Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any material related to Ubisoft in any way or form.
Note: If you have not played the game before, it is highly inadvisable that you continue to read this story. Spoilers may abound.
Ah, the Third Crusade. What can I say about it? Other than the fact that it is an… inconvenience… and often a nuisance to my job, I do not consider it of much importance. Then again, it is what fuels the majority of my missions, given to me by our wise leader Al Mualim. A Templar here, a Templar there… The assignments are all the same to me. Monotonous, intensely simple… Where was the thrill of it all? Perhaps that lack of excitement is what finally drove me to walk the fine line between life and death…
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Altaïr swayed on his feet, eyes closed, mind hazily trying to pull itself together. His body felt loose, limbs like wet string, and his head lolled to one side as he slowly dragged himself conscious. Opening his eyes, the sleep-darkened hazel shied away from the bright light filtering through the wrought iron bars of the window behind Al Mualim's desk, blinking to clear the grogginess. Altaïr looked down and stared, amazed, at his hands.
"I am… alive." His head snapped up to where the assassin Master stood, quietly observing his awakening. "But I saw you stab me… felt death's embrace!" Al Mualim shook his head, holding his hand up for silence.
"You saw what I wanted you to see… and then you slept the sleep of the dead. Of the womb… that you might awake, and be reborn."
"And you took me from that desired end for your own devices?" Altaïr growled, clenching his fists until the knuckles shone white. Al Mualim shook his head.
"Peace, Altaïr. Death comes to all in time, but now is not yours." Altaïr watched, enraged, as the old man's broken, gnarled hands deftly swiped a ledger from a shelf beside him, the aged eyes gazing down hard at the handmade pages. The younger assassin' struggled to restrain the wrath flooding his veins. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.
"Do you remember what the assassin's fight for?" The answer leapt out of Altaïr's mouth unbidden, for it had been ingrained into his very blood.
"Peace, in all things."
"Yes, in all things! Yet there is the one peace you seem to lack, and that is within yourself! You cannot end the violence one man commits upon the other without having peace within your own being. You, Altaïr, are arrogant and over-confident." The younger assassin's jaw clenched.
"Do you not uphold the proverb 'nothing is true and everything is permitted'?" Al Mualim bent his head, exasperation showing in his stance. It was only then that Altaïr realized how old the man really was.
"You do not understand the meaning, my child. For now, it is suffice to say that you lack the wisdom to comprehend it." His eyes met with Altaïr's, and the younger man held the icy stare. "I ought to kill you for the pain you brought upon us; Malik thinks it only just—your life for his brother's. But this would waste not only my time, but your talents as well." Al Mualim turned from him and poked a crooked finger through the intricate bars of the pigeon cage beside the window, placing the ledger back in the bookcase.
"You've been stripped of your rank and standing in the Brotherhood, Altaïr. You are to become a child once more, the novice you were the first day you joined this order." It took everything Altaïr had not to fly into a fury at that moment. When he spoke, his voice was like shattered glass.
"Tell me what it is I must do." Abruptly, there was a loud bang that resounded from the lower floor of the main entrance hall, and Altaïr whirled around, running to the stone banister to look over the side.
"I would appreciate it if you would not drag me in here like some dog!" The young assassin frowned at the scene presented: two burly men in dark grey robes were towing a third moderately-built figure clothed in the flowing white garments of a master assassin. It was the one being dragged that had cried out in vexation. He watched as the pair swiftly climbed the stairs, before marching resolutely up to Al Mualim's desk and throwing the assassin to prostrate on the floor. Altaïr watched, his own anger subsided momentarily, as the other man glared back at them before turning his gaze to the Master. What he did then took Altaïr by surprise; instead of flinging more angry words at the men behind him, the assassin knelt on the floor and bowed, placing his head against the cool stone floor.
"Master." The recognition was all too familiar a gesture to Altaïr, aside from the fact that he did not prostrate himself before the man. An even darker mood seemed to settle on Al Mualim as he gazed at the prostrated form.
"Rise and remain silent, Saqr." The bowed man looked up, submission just evident in the glint of his shadowed eyes. Still, the voice that slipped out was soft and subdued.
"As you wish." Altaïr gazed impassively at the unfamiliar man, having never seen him in either the dormitories or in the town below the fortress.
"Altaïr, this is Saqr. The both of you shall work together on every mission I assign to you. Is that understood?" The assassin at the desk turned to look at Altaïr, and it took him a second to understand why he had the namesake of the sharp-eyed falcon. Saqr's eyes were a piercing shade of grey, so much so that they were almost liquid silver, angled slightly so that the outer corners of his eyes tapered ever so slightly to a point. The rest of his lightly tanned face was surprisingly soft and rounded; the oval shape of Saqr's face and the unexpectedly full lips were the softest things about him.
The Falcon placed his hand against his shoulder, bowing in the assassin way. The corner of Altaïr's mouth twitched slightly. He had heard a little of what this Saqr was capable of; a string of no less than fifteen prominent assassinations under his belt. His memory flicked back to the list of victims: one had been a self-proclaimed governor-merchant in Damascus, another a smuggler of illegal weapons into Acre for a rebellion that had been stopped by the man before him. It appeared that Al Mualim knew what was going through Altaïr's mind, for he leaned forward and planted his gnarled hands firmly on the wooden table before him.
"Is that understood?" he reiterated, snapping both assassins out of their trance.
"Yes, Master." Altaïr and Saqr glanced at each other at the synchronized reply.
"Good." Al Mualim stepped away from the desk and turned to look out the wrought-iron window. "Your first mission together begins now. Saqr, you are to take Altaïr and discover who is it that betrayed us and opened our gates. In doing so, you must also re-teach him the ways of the Assassin-"
"I already know!" Saqr turned to stare at the other enraged man with calm, piercing eyes, and Altaïr nearly growled at him. Al Mualim did not turn around. After a five second staring contest, Saqr turned away and began to walk down toward the main staircase, not bothering to see whether Altaïr was following. At the top of the stairs that led to the garden's gate, Saqr paused, turning his head.
"I do hope you know what awaits you should you defy your orders, novice." Altaïr nearly lost control at the word, and audibly hissed at the man. He charged after Saqr, who had already run past the training ring and out the fortress gate.
Novice: a person who is new to the circumstances, work, etc., in which he or she is placed; beginner; tyro