a brief moment. He was aware that he was lying down, but he ignored his laziness as the coolness lingered around him. He felt as if he was floating in the sky, very similar to the feeling of a Leap of Faith. Altaïr's eyes seemed to roll back in his head as they were closed, signaling to himself that he was in the utmost state of relaxation.
He needed this more than anything. His life had been very stressful, for he had been plucked from his normal day and thrown into an endless void with three of his descendants.
However, it seemed that had all been a dream, and he was awakening to what he assumed was his ascent to the afterlife.
His eyes fluttered open, and he stretched his arms out to his sides. His hands smashed into solid wood, and it seemed as if the entire world jostled. Bolting upright, he took in his surroundings, as any efficient Assassin would, and his eyes widened in horror.
He let a yelp of fear escape from his throat, which was abnormal for him. Down at his feet, he noticed a body crumpled, breathing slowly. He nudged the masculine form with his foot, causing it to stir—which in turn caused the world to jostle once more. Altaïr kicked the body, and the body shot up in alarm, grabbing the wooden sides for support.
"What the hell, man?" Desmond inquired irritably, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
The elder Assassin didn't respond. His forehead broke out into a sweat, and his eyes shifted around nervously.
Desmond eyed the man curiously as he himself took a moment to survey the area.
Miles of ocean surrounded the two Assassins, who were both in a boat that seemed to rock with the slightest movement from either of them.
The younger Assassin curled his lips in a small smirk. "You know," he began as he eyed his ancestor, "you've been closely associated to eagles, right?" he questioned as the other Assassin slowly nodded with a cocked brow. "Well," he resumed, his smirk broadening into a devious grin, "I think you're more like a pussy—a cat, that is. You seem to be afraid of water."
Altaïr scoffed, highly offended. "How dare you insinuate this false accusation!" He threw his arms into the air out of rage, jostling the skimpy, woody boat. "I do not hold fear for the endless liquid abyss!" Crossing his arms across his broad chest, he snarled. "I merely avoid contact so I do not soak my equipment! You honestly believe that I, the greatest Master Assassin known to man, fears what man must consume to survive? Are you mad or just stupid?"
The descendant barked a laugh. "You're seriously going to try to deny it? Face it, Altaïr; you can't swim, so you're afraid of water." He shot up from his sitting position, rocking the boat on the water. He smirked as Altaïr's reflexes reacted to hold onto the sides of the boat in an attempt to keep himself from being thrown overboard. "See? Right there let's me know that you can't stand the idea of water surrounding you, slowly pulling you down into the clutches of death. You are afraid to take a Leap if Faith into water because you can't swim."
"You are wrong!" the snarling Assassin seethed through his clenched teeth. "You are no different than those who pitted against me when I was stripped of my rank and weapons. You see the doubt in all possibilities of my skills, and you deem yourself right." He quickly bolted upright on his feet, clenching his fists as his blood boiled. "You are wrong, you inferior whelp. You do not hold the right to insinuate the improbable and place yourself higher by mere mockery." He glared at his inferior. "You are beneath me. Know your place."
Desmond cocked his brow for a moment and snorted in derision. "Big words from a pussy."
Altaïr snarled as he reached for his descendant. Desmond took this moment to move backwards towards the back end of the boat and spit more words at the irate man. Altaïr grabbed him by the front collar, holding his hidden blade close to his throat. Desmond merely smirked as he kicked off the boat at such an angle that he and his captor were thrown from it and splashed in the water.
Altaïr's grip tightened as he felt himself drowning. He was going to assassinate this man if he made it out alive—this he knew for certain. His breath was fleeting from his lungs as gravity pulled him beneath the surface of the deceitful waters, and he could feel his next target struggling to stay afloat.
Desmond grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him upwards. The man bobbed up, gasping for air as he attempted to kill his descendant, failing to think of his actions.
With a mere smirk, Desmond ducked a blow to the head, letting go of his ancestor. He wrangled the other man's grip from his collar, and he somehow managed to achieve freedom. He quickly backstroked away from his ancestor, who began flailing his arms as if to grab a magically appearing, stable surface.
"Calm down!" The descendant shouted above the splashes of water from the panicked man. "Stabilize yourself! Think of standing on a tightrope!"
Altaïr glared at him as he struggled to stay above the water. He gasped for air as he threw his head back in an attempt to remain afloat.
"Altaïr!" he shouted, getting the Assassin's attention. "If I help you, do you promise not to kill me?"
Altaïr cut his eyes at the other man, propelling himself upwards with his arms. "You will die either way, inferior cur!" he snarled, kicking his feet below him.
Desmond shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said as he propelled himself towards the boat, pushing it further out to sea before climbing inside. He peered at his "superior" down the bridge of his nose and barked a laugh.
Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad showed fear in his eyes as he struggled to his balance atop the water. His head bobbed above and below the water's surface, and each time he resurfaced, he gasped for air. His lungs burned as he inhaled sharply and exhaled quickly, and as a result, he began to hyperventilate. His arms flailed, splashing water all around him, making his situation even more difficult to free himself from Death's embrace. His legs kicked aimlessly below him, and it seemed to endanger him more than help him.
This was it. This was his end.
He had only felt at a loss one other time. Al Mualim had stabbed him with a dagger, and he had felt Death's embrace—or at least he thought he had.
At that moment, he was ready for death. He knew that his time had ended, and he was to die by water. A loss at sea. How tragic.
Suddenly, he stopped all movement. All became still, and he closed his eyes.
He felt himself exhale one last time, and his body relaxed completely. He felt his soul well with his faith, and he felt it begin to lift from his body. His body felt weightless, and he was floating on transcendent air. His mind processes slowed down, allowing all life to seep from him.
He smiled—actually smiled. His mind and soul were at peace, and he accepted Death's invitation to ascend into the afterlife. His fellow Assassins would no longer ridicule him from his rank removal—not that he cared what anyone else thought of him. They could mock him all they wanted, but it didn't affect him in any form. All who mocked him were all of one cluster of being. They envied him. They envied his talents and skills.
He was simply superior. They knew their place, and he never allowed them to forget it.
He felt his body lift upwards in one fluid motion, feeling seemingly weightless.
He was at peace…
"Altaïr!"
That voice… It was… familiar. He'd heard it not too long ago, but he couldn't place where.
He strained to place it, but his mind decided to take a left onto the Road of Tranquility, where he lost himself. He felt nothing. Absolutely no—
He bolted upright, looking around frantically, seeing Desmond wringing his jacket over the edge of the boat.
Altaïr was no longer a victim of the seas, but he was an occupant of the shoddy boat, which he began to loathe just as much as the water on which it floated. He coughed water from his lungs, wiping his face with his hands. His robes were sopping wet, and he could feel his hidden blade rusting in place. He continuously flicked his wrist, allowing the blade to click out just in case his blade actually was rusting.
The boat rocked as Desmond took a seat in front of his ancestor, causing the man to cling onto the boat in an attempt to keep himself from flipping overboard once again.
Altaïr glared at the man who sat before him.
Desmond had saved him, even after he had explicitly told his descendant that he was going to die if he did. He did it anyway.
"Why?" the ancestor inquired. His brow knitted as his eyes pierced through Desmond. "What called you to play God?"
Desmond shrugged. "If you had died or desynchronized or whatever the hell would fucking happen if you drowned, we wouldn't get out of here. So, despite your threats of assassinating me, I decided to save your sorry ass!"
Altaïr flicked his wrist once more, the blade protruding where his left ring finger should have been. "Who is to dictate what I do and when?" he demanded as he grabbed the collar of Desmond's shirt. "I could allow you to see your God at this precise moment."
"But you won't," Desmond countered. "You know that if you do, you would compromise the Brotherhood."
Altaïr faltered. "Compromise the Brotherhood?" he bellowed digging the point of his blade to Desmond's Adam's apple. "You are not of the Brotherhood!"
Desmond grasped the man's bladed wrist. "Maybe not yours, but I am a part of the Brotherhood. The present day Brotherhood. One that is currently stopping the Templars from gaining control of other pieces of Eden, and in turn, the world." A smirk formed on his lips. "The very same job you excel at is the job I have right now. If you are to kill me, just know that you would be doing the Templars a favor by ridding the world of me."
Altaïr narrowed his eyes and snarled, his mind whirring. Was this man speaking the truth?
Nothing is true; everything is permitted. Do not kill an innocent man. Do not pronounce your actions to the world. Do not compromise the Brotherhood. Nothing is true; everything is permitted.
Shoving the younger man from him, Altaïr regained composure, crossing his arms across his chest, a habit no doubt developed from observing his Native American descendant. "What do you suppose we do then, Brother?" he spat. "We can't stay here in the midst of an ocean to solve our problem, now can we?"
Desmond tapped into his Eagle Vision sense, scouting the open waters that surrounded them. He squinted at an extremely distant flicker of light and honed in. He pointed in the direction in which the light source illuminated. "Land's that way. It looks to be a few miles from here." He zoned out of his sense and glanced at his ancestor. "Problem is that we don't have any oars or paddles or anything to push us there."
Altaïr emitted a low growl from the base of his throat. "And what does that result in for us, exactly?"
"One of us has to swim behind the boat, pushing it while the other one guides from inside the boat," Desmond answered.
The elder Assassin gestured to the water. "Then, I believe it is time for you to begin making yourself useful and push, inferior whelp."
"Oh?" The descendant arched his brow. "It's my duty to push?" He scoffed. "I don't think so." He jabbed his ancestor in the chest with his index finger. "Since you think that you're so fucking superior, I think you should show me what it means to be superior!"
"So I can perish whilst you accomplish nothing?" Altaïr snorted, shaking his head. "You are beneath me. You must know your place." He gritted his teeth into a snarl. "So push."
Desmond did not reply as he turned his body toward the side of the boat. He placed his fingernails to the grain of the wood and peeled a large splinter from the edge of the main railing. Twisting it, he broke it into two unequal pieces, one longer than the other. He placed them into his hand, bringing both behind his back.
"What are you doing?" Altaïr questioned impatiently as he watched his descendant.
"Making this as fair as possible," he replied, holding both hands in front of the other Assassin. "You are going to choose one of these sticks. If you choose the longer piece, you stay in the boat. If you choose the shorter piece, then you have to push. I know which one is the larger of the two, but I have placed them in my fists in such a way that you can't tell which is longer." He smirked. "You just have to have the right guess in order to get your favorable outcome."
Altaïr narrowed his eyes. "Fine," he muttered under his breath. He tapped into his Eagle Vision and studied both hands…
And he couldn't tell which was longer. Damn it all to hell!
Growling, he pointed to Desmond's left hand, ripping the stick from his grasp.
And as fucking fate would have it, he would be the one to push.
He clenched his fists, steam seeming to radiate from his body.
"You know," Desmond began with a smirk. "If you're afraid of drowning like earlier, we could make you a lifeline…"
"How?" the ancestor snapped, completely irate over the fact the he was going to have to choke down his underlying fear of water.
"I could tie my jacket around my waist, you tie your sleeved tunic around yours, and we connect the two using our shirts."
"Absolutely not."
Desmond shrugged. "Alright, then. If you say so. Have fun drowning."
Altaïr pondered a moment, narrowing his eyes. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "Do it quickly."
Desmond gave him a mocking salute, peeled off his own wet t-shirt, and tied his jacket around his waist. He then tied his shirt to the sleeves of his jacket and stopped. "You have to do it, too."
Growling, Altaïr ripped off his belt and equipment, including the gauntlet that held his hidden blade, and peeled off his upper tunic and his under tunic. He tied the under tunic to his waist securely and tied the upper tunic to the sleeves of the under tunic. Thrusting the end of his line to his descendant, he crossed his bare arms across his bare chest impatiently as his descendant quickly knotted the two ends together, giving the line a tight pull.
"There," Desmond muttered, finished with his work. "Now just jump in and push. Hold onto the back edge of the boat and just worry about kicking. That's what will push us towards the shore," he explained. "If you slip, I can pull you up with this," he continued, holding up the makeshift rope. "Trust me," he assured the ancestor. "You won't die."
Altaïr narrowed his eyes. "If I die, I will ensure my vengeance by taking you with me."
Desmond nodded in agreement as Altaïr peered down at the water from the back edge of the boat.
The distance seemed longer than just a mere foot and a half to Altaïr. He swallowed his fear and grasped the edge of the boat. He crouched and swung one leg over, slowly dipping it into the water. He swung the other leg in and lowered himself into the cool water as he kept a firm grip onto the top edge of the wood, his fingernails digging into the wood.
"Ready?" Desmond called out, moving towards the front of the boat to keep the line stretched in case Altaïr did in fact lose his grip.
Instead of responding verbally, the elder Assassin merely began kicking, splashing water behind him. He propelled the boat quickly, his legs pounding against the water's surface.
Desmond scanned the horizon, tapping into his Eagle Vision. The beacon of light had grown slightly brighter, indicating that they were in fact heading towards civilization. He kept his eyes on the beacon until he noticed something seemingly jutting out of the water's surface off to the side. He squinted, ridding his advanced senses and laughed. "Hey, Altaïr! I know where we are!" he exclaimed excitedly.
Peering over the top edge of the boat, Altaïr's eyes focused on his descendant as he rested his legs for a moment. "Where?"
Desmond smiled. "We're off the coast of Florida. If we keep heading straight, we'll be on the beach. I guess the Animus can tap into my personal memories and transport us to the locations." He chuckled. "I remember coming to this beach as a kid. We came here once, and that was the first and last vacation I had as a kid."
Altaïr didn't respond to Desmond's soliloquy as he resumed his leg workout at a faster pace.
After a couple of miles, Altaïr's energy began wearing thin. His forehead was dripping with a combination of water and sweat, and he took short breaks every five minutes. Every muscle in his legs was on fire, and his lungs burned from holding his breath when his head dipped a little too low for comfort. His arms ached from holding onto the back edge of the boat, and he was certain that his nine fingertips were bleeding from his death grip onto the splintery wood.
Altaïr struggled to maintain his composure, and suddenly, as if whatever universe they were in conspired against him, his grip loosened completely, causing his to fall back into the water. The makeshift rope tightened, jolting Desmond towards the back of the boat.
The ancestor couldn't move. His body was tired, and he was completely exhausted. He needed drinkable water, food, and dry land to compensate.
He felt his body drifting in the water, slowly being pulled under by the shimmering veil of the water. Then, he felt something pulling him… upwards? Was this his soul as he felt earlier, or was this sorcery at work?
"Altaïr! Grab onto my hand!" Desmond commanded as Altaïr glanced lazily at him.
The ancestor shakily lifted his arm, securing his hand with his descendant's. Desmond pulled Altaïr over the boat's edge and dropped him onto the jostling surface of the boat.
Altaïr, who was flat on his back, coughed harshly, spitting up water. His aching muscles screamed as he did so and caused him to wince in pain.
"You okay?" Desmond asked, receiving a nod of the head as an answer. He pulled his ancestor towards the back of the boat, causing Altaïr's eyes to bug out.
"What are you doing?" he hissed, feeling splinters embedding themselves into his bare back.
"I'm taking over. Sorry if there are splinters, but I need the line towards my way so I can get into the water," he explained before adding, "I won't need the line like you did, but it'll be there just in case."
Altaïr made a sound of acknowledgement before closing his eyes. He heard Desmond climb over the back of the boat and the sound of his feet pounded against the water's surface.
At various times, droplets of water would rain onto Altaïr's face, but he didn't have the energy to protest. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and he had just dozed back off when the boat crashed into something.
Altaïr slowly raised up, his arms and legs still screaming. He turned his head, and he couldn't believe his eyes.
"Land," he whispered.
He scrambled, no matter how much his body protested, and lifted his descendant into the boat.
Desmond chuckled at his ancestor's eagerness, and they both stumbled out of the shoddy boat, collapsing on the powered sand.
Altaïr had never been more relieved! He was on dry land! His body pressed firmly against the warm sand, and he couldn't contain his excitement. A grin stretched across the man's face, and he sighed in relief. "Praise Allah," he whispered just in Desmond's hearing range.
Desmond's throat rumbled with laughter as he flipped his aching body, so he could feel the warm sand on his back. "Praise Allah, indeed."
A/N: If you have thoughts concerning my writing, please feel free to comment in a review or in a PM! I'd appreciate it tons! BD
