Assassin's Creed: Alis Aquilae
After
There was no confining darkness that enveloped him this time as his consciousness passed between illusions, instead replaced by an overwhelming light. Altair shuttered his eyes, retreating behind the barely helpful shade of his hood and his half-closed lids, watching mutely as the flashes of seemingly different worlds brushed across his senses. The images never lingered, wavering between stillness and motion as indecisively as a storm. Evidently, he realized a little unsteadily, the Apple was deciding what to do with him.
Only twice did the artifact pause long enough for him to comprehend his surroundings, and the first of which left him with a sense of foreboding no less unsettling than the artifact's frenzy of images. The pause within the odd landscape was unusually drawn out, much longer than any of the previous ones, as if it were more stable than the others. The Assassin looked around warily, sensing as well as seeing a stretched expanse flatter and more featureless than a desert, gray and emotionless, cut through only with geometrically clean, white lines of light that felt as alien as the Apple itself.
Here there was only space and silence, and he waited within it rigidly, his eagle quiet and almost fearing the eerie echo of its own voice, wondering uneasily if the lingering figment was due to the presence of another 'anchor.' He sincerely hoped against it, unsure of how another of his descendants—or possibly ancestors—could exist in such emptiness. Luckily, it was not long before the artifact he still held flickered the illusion away, carelessly discarding it as if losing interest. Just before the image vanished, Altair glanced a figure out of the corner of his eye, a young man standing alone in the open space, wearing white clothes of a strange cut. There was a fleeting moment when he thought he glimpsed dark eyes identical to his own looking in his direction, before the vision was replaced by the same, rather tiresome, uncertainty of flashing images.
The second time this whirl of mirages ceased was rather abrupt, the Apple finally seeming to settle on a verdict and tossing Altair rather impatiently away. He took a staggering step as the world solidified jerkily around him, and he only just managed to avoid stumbling against a motionless person. He realized vaguely that the Templar treasure had vanished from his hand and he glanced around quickly, assessing. He was amongst a tight group of people, most little more than commoners, standing stock still as if in fear or reverence.
His heart leapt as he recognized the usual robes of the residents of Masyaf, familiar rafiq and brothers mixed amongst the motionless townspeople in the fortress courtyard. He paused when he realized that he recognized their odd behavior, and his relief at his return was almost immediately extinguished. Almost as if to affirm his suspicions, the Assassin noticed a shifting in the crowd somewhere ahead of him and he quickly adjusted his stance, half turning his back as he saw himself slipping easily past the innocents, his aura a subdued thundercloud after having just killed several of his brothers.
How strange, he thought with rather forced detachment as he hid from himself, watching the white-robed figure stalk into the fortress and out of sight. The only justification he could think of for this duality was that his past self—or his present self?—was acting as an anchor, keeping him within his own time despite his knowledge of the future. Altair frowned at the concept, the absurdity of this entire endeavor, but decided not to think too closely on it.
He threaded carefully past the mindless assembly and through the arched entrance, concealing himself amongst the library shelves. The act to lock his position in this world was simple, but timing would be crucial. The Assassin settled his eagle and waited, listening to the startling clang of the garden's gate as it dropped shut, prefacing an exchange of words that he was wholeheartedly loath to relive.
Amongst the clatter of blades that followed the clipped, heated conversation, Altair watched mutely as his supposed master descended the steps, taking the chance to draw closer to his student while he was occupied with the illusions of long-dead Templars reanimated in the fortress garden. He did not move, barely chancing a breath until the black robed figure had disappeared through the entrance, the barred gate lifting only briefly to admit him.
With the library to himself now, he swiftly mounted the staircase, flickering past the archway to avoid being seen by either himself or his current opponent and heading for the balcony upon which al Mualim had first addressed him. At the wooden doorway to his master's tower, he wavered, hesitating, the hardened obedience at first restraining his eagle and instinctively reminding him that no man, dai or otherwise, had ever been allowed within the Grand Master's chambers.
Altair shook his head impatiently and pushed through, the quiet, slightly dim room admitting him with no trouble. He pinpointed the fine, pillar-encircled balcony and peered out of it cautiously, seeing the Apple's now familiar golden light dancing about the courtyard, skipping across the water of the fountain and reflecting up to him. From this angle, the fight against his master seemed rather one-sided, and he frowned as he observed his own form, his strikes wide and admittedly a little careless from fatigue.
Despite the initial imbalance of the duel, he did not have long to wait for his opening, finally seeing himself gain the advantage over the older man, leaping forward and driving both enemy and embedded hidden blade downwards into the ground. The Assassin watched from above, seeing the Apple roll away to the edge of the fountain, glinting rather maliciously as student and dying master exchanged a few more words, inaudible with the distance, but still fresh enough in Altair's memory for him to remember.
There was a little hesitation as he straightened, both on the balcony and in the garden, the one above taking his last throwing knife from his shoulder scabbard. He was unsure if disrupting this supposed past would even affect the future, wondering if, with this simple act, he would forget the existence of the brothers he had been with for the past few days. His eagle gave a mournful croon of loss as he clenched his fist, forcibly flinging the dagger towards the lone figure standing below before he could change his mind.
The following sensation was strange, he for an abrupt moment both seeing the eagle-motif knife tear through the white hood by the shoulder, and simultaneously feeling the searing pain as it gouged into flesh at the base of his throat, only just missing his jugular.
Altair gave a cry that reverberated in the silent garden, the hand that had been reaching out for the Apple flying instead to the new wound as his already weakened body failed, driving him onto one knee. His spirit fluttered, scattering feathers as his suddenly confused mind tried to gather itself, trying to remember whether the pain in his shoulder had been caused by a blade or by a bullet, whether the water soaking his robes was from the fountain or from Venice's canals. Vaguely, he heard hurried footsteps approaching and turned blearily to see a figure reaching out to support him before he collapsed, not knowing whether the eyes he expected to be fixing upon him in concern would be grey or dark brown.
Ending.
Author's Note: Hm, the end is a little open, but I hope it wasn't too awkward. This is my final note on this story, so thanks again for reading and reviewing. I should be starting a new fic as soon as I've thought of one, thus if you have any suggestions, they'd be greatly appreciated.