Chapter Text
Chilled air rips through Altair’s throat to make itself a new, temporary home in his lungs, only to be exhaled with each of his ragged breaths. His breathing is labored and painful, a slow thing that continues in cycles, interrupted by coughing here and there. In and out, scratching both ways, as if the oxygen he so needed had condensed and has become a sharp blade intent on tearing his throat to shreds. The sensation of choking quickly dragged him out of his restless dreams and left him heaving on the hard floor. The chill of the air is just as jarring as his waking from his sleep, the expected warm and syrupy feeling of a muggy summer night weighs on his mind as he slowly adjusts to the cold darkness that envelops him.
Something grazes the edge of the man’s arm briefly before he quickly throws his body into a well-practiced doge, rolling away from the possible intruder, landing on one knee, left arm held slightly out to the side, ready to strike. There is no hidden blade on his arm, he knows, he took it off shortly before falling into his bed only hours ago, and he knows there should be no other person in his rooms. There had been no one with him when he turned in for sleep, but now the shadowy outline of a figure clearly kneels in front of him, only a few feet away, revealed only by his eyes’ adjustment to the darkness of night.
Altair fills his lungs, now accustomed to the chill, no longer fighting his intakes, and briefly looks through eagle’s vision to the figure, seeing nothing but the gentle glow of soft blue before him. Ally, but who?
Before he can think any further, the figure speaks, “Al…Altair?” The voice is so soft and young, hesitant and almost touching on scared, groggy with sleep. Only a few seconds pass before the voice continues, “Altair, what’s wrong?”
What is wrong, Altair thinks to himself, is your presence here. Instead, the grandmaster stands from his previous defensive position and begins to speak, using the tone of voice he assumes when reproaching the novices when they make mistakes, “Who—“ Only the one word escapes before he cuts himself off, surprise filling every crevice of his body at the sound of his what must be his own voice. It sounds so familiar, yet so strange, something he has not heard in many years. A deep crease settles between his brows, and slowly, hesitantly, he looks down to his hands. His eyes are met with the sight of a pair of hands much smaller than he is used to seeing when he looks down, hands that are devoid of any scars and marks that he has grown to know by heart. A left hand that still possesses five fingers.
It is more so the presence of something where it shouldn’t be than the absence of something where it should be that causes panic to seep in, a numb and cloying feeling that drapes over him, slowly covering every nerve ending in an intense weight. He remembers times when the finger was still freshly severed, times when he could’ve sworn it was there, felt in every sense but sight. He used to be able to feel the absent digit move where it no longer existed, but now it exists once more. He sees it slowly curling and uncurling and touches it with his right hand to confirm it is not a hallucination. It is real in every way he can think to check, and no matter how many times he blinks, it does not disappear.
Somewhere far over the too-loud sound of blood rushing in his veins, the other boy in the room speaks again, only to have his questions and assurances fall on unhearing ears. Altair has entirely blocked the other person out, he is not a threat and there are much more important questions he needs answered. He sets to examine the rest of his too-small body and sees that he is clad in old and thin gray pants, paired with a much newer-looking oversized shirt that he is all too familiar with, one that he had worn out beyond repair sometime in his late teens. He remembers keeping the shirt past the days of its usefulness, a tattered thing in the bottom of his chest in his room, thrown out sometime after he had made the rank of master assassin. Now, though, the shirt is in fine condition, not a stitch out of place.
Altair focuses his attention back to the other person, a figure that is well known when given context, and draws a steadying breath before he calmly calls out a name that, as of late, he found himself wishing he could forget.
“Abbas?”
Abbas responds with a short hum of affirmation, a small sound that is deeply interlaced with concern. Altair takes a deep breath and lets a long sigh escape him, some of the tension in his bones seeped out and dispersed into the nothingness. At least now he has some semblance of where and, perhaps more importantly, when he is.
In a softer, much less commanding voice, Altair finally responds to Abbas’ initial question.
“Sorry for waking you, Abbas. Nothing is wrong,” the older boy pauses. Having a reason for his sudden outburst is more likely to lessen suspicion, he realizes after Abbas begins inching toward him, worry seemingly radiating off of him. “Nightmare.” It is short, chopped off and stated much like the afterthought it is. It is enough.
Abbas is now close enough for Altair to make out the detail of his young face, and he notes the boy has a saddened look to him. Altair was prone to nightmares when he was younger, so the excuses should be reasonable, believable. He did not like sharing what he was witness to in his nightmares, but there were some things, like his father’s death, that he was willing to speak of with Abbas. Other things he dared not put into words, especially to Abbas. Never to Abbas.
Silently, the younger boy nods, content with the short explanation, and understanding of the silence that follows. He returns to bed, asleep again in seconds, likely exhausted from the day’s training, and Altair feels it too, the deep seated ache in his muscles that seems to permeate down to his bones. But Altair does not follow into sleep. Instead, he finds his assassin’s robes and worn-thin boots, replacing his sleep clothes with novice grays. He silently leaves the small room, clinging to the walls and dark spots in the hallways, places where the light of occasional torches does not reach. He passes, undetected, by a few older assassins as he makes his way to the castle’s library. He knows there are records of all kinds placed upon the numerous shelves of the library. Further, the records have always been kept meticulously, always up to date as per the demands of Al Mualim.
Once there, Altair scavenges the shelves, picking up texts and books of varying sizes, picking only recent additions, ones he is sure he remembers reading at some time or another. He takes his small pile to a far corner of the library, a corner he knows not many people visit, and he sets to work.
Swiftly, he thumbs through pages, taking note of dates and any important events that have occurred recently. After what seems like an hour or so, he is satisfied with the information he has gathered and has an understanding of when he is, what year he is lost in.
Altair exits the library just as he entered it, with no one noticing the novice’s movements about the castle so late at night when he should be in his shared room. Altair climbs up to the most isolated tower of the castle. It is a place few can reach, and even fewer can find a reason to go to. This is a place Altair has always been well acquainted with, having spent much time here throughout his years of being an assassin. The early morning air is still cold, it is winter, Altair has discovered from his brief research, and the days will only grow colder from here on out. On the horizon, a slight orange tinges the sky as the sun makes its way closer to dawn. It is here that Altair takes apart the past several hours, thinks back on every small detail, and tries to make sense of everything.
Altair had spent this day like most others recently, behind a desk covered in paperwork and increasingly difficult tasks. He had always been trained to be a master assassin, never the grandmaster, and it shows more and more as he and Malik try to piece the brotherhood back together after Rashid’s death.
Every now and then, he stares deeply at the drawer in which he has hidden Rashid’s precious treasure, this unknown device that has brought him nothing but trouble and ruin. It is because of this simple little thing that everything in his life has changed, that Kadar is dead and Malik’s arm is gone. And Malik is always there to force him to get back to his tasks, to help him with this impossible task of being a mentor to all.
But when Malik is not in the room with him, he removes the sphere from its hiding place, he watches and studies, tapping here, pushing there, hoping to see something- anything that would show him that all that has been sacrificed for this so-called piece of Eden has been worth it. Occasionally, his relentless needling at the object does reveal more, pieces of information that he dutifully records. He takes note of everything he is shown, hoping that one day it will all accumulate into something that makes sense, something that can help.
Many times Malik will come back to the grandmaster's offices from the number of tedious chores he sees to in Altair’s stead to see Altair fiddling with the golden device, and does nothing but let out a sigh each time, believing that Altair’s continued dedication to the object is pointless; the thing shows a number of unfeasible things, and there is not enough time in the day to bother with what can not be understood. Further, he worries for Altair, of the influence the Apple could have over him much like it had with Rashid. Altair always puts the piece away when Malik comes back without having to be told, he understands how Malik feels about it, this thing that has stolen so much from him and given not nearly enough in return.
As the sun sets in the distance, it brings with it a slightly less intense heat in the air, no longer being baked by the summer sun as it is. Again, like many nights before, Altair finds himself drawn to the golden treasure. He can spend as long as he wants with the thing, he knows that no one will interrupt him this late in the day, leaving him alone to his musings on Rashid’s treasure. Every now and then, he will move it in a way that makes the device click, but often nothing else happens. This night, too, he is met with nothing but frustration as he fiddles with the thing, as it seems especially eager to keep to itself, to not let any more of its secrets be discovered.
Many hours pass this way and eventually, he is drawn into his exhaustion, sleep slowly clawing at the edges of his vision until he can no longer fight off the need to close his eyes. The sleep that takes him is the type that leaves one wondering when exactly they fell asleep when they awaken the next morning. It leaves behind no memory of falling asleep, only that sleep was achieved at some point in the night. And so he slept, the piece of Eden held tight in the palm of his hand, and he dreamt.
Wakefulness didn’t find him the next morning, opting instead to spirit him away to a night many years past.
Altair scowls, that damn thing, he thinks. He had known that it was always possible for the piece of Eden to take more from him, that surely it couldn’t be done quite yet, not satisfied with the chaos it had caused so far. This, too, must be the work of the apple, he had fallen asleep with it nearby when he had always been so careful to hide it back away where no one could reach it, and it couldn’t reach him.
The sun continues to rise, and with it, many assassins do too, milling about and starting their daily tasks in the spaces below Altair’s high perch. Once more, he looks at his hands, small, but whole. If he is to go home, he will need the apple. He does not know if the device is still in the ark of the covenant deep within Solomon’s temple, or elsewhere, in some unknown place, hiding away from him, content with itself. Frustration curls in around him, it will take some time to find the damn thing and bring it back to Masyaf, then even longer to find a way back home through the device, if there even is a way back. Then there is Rashid, hidden away within the walls of Masyaf castle. He very well could be searching for his treasure even now, mind tainted with the mere thought of it.
Altair thinks of his order, the one he left behind when he was taken here, and who will replace him in his absence. More importantly, he thinks of Malik. He thinks of how Malik had told him many times to lock the Apple away, not to touch it, not to bother with it. As always, Malik was right in his concern, and Altair should have heeded his warnings. He misses Malik already, though it will likely be sometime before he sees the other man again, unless the apple decides it has had enough fun for the time being and sends Altair home without a fight.
The morning bells’ ringing brings Altair back to what was once his past but now is his present once more. The day has officially begun, and with it Altair’s journey back home, to his order, to Malik.