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Altair hates dancing.
Whenever he's walking, he can feel gazes upon him, greedily watching the sway of his hips. He can hear the whispers in their minds, for he has heard these aloud so many times, how beautifully you move, Altair, how prettily you must dance.
He knows how to dance, yes, and he can do it well -- because no matter what he does, he will do it well or he's not the Eagle of Masyaf, the best and brightest of their Brotherhood. His pride won't let him fail, so he does well.
Al-Mualim encouraged it. Dancing will help you to gain awareness of your body, your moves, he said, to gain mastery over yourself and creep closer from what an ideal Assassin should be. And that's good advice, truly, but...
Altair still remembers how Umar - Father - yelled at the Mentor, one of the few memories he retains from his sire. Umar wasn't exactly dear to his heart -- too absent far too often, too quick to curse and beat his unruly offspring otherwise -- but on this opportunity, Altair almost loved him for his anger.
I would rather drown my only child than let him become a whore, so help me, Al-Mualim!
Umar almost did it, too -- he dragged his barely-four-year-old son to the bathing hall and forced his head underwater. To this day, Altair still doesn't know what the Mentor said to make the murderous Umar relent, and he was left with a persisting fear of water. Nonetheless, he feels grateful to his sire for being so stringent.
He knows what generally happens to boys when they're born with female parts, and sometimes when they're not. He knows of lusty old men who enjoy looking at a prettily dressed, prettily made-up, prettily dancing young thing. He knows of the aftermath for when this kind of boy dances in front of this kind of man.
Altair doesn't dream very often, but one of his recurrent nightmares was about him as one of these boys -- a pitiful thing in a silken blouse with painted lips and nails, unable to defend himself from the gazes or the lechery. Unable to kill these disgusting men or at least gleefully maim them. That's not him -- that's not what he would ever want to be.
He couldn't wait to grow up, to grow old, too old for dancing. Old men crave young flesh, the more innocent the better, the more unsullied the better. They can't stand the slightest flaw -- and as such, Altair glories in his scarred lips and his missing finger, his bulky muscles and large shoulders. He deserves the flaws and ugliness and the whole aura of danger: he's an Assassin. He won't let himself be reduced to a pretty toy.
And yet the whispers persist now that he's too old and marred. They're not really the same, however, as they buzz around him as wasps, how shameful for a bearer to be so proud, how distasteful for him to feel above marriage, won't anyone teach him his rightful place?
Altair cares not for other people's opinions and dictates, that would have seen him a sweet and mute doll to perform for them, and want to see him a compliant and brainless wife. That's not him -- that will never be what he wishes to become.
He's an Assassin, their best and brightest. He's going to make everyone see that. He's going to make everyone choke on that.
A toy he's not, and never has been.