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thou-babbling-brook · 3 months

Text

Sanctuary

AO3

Rating: T

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationship(s): Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe

Word Count: 6344

Tags: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Maria Thorpe, Al Mualim, Original Characters, Assassin's Creed I, Masyaf, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Crusades, Implied Happy Ending

Summary: After stumbling upon a small caravanserai during a narrow escape, Maria has questions about Altaïr's past - particularly, his defining scar.

This fic is based on some of @nebulacrum's thoughts and headcanons about Altaïr's relationship with Al Mualim, along with his lip scar.

You can click here to see @ramshackledtrickster's accompanying pieces!

I hope you guys enjoy!!!

“Baba, we have customers!”

Fahmi glanced up from his ledger, brow furrowed and eyes squinted as the setting sun squeezed through the cracks in the sandstone walls. His son bounced before him while gesturing wildly to the door. His words blended together with the constant ringing present in Fahmi’s ears. Setting his hands against the desk, he rose, groaning as the aches in his joints cried in protest.

“Ameen,” he murmured, hunched as he shuffled to the gnarled wooden door, sand seeping onto the floorboards as the evening gusts of wind swept the hot sand inside. Maryam wiped her hands on her tattered apron before laying them on Ameen’s shoulders.

“Come, it is late, and your father is tired,” she whispered, kissing her son’s head while guiding him away from the door. Fahmi nodded his thanks, shuffling to the window and shielding his eyes from the golden glare of the sun as it sank into the horizon.

“But Mama!” Ameen protested. Maryam shushed him, her words inaudible as she and her son walked through the narrow doorway. Fahmi groaned as he reached down to the floor. Grabbing a few wooden panels, he straightened his back and placed them against the open window. His wrinkled hands trembled with each movement. Each knuckle ached as he flexed his hands and flattened his palms against the wood.

A resounding thud against the door disturbed the sand and dirt gathered by the entrance. Squinting, Fahmi poked an eye through the minuscule cracks in the wood panels. Two camels knelt before the water trough. Their backs were still covered with blankets and saddles. Yet, aside from the rushing winds of sand, the quiet hissing of nearby snakes, and the low chuffs of the camels, Fahmi found no sign of visitors.

Ameen rushed to his side, much to the protest of his mother as he tugged at his father’s robes. “I told you!”

Fahmi quieted the child, hobbling to the door as he pressed his ear against the wood. Another resounding set of knocks, this one more desperate than the first, echoed in the sandstone room. Broken Arabic shattered the silence. A woman, her voice high and exhausted, shouted through the door. Her accent was foreign, reminding them of the soldiers that had marched through the desert not long ago. Maryam tightened her hold on Ameen, pressing him against her front with wide eyes.

Maryam turned to her husband. “We were not expecting any caravans for another week.”

“I know,” he replied, voice barely above a whisper. Ameen curled against his mother as the pounding continued.

The voice begged and pleaded behind the door. Her pronunciations were muddled and awkward, but the desperation caused Fahmi to move his knobby hand. Slowly, he unlatched the door, prying it open enough to peer an eye through the crack. Immediately, he gasped, hobbling back and slamming open the door. The voice (a Frankish woman, it seemed. Though, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between their accents) was not alone. The pale woman stumbled forward, thanking Fahmi in her jumbled Arabic while Maryam covered her mouth.

“Help,” the woman pleaded, her eyes wide as she looked at her companion. Arm slung over her shoulder, a hooded man collapsed against the woman’s frame. An arrow stuck from his side, covered in gore. His linen robes were coated in dark liquids, sand, and dirt, a few notable slashes still seeping blood into the cloth. Maryam rushed to his side, shouting over her shoulder for Ameen to grab freshly drawn bandages, wine, and washcloths. The boy scrambled backward before turning and sprinting through the doorway. Fahmi knelt before the strangers, eyes darting to his wife as they shared a fleeting, anxious look.

“What has happened?!” Fahmi demanded, still breathless as Ameen returned, arms full of supplies as he tripped and stumbled into Maryam. The foreign woman could only stare with furrowed brows in return, her eyes jerking over Fahmi’s face.

“Mercenaries,” the wounded companion spat. It was clear that he was from the region. If not, a traveler passing through to his home. His face remained hidden beneath his cowl, eyes toward the ground while Maryam gestured for the woman to help her. The two laid the man on his back, flat against the cool floorboard. With the glaring sun hidden behind vast mounds of sand, Fahmi reached for two candles, placing them by his wife’s feet once they were lit. “We barely escaped.”

“God has willed it,” Maryam praised. Ameen sat awkwardly by his father’s side, face growing pale as Maryam and the strange woman attempted to treat the man’s wounds. Fahmi laid his hand on Ameen’s back, rubbing it soothingly.

“Ready a room for them,” Fahmi instructed his son. “They will need somewhere to rest if he survives, God willing.” Ameen nodded and rushed off down the side corridor. In the meanwhile, Fahmi came to his wife’s side, his hands laying on the strange man’s stomach while Maryam surveyed the entrance wound.

“It is shallow, praise be,” Maryam explained. The man grimaced, clenching his jaw and nodding. He turned his face to the woman, trading Arabic for a language Fahmi could not quite identify. French? German? It had been so long since he had served in the sultan’s army. He could not recall the languages of their adversaries. The woman shouted frantically back, to which the man turned to Fahmi and Maryam.

“Can you pull it out?” the man asked through gritted teeth. Maryam and Fahmi exchanged glances.

“It would be unwise.”

“I did not ask if it would be wise. I asked if you could.”

The foreign woman seemed to understand enough of their conversation to slap his shoulder, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. She shouted again, her voice choking while her eyes glistened. The man squeezed her forearm, groaning and murmuring something that managed to calm her enough for him to return his attention back to Fahmi.

“You were a soldier. Have you dealt with this before?” the man asked.

“How can you tell?” Fahmi redirected.

“You avoid resting on your knees.”

“You are right, but I have not seen this in decades.”

The man hissed as Maryam accidentally brushed her hand against the arrow. “Please, sir. My… my wife can help, but I will not be able to translate while you pull it out. I need someone with experience to help your wife.”

Fahmi, for the sake of the man, ignored his own, visceral reaction to such information that the strangers were married. Instead, he nodded, motioning for the woman to join him and Maryam by the arrow. Maryam handed the woman a cloth damp with wine, offering a weak smile as Fahmi placed his hand on the man’s stomach and the end of the arrow.

There was a silence before the man’s screams echoed off the sandstone walls, Fahmi quickly ripping the arrow out of the man’s body. The foreign woman slammed her hands down against his side, the damp cloth preventing blood from pouring out. While the woman kept pressure on the wound, Fahmi helped Maryam wrap the bandages around the arrow wound. They bound the cloth snugly around the man’s muscular torso, then turned their attention to the other slashes on his body. To the mysterious man’s credit, his screams only lasted as long as it took for the arrow to come out. Instead, he huffed through his nose, turning on his side and retching as nausea struck him all at once. His wife stroked his hair beneath his cowl, shushing him in their shared language until he fainted from the pain.

“We need to examine his body for more wounds,” Maryam explained. She turned to the man’s wife, hesitating before gesturing to her own eyes, then the rest of the man’s body. It was enough for the foreign woman to understand as she crawled to the other side of the man, raising his robes high enough on his chest to view his other wounds. The trio worked diligently, trading supplies as they wrapped the wounded man’s body.

“How is his face?” Fahmi wondered. He pointed to his own face, and the foreign woman nodded in understanding. However, she paused at the cowl still covering her husband’s head, as though debating whether to look. Her brows knit while her lips formed a pout. Maryam scooted closer, offering to help. The woman hesitated, but finally gestured for Maryam to continue. Fahmi thought nothing of it until Maryam gasped.

“My God! What happened to him?!” she demanded. Fahmi hurried to her side while the woman tilted her head, squinting her eyes. His eyes widened at the scar adorning the man’s chapped lips. A man younger than what his eldest son would be now, God rest his soul. He laid his fingers against the scarred tissue, twisted and stretched from his chin to his cheekbone. A scar several years old, yet poked and prodded at judging by the abnormal healing.

“God help him,” Fahmi murmured, bowing his head and murmuring a prayer. “This is no sword slash.”

“And these are no normal wounds. Who is this man?” Maryam replied quietly. She raised the cowl once more. The man’s wife glanced between the two with a puzzled expression. Ameen returned with the commotion now ended, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot by the corridor.

“The room is made, Baba,” he spoke. Fahmi nodded, groaning as his knees protested as he stood. The foreign woman stood alongside him, glancing between him and Ameen.

“Room,” Fahmi spoke to the woman, gesturing to his son. “He will take you to your room.” He spoke slowly, overly annunciating his words. The woman nodded along, reaching inside her pockets. She handed him a heavy bag of coins. When Fahmi poked inside, his eyes widened. It was nearly a month’s revenue inside the bag. He protested, shaking his head and shoving the bag back into her hands.

“Too much,” he protested. The woman chuckled tiredly, laying it on the desk regardless of his protests. She knelt down to her husband, slinging his arm around her shoulder and heaving him onto her back. Her muscles strained beneath her tunic and trousers. Fahmi had to admit his astonishment at the woman’s strength, knowing he would be of little help. Regardless, he did loop the man’s other arm around his own shoulder, helping the woman carry her husband to their room. Together, they laid the man down on the bed. Maryam laid a fresh set of bandages, linen cloths, and a bottle of wine by the bed.

“For the wounds,” she explained. The woman nodded, eyes downcast to her husband.

Ameen scampered forward, offering a small bucket. “He might be sick,” he mumbled, cheeks flushed with color. The foreign woman managed a smile, mustering her best Arabic as she murmured her thanks. Fahmi and Maryam bowed their heads in respect, ushering Ameen out of the room and closing the door behind them. The couple shared fearful looks.

Just what kind of man had arrived at their doorstep? Worse – who had this man angered that dared mutilate his face before God?

.~.~.

“I have questions.”

Altaïr retched into the bucket, coughing and sputtering while nausea overcame him. He gagged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before turning to Maria. “Right now?”

“Yes, but I will give you the courtesy of finishing,” Maria decided, scooting closer to the Assassin. Her palm rubbed his back as he heaved.

“How kind,” Altaïr muttered.

“I rather thought so.”

Altaïr heaved into the bucket again. This time, Maria slid her hands to Altaïr’s chest, holding him up while he kept the bucket close to his frame. Freshly changed bandages demonstrated that Altaïr’s wounds were healing appropriately, but they did little to dissuade the nausea. She laid her cheek against his toned back.

“You called me your wife.”

Altaïr panted, setting the bucket down by the bed. “What?”

“Your wife. You called me your wife when you spoke to the couple,” Maria murmured.

Altaïr said nothing. He laid back against the pillows, eyes closed as he steadied his breathing. Maria propped her elbow on the pillow next to him, cheek resting on her palm.

“You were a fool for taking that arrow to your side,” she chastised.

“You would have done the same for me,” Altaïr replied. His eyes remained shut, brows furrowed as beads of sweat cascaded down his face and chest, his robes long abandoned as they sat folded neatly in a nearby chair. The sweating was good, Maria reminded herself, though it was harder and harder to do so with how pale her companion was becoming.

“It does not make you any less a fool,” Maria murmured. She laid her hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his torso. Altaïr laid his hand over hers, his heart thumping against her palm.

“I thought you had questions,” Altaïr whispered. He opened an eye, peering down at Maria. She hummed.

“I do. You ignored my first one,” Maria replied.

“It was not a question.”

Maria huffed, pushing on Altaïr’s chest. “Fine. Why did you call me your wife?”

“To avoid suspicion.”

“You could have called me your sister.”

Altaïr paused. “Would you have preferred as such?”

Maria pursed her lips. After a moment, she answered. “No.”

“Then I see no reason for concern,” Altaïr responded tersely. He grimaced as he shifted on the bed, holding his side. Maria sat up, easing Altaïr into a more comfortable position.

“I did not mind it,” Maria clarified. “You know I did not. I… I was just curious.”

Altaïr nodded, though Maria could not tell if he agreed. She fidgeted next to her friend, eyes falling to his lips. His familiar, plump lips, marked by his most defining feature. She leaned forward, reaching up to his lips and pressing her fingertips against his scar. Altaïr stilled. She could feel his body tense under her simple touch.

“They seemed horrified when they saw this,” Maria explained. “I did not understand why. They spoke too fast.” She repeated the few Arabic words she remembered, but they felt clunky and heavy on her tongue. Altaïr’s lips parted slightly, dry and chapped from their journey through the arid dunes. He avoided her eyes, tilting his face to the side as he reached for the goblet of water.

“Your Arabic is improving,” Altaïr complimented.

Maria frowned. “You are avoiding the question.”

“You did not ask a question.”

“You know damn well what I meant.”

Altaïr shot her a look. Maria gulped. Yet, she held her chin high, too proud to back down from her words now. “I thought your scar was a battle wound, like mine. The man seemed to think otherwise.”

“It is, in its own way,” Altaïr muttered.

Maria laid her hand on Altaïr’s cheek, turning his face toward hers. She studied his scar, eyes narrowed as her fingers returned to trace the sensitive flesh. His upper lip split into his scar, providing a small slit into his mouth and exposing a sliver of his teeth and gums. It was barely noticeable from afar, and rarely had any man reached Altaïr’s face long enough to observe how his scar melded into his face. But for Maria, it had been the first feature she noticed, the cool metal of his hidden blade nicking her throat while she sneered. Admittedly, it had terrified her upon their first meeting. No man’s lips should form such a gruesome tear, after all. She was surprised it took the older couple so long to notice it.

Maria was no doctor, but she had experienced more agonizing pains and wounds than the average man could dream of. The scar marked just above her left eyebrow proved it, nicked by a Saracen sword in a battle alongside Richard I. For years, Maria wore such a wound with honor. It was her first permanent scar since she had traded a wedding ring for a sword. A sign that no man, nor woman, could confine her. An affront to the English nobility that once trapped her. Such scars were not becoming of a woman, so Maria puffed her chest and bore hers with pride. Her scar was not a trap, but an escape from desirability as she wandered to the ends of the Earth. Her scars were gnarled and twisted and deep, but they had healed.

Altaïr’s most prominent scar differed in this regard. It was gnarled and twisted and deep like her own, but the flesh had not healed as hers had. Her eyebrow scar healed over a decade ago. Altaïr’s lip scar looked nearly as old, but the flesh had not healed. Not until recently, at least. The outer edges of his scar were light, contrasting against his deep tan and dark hair. The edges were fully healed. His lower lip and chin had been spared as well, the scar a faint pale against his skin. But whereas these areas were faint and light, the rest of the scar remained an irritated red. Not infected, but irritated, as though prodded at constantly. The dark shade of his upper lip failed to conceal the redness of his scar. Only in the last month or so had it begun to heal, slowly fading into a pinkish red.

Even as Maria trailed her fingers along his scar, Altaïr sat eerily still. Too still, as though he was bracing for impact. His jaw was clenched. His biceps tensed as Maria moved closer, her face lingering by his. She guided her fingertips to his jaw, brushing her thumb against his jawline.

“You should shave,” Maria hummed, eyes glancing up. “Your face is growing scraggly.”

Altaïr cocked a brow. “Is that a question?”

Maria shook her head and pursed her lips, brows raised. “No. A suggestion.”

Altaïr stared at her. Those piercing, golden eyes that made even Maria shift under his gaze. She remained so close, barely a breath away from his lips. The puff of air from his nose as he exhaled tickled her own.

“I can do it for you,” Maria suggested.

Altaïr almost smiled. “This feels like a demand rather than a suggestion.”

Maria rolled her eyes, huffing as she stood and walked to their things. Searching his bag, Maria located a small razor amongst his barren things. Throughout their time together, he always packed lightly. Truth be told, she was surprised he even possessed a razor. She returned to the bed, guiding Altaïr to sit up further with a candle in hand. She set the candle down on the bedside table, then unsheathed his razor. Carefully, Maria raised the blade to the Assassin’s jaw and scraped away a few wrily strands of curly, dark hair.

“No water?” Altaïr asked.

“You will be fine,” Maria remarked, eyes focused on her work as she brought the blade closer to her thumb. “Besides, it is a trim. I rather like your facial hair. You should let it grow out.”

It did not escape Maria’s notice how Altaïr tensed at her words. For his sake, Maria paid it no mind and continued her work, trimming his coarse hair. A moment of comfortable silence passed, interrupted only by the scraping of the razor against Altaïr’s sharp jaw and the snoring of their camels just outside the minuscule caravanserai. Much to Maria’s surprise, it was Altaïr who broke the silence.

“You said they were shocked to see my face?” Altaïr spoke. His words were uncharacteristically soft.

Maria frowned. “Not your face, your scar.”

“Is it not one and the same?”

Maria stopped in her tracks. She leaned back, narrowing her eyes as she tracked Altaïr’s movements. His golden gaze avoided hers, cast down upon the scratchy sheets. His lips were parted ever so slightly, Maria watching as he quickly swiped his tongue over them. Her eyes flicked to his hands, which lay awkwardly in his lap. Once again, his body was tense, muscles straining and breath shallow.

“What makes you say that?” Maria questioned, tone harsher than intended.

Altaïr’s throat bobbed as he shifted his gaze back to hers. “What makes you ask?”

“No, no,” Maria argued, setting the razor down against the bed. “We are not starting this. Altaïr, what makes you say that?”

There was a long pause. In the past, Maria would have dropped the subject entirely, writing it off as some sort of Assassin trick to dig into the deepest pits of her heart and mind. Now, however, Maria held her chin high as she forced Altaïr to keep her gaze, her heart thumping against her chest.

“How did the scar upon your brow form?” Altaïr asked.

Maria closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. “Altaïr, I am not going to–”

“Do you want to know or not?” He snapped. Maria’s brow furrowed, and Altaïr quickly cleared his throat. He repeated his question, his voice much softer and weaker than before.

Maria stared incredulously, but ultimately decided to play along. “My first battle. One of Salāh ad-Dīn’s men slashed my brow.”

Altaïr nodded. “Were you shamed for it?”

Maria shrugged. “A few soldiers from my infantry joked here and there, but no.” She squinted her eyes and furrowed her brow. “What are you getting at?”

“In Islam,” Altaïr explained, “it is believed God places all of our senses and beauty into our faces. It is why Muslims avoid striking the face.”

Maria scoffed. “My scar begs to differ.”

Altaïr did not laugh, though she did see the corners of his lips tug up in a phantom smile. “It is taboo to do so. It can leave the face… disfigured,” he explained. “It is not so easy to conceal as a scar on one’s arm or leg.”

Maria’s expression fell. She hesitated before she finally asked her burning question. “Where did you get your scar?”

“Who do you think?” Altaïr all but answered.

Maria should not have been surprised. She only knew of Altaïr’s master through his stories and his codex (Maria could not help it – his journal had been left wide open). Despite Altaïr’s almost nostalgic tone toward a man who had betrayed him time and time again, each story left a sour taste upon her tongue. Now, her tongue tasted bile and copper in disgust.

“How old were you?” she demanded, her words eerily still. Her blood boiled.

“Old enough to know better,” Altaïr replied, quiet.

“Horseshit. How old were you?”

“Thirteen winters.”

Maria stood from the bed, pacing back and forth by the side. “You were a boy. A boy!” She rustled her dark locks from their meticulously braided bun as she grasped and tugged at her hair.

“I knew better than to speak out of turn,” Altaïr replied, his voice raised almost defensively. “I owed everything to him. My progress, my training, my life. He cared for me, in some twisted way, after my father’s death.”

Maria flocked to his side, kneeling before him on the bed as she cupped his cheek. Her thumb grazed over his scar. She tried not to gag imagining a small boy, voice yet to crack, begging the one guardian in his life for mercy. Apologizing desperately for words that should not have offended an allegedly wise leader so greatly.

“That is one thing,” she managed once her voice was composed enough. “But it should be healed. It should be healed by now. For God’s sake, Altaïr, you are twenty-seven! Why is it only now healing?!”

Altaïr caught his lip between his teeth. “I have never been good at staying my tongue. I needed reminders.” His jaw clenched as his throat bobbed. Maria nearly choked as he spoke. “If I would not close my mouth, he would pry it closed for me.”

Maria stared. What else were she to do? She stood, pinching the bridge of her nose while Altaïr silently stared – no, glared – down at his own hands.

“Your master would mutilate you before God,” Maria murmured, her head spinning, “and you would defend him?”

“He was an ordinary man,” Altaïr replied softly, “in control of illusions.”

“This is no illusion, Altaïr.”

“I know.”

Maria tossed her hands in the air before setting them on her head, pacing once more. She inhaled, standing and placing her hands on her hips. She gestured to Altaïr, speechless as she attempted to form words on her heavy tongue. “For thirteen years, Al Mualim slit and prodded your mouth to silence you, on top of his manipulation. As a boy, I understand your hesitance, but you never once fought back?”

Altaïr stood, hand clasping his side while he straightened his back. Maria took a step back, eyes wide but jaw tensed. “How do you fight a man who thinks himself God?” he questioned with narrowed eyes. “What would I have gained? Where would I have gone?” Altaïr winced and sat back down, eyes cast down shamefully. Maria sighed, sitting next to him on the sheets.

“Assassins are not always required to hide their faces,” Altaïr confessed quietly. He tenderly rubbed his stub of a ring finger, thumb brushing over the seared and scarred skin. “Most lower their hoods in Masyaf if they are not patrolling. There is no reason to hide amongst brothers.”

“And you?” Maria dared ask.

Altaïr shook his head, running a hand through his coarse curls. “I was no brother. I was his personal weapon.” His throat bobbed, and Maria tore her face away when she noticed his golden eyes begin to glisten in the flickering candlelight. “He created me. He could mold me into whatever he pleased. He could slice and strike my face. He could shave my beard and treat me not just as a boy, but a dog. He could isolate me. He could tear my name from me and make me the son of no one, loved by nobody. He could do whatever he pleased.” He turned to Maria, voice wavering as he spoke. “Where would I have run to? Who would I have hidden behind that would not whisper my arrogance to Al Mualim?”

There was silence as both Altaïr and Maria turned to stare at the cracked sandstone before them. “My face was unsightly, he told me,” Altaïr whispered. “Disrespectful, even.” He bent forward, elbows digging into his knees while he craned his head and rubbed his eyes. “Better kept hidden beneath a cowl, even in the arms of my brothers.” Altaïr swallowed. “He was correct.”

“No,” Maria opposed. “Your scar is not unsightly. It is not disgusting, or disrespectful, or anything that blabbering fool would have you believe. Your face is not unsightly. You are not unsightly.”

Altaïr chuckled, though it nearly sounded like a sob. “You do not have to lie, Maria.”

“I am not!” Maria all but shouted, coming in front of Altaïr and bending her knees slightly, stopping when she was level with him.

“I am nothing.”

“You are everything,” she pleaded. Maria cupped each of his cheeks, thumbs brushing the heavy, dark bags beneath his kohl-covered eyes. “You are kind and good and curious and wise and beautiful.”

It was Altaïr’s turn to scoff. “Beautiful? I hoped in our time together, you would have some respect for me, even if minute.”

Maria bit back an argument. Instead, she reached for his hands, squatting on the ground while she squeezed them. “You are not some ‘ugly, old Assassin’ beneath your hood,” she murmured, briefly lowering her voice and swapping her accent to mimic his words from Cyprus. Once she had seen his face in Cyprus for the first time, she had thought he was joking during their initial meeting with his Cypriot allies. Now, staring into his piercing eyes, Maria’s heart shattered knowing he had truly not lied. At least, he did not believe so.

She held his hand to her lips and kissed each knuckle. “You are so beautiful. Strikingly so. In fact, it is embarrassing to admit,” she managed a soft laugh. “You are not some broken, shattered weapon. You are the Mentor of the Assassins. You are a scholar. You are a man. You are Altaïr. And Altaïr is more than enough.”

Altaïr was quiet. Maria did not press for an answer. His tear-stained cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight, were enough to signal the power of her words. Her heart pounded as she imagined the utter agony one man could carry. Maria had little autonomy under Robert’s control amongst the Templars, but Altaïr had possessed none under Al Mualim since the age of eleven. His name was stripped from him. His masculinity was torn away in favor of a boy to manipulate. His face was mutilated simply because Al Mualim could. To be at the mercy of a man with none, who believed himself worthy of the powers of God… Maria choked back her tears, instead burying her face in his hands and kissing each palm.

“Altaïr,” she murmured, gazing up into his tearful eyes, “you are everything to me.” She cupped his cheek, ignoring her own hot tears as she smiled solemnly. “You have given me a fresh start. You have given me compassion, wisdom, love.” She swallowed a sob, standing before repositioning herself on the bed. Altaïr still said nothing, his eyes simply following Maria with every movement.

“Please,” Maria begged softly. She cupped her hands around Altaïr’s. “We are more than the instruments people would craft us to be.” Shuffling forward, Maria laid his hands over her heart, her own hands keeping them flat against her chest. “You are Altaïr. I am Maria. That is all we need be.”

Maria could not recall what resulted in Altaïr’s lips melding perfectly against her own. Perhaps it was the thump of her heartbeat. Perhaps it was their matching tears and snotty noses. Perhaps it was Altaïr’s released anguish. Or perhaps, it was merely Altaïr distracting himself from his nausea. Whatever the case, Maria gladly opened her mouth, finding Altaïr’s mouth absolutely delectable as her fingers combed through his curly locks. It was not the first time their lips had met so fervently. It was not even the first time their lips had met with so much love. But it was the first time their lips had met so unencumbered. There was no hesitance as Altaïr deepened their kiss, no weariness behind his lips. Nothing but relief and love and catharsis.

Eyes fluttering, Maria dug her fingers into Altaïr’s coarse hair. The warmth of their breaths mingled with each kiss. She sank her teeth into Altaïr’s lower lip, tugging it and slipping her tongue into his mouth. All the while, Altaïr pressed fervently in return, deepening their kiss as he tugged her forward. Maria’s head spun as her lips lingered by Altaïr’s long after they parted for air. His breath was hot and ragged on her cool skin. She tilted her head up, squinting her eyes as she analyzed his face. Tears stained his sharp cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy. Even with his mouth shut, Maria could see his teeth and gums through the exposed sliver of his scar.

Maria cupped both of his cheeks, her thumbs swiping the stray tears from his skin. She watched as his eyes crinkled and his lips tugged into an awkward hint of a smile. His curved nose, slightly crooked from Maria’s boot to his face only a few months prior, bounced the candlelight off his face. The flickering light highlighted his strong, sharp cheekbones. His eyes, a piercing swirl of gold and amber, were only emphasized by the kohl beneath them. Every inch and crevice of his face captivated her. The longer she stared, the more he strained against her palms as if tugging away from the attention. Tears welled in his eyes as her hold left him utterly exposed. But she could not let him tear away. His dark curls and his striking gaze and his full lips and his winding scar and his scruffy beard and his tan skin enchanted her very being.

She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

“Say something,” Altaïr croaked.

Maria did not. Instead, she leaned forward, peppering gentle kisses to his scar. Maria was careful not to irritate the slit in his upper lip any more than it already was. Rather, she gingerly trailed her velvet lips up along his scar, leaving small caresses along the trail. His facial hair – not quite a beard, but not quite stubble – tickled her cheeks. She smiled.

“My first demand as your wife,” Maria murmured between kisses to his scar, “is that you must grow your beard out. I am fond of it.”

The world spun still with her words. Beneath her gentle touch, Maria could feel Altaïr’s body stiffen. “What?”

“Oh honestly, Altaïr, you cannot just stop listening to me immediately!” Maria huffed. “You have to wait at least a year.”

“I do not understand.” His voice shook – perhaps from nausea, perhaps from nerves, or perhaps from both. Maria laid a hand on his bandaged chest. His heart threatened to thump out onto the floor. She grinned.

“We have been like this for many months,” she explained. “Stumbling around our feelings like some prepubescent children. One might think us virgins the way we stammer about.”

“Aside from insulting our maturity,” Altaïr spoke, his face contorted in confusion, “I am assuming you have a point to this.”

Maria waved her hand in dismissal. “Hush, let me get there.” The Englishwoman grasped Altaïr’s hands in her own, her thumbs stroking his calloused palms. “But tonight… something… it is difficult to explain.” She inhaled and squeezed his hands. Her pale, cerulean eyes met his amber stare. “I love you. I think you and I know that intimately by now. But it was not until tonight, with the mercenaries, the arrow, your scar… that I understood the extent of my love.”

Altaïr furrowed his brow. “I still do not understand. Why now?”

“Because for the first time,” Maria breathed, “I thought I would lose you.”

“This is not my first arrow. This is not even our first battle.”

“No, but I have never seen you so injured or ill. I have never seen you, the great Altaïr, retching over a bucket with bandages covering your entire torso.”

“If you do not make a point soon, I fear you may again.”

Cautiously, Maria handed Altaïr the water-filled chalice, waiting until he had drunk his fill to continue. Her throat swelled with tears as she gulped down her pride. “You have been so truly and utterly vulnerable tonight. You have shared with me the deepest parts of your pain. You have let me care for you and stay by your side.” She smiled through her tears, rolling her eyes as she wiped a few away and scoffed at herself. “Oh good God, this is humiliating.”

Altaïr managed a smile. A true smile. Not the phantom of a smile, or a mildly amused look. A small, bright smile that tugged his lips into his cheeks and formed a pair of dimples. Good God, Maria had never even noticed that before, and the revelation was not aiding her poor attempt at an explanation. “No, it is not,” he assured quietly. It was his turn to cup her pale cheeks. He swiped a tear from her eye, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Maria inhaled sharply, praying that God would not see her break into some weeping wildflower.

Mustering the courage and dignity that remained, Maria tightened her jaw and stared up at Altaïr. “I would walk with you to the ends of time, Altaïr. To our glory, to our doom, I do not care. As long as I walk beside you and chastise you for your foolish decisions to put yourself in front of arrows for the rest of my life, I will be content.”

Altaïr hesitated. “How can you make such a decision so hastily?”

Maria laughed. “My life is nothing but hasty decisions, Assassin.” She crawled beside him from the edge of the bed, wiggling by his side to find a more comfortable position. “But this is not one of them.”

Altaïr laid his head against the creaking headboard, closing his eyes. “So, you have decided that you are my wife now? I have no say in the matter?”

“Is that a question?”

“Maria.”

“No,” Maria answered plainly. “Not yet. But I will be.”

“What makes you so sure?” Altaïr taunted.

“I am a stubborn woman. You are a hot-tempered man. One will wear the other down eventually,” she teased.

“What if I said no?”

“You would not have called me your wife, then.”

Altaïr grinned. “That is true.” He opened his eyes and turned toward Maria, who quickly shot out her hand to ease the pain in his side. “Then you will need to learn more Arabic. It was horrendous before.”

Maria feigned a gasp. “You said I was improving!”

“Both can be true,” Altaïr countered.

“Fine. Next time, I will leave you to die amongst the vipers and vultures in the dunes.”

“You would not.”

“I will stab the arrow back into your side, Altaïr.”

“Now that, you would do.”

The two glared at one another, squinting their eyes and puffing their chests, until finally, Altaïr began to gag. Maria swooped for the bucket, lifting it to her lover’s face before he heaved into it. He murmured apologies, but Maria merely shushed him, her fingers stroking his curly hair.

“You are still a fool for taking that arrow,” she reminded.

“You still would do the same,” Altaïr grumbled, panting into the bucket before wiping his mouth and gulping down what water remained inside the goblet. Maria kissed the top of his head, grabbing the nearest rag and wiping the beads of sweat from his face.

“You are not a weapon, Altaïr,” she reminded, careful as she dabbed around his scar. “You are a man. You do not need to earn my love or any other through reckless acts. You are a man, and that is enough.”

Altaïr nodded, and Maria prayed he believed her.

#assassin’s creed #altaïr ibn la'ahad #maria thorpe #ac1 #fanfiction #ac fanfic #i love fucking bitches up #this took me like three days to write #but I'm very proud of how it turned out!!#and I hope u guys enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it #poor Altaïr <:(#im evil >:3 #altmar #altaïria

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