#it’s not that altaïr is patient
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Hello. You're one of the best fanfic writers on tumblr since I come. Your writings are just masterpiece.
I like when you send Desmond back in time but It would be great to send his ancestors to moderday. Mabey before Desmond geting kidnaped.
Ir happened like this:
Master assassins were always watching. Desmond. The one that they sacrificed themselves for. Altair and Connor were quite alright with this fact but Ezio… The emptiness he felt inside in the vault… He could never forget it. It was actauly obvious that he hated Desmond for it. But he always wanted the prophecy go as it was writen and the day Desmond ran away from the farm. He couldn't help but getting mad. Altair always tried to make him undrestand Desmond. The weakness he felt in the farm how he was treated by his father… Ezio could undrestand but his family, his love, his happiness, they were all gone because of that stupid kid. So he wanted to make everything go as planned. What if they could protect him from Abestergo? But not from here. The grey was a strange place. All illusions could come real. So he used this to make himself strong enough to protect the chosen one. The creation he chose to shift to was a khanivore!!! A creation made to kill. And with the power of shapeshifting he could always be there for Desmond.
So we have a khanivore keeper for Desmond that can shpeshift to a human. A white khanivore with red lines all over his body like the robes of a mentor. I was thinking it would so cool a Desmond with one badass khanivore by his side. They could destroy templairs together. And in the way of it they will learn how to get along with each other or mabey romance. And it will be funny to see Desmond trying to teach Ezio how to use modern tech.
Can you add details. I love the way you give life to these characters.
I love youuu❤❤❤
Thank you! ❤❤❤
For those unfamiliar with a khanivore, it looks like this:
So in this scenario, Ezio has complicated feelings for Desmond. He knows he shouldn’t hate him, Desmond was also a victim of ‘fate’ as Altaïr would sometimes say whenever he sees Ezio’s frustrations bubbling beneath the surface while they were in the Gray.
Ezio understood that.
But sometimes he just doesn’t get Desmond.
He wasn’t like Ratonhnhaké:ton who had a complicated relationship with his father just as Desmond had.
He wasn’t like Altaïr who had a similar isolated upbringing as Desmond had.
It was times like these that makes Ezio wonder why he was even Desmond’s prophet.
Altaïr or Ratonhnhaké:ton would have been better.
They would have understood Desmond more than he could ever had.
He didn’t understand it.
And that feeling of his is what turned to frustration, to hatred.
He always tried to stomp it out but sometimes, it would just flare up whenever he sees Desmond wasting his time just… doing nothing.
Staring at the sky.
At the woods beyond the Farm…
Ezio was tired.
So tired.
He spent his life as an Assassin being a puppet dancing to the tune the Isus created for him.
As an opening act to Desmond’s story.
And when he finally died, he was transported here instead of being with the people he loved.
All because of Desmond.
So when Desmond ran away from the Farm, Ezio was furious.
Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to calm him down, tried to remind him that Desmond was still sixteen.
Altaïr kept quiet.
The only time he spoke during that time was to say that he understood Desmond’s choice.
And that they should honor his decision to live his life the way he wants to live it.
But Ezio couldn’t agree with that.
Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton had always had a soft spot for Desmond, had always been more forgiving.
He couldn’t understand why Altaïr could think that way. Ratonhnhaké:ton had been with them since his death, he’s only been stuck in the Gray for more or less three centuries. He probably still doesn’t feel that bitter loneliness that Ezio feels.
But Altaïr?
Altaïr had been stuck here longer than Ezio had been.
Maybe that was what was different between them.
Altaïr had the patience that Ezio no longer possessed.
So Ezio planned.
And creates a body he could use to get out of the Gray.
To drag Desmond back to the Brotherhood.
Unorganized Notes:
Ezio has been so focused on creating the khanivore that he hasn’t seen how Desmond is doing after leaving the Farm.
When he leaves and goes to the modern time, he’s floored by how much Desmond had grown and becomes conflicted when he realized that this was the first time he had ever seen Desmond smiling in a very long time. No. It was the first time he had ever seen Desmond happy for a very long time.
Ezio uses the khanivore as his body but can shapeshift to a human form. He visits Desmond in the bar but don’t talk to him. Contemplating on his next plan.
Desmond thinks he’s super sus but his coworkers think he’s just shy and might have a crush on Desmond with the way he keeps staring at Desmond then looking away whenever Desmond turns to face his direction.
Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton remain in the Gray but they try to contact Ezio at times, usually hijacking radios and any other electronics nearby. After a while, Ezio gets a phone so they could just… call him. (like the phone rings and they can talk for a few seconds, maybe a minute, before it drops because signals sucks in the Gray)
Ezio spent a lot of time not sure of what to do now because he’s not an asshole who would just yank someone away from their happiness but, at the same time, Desmond needs to become an Assassin to save the world. So yeah, he’s torn. It doesn’t help that Desmond started talking to him and… well, they’re talking. Nothing serious but it gives Ezio an excuse to ask Desmond how his life is and…
He can’t help but be happy for Desmond for having a life he finds happiness in but also he can’t stop that bitterness that keeps whispering to him that Desmond needs to do his duty. His responsibility. The fate of the world depends on it.
That’s when Cross tries to kidnap Desmond.
And Ezio saves him in his khanivore form.
Cue a story of Desmond and Ezio (in khanivore form) running away from Abstergo, trying to get into contact with the Assassins because they have no choice. Ezio starts to understand Desmond more because Desmond lets his guard down with Ezio’s khanivore form.
And then… I don’t know. Desmond gets kidnapped anyway while Ezio barely manages to escape? That’s when he finally gets to talk to Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton who informed him that if he wants to keep the timeline intact, for Desmond to save the world, he has to let Desmond stay in Templar custody ‘until the time is right’.
Which only serves to make Ezio think about how he truly feels with Altaïr and Ratonhnhaké:ton subtly pushing him to confront his real feelings (maybe with Altaïr even reminding Ezio that this is what he wanted, isn’t it?)
In the end, Ezio says fuck fate and goes to save Desmond before Desmond could finish reliving Ezio’s memories.
That’s as far as I got XD
#it’s not that altaïr is patient#it’s more like ezio had a happy life after retirement#so when he died#he never stopped missing his family#altaïr has been grieving for his lost family before his death#he’s accepted it and knows how to deal with it#ezio never got the chance to process his grief#ratonhnhaké:ton on the other hand#is focusing on watching over his descendants at the moment#ask and answer#no usual tags because#this could become#ezides
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Today at work i got insanly inspired to write and once i got off work, i immidiently went on my phone to type it out. XD I just finished a 3 hour long writing ses(had a 15 minute food break in the middle). ^^ Probably just gonna forever gonna be a wip thing, but it was fun and i'm kinda proud of it. Despite it being rough in some parts, mostly because i wanted to rush to the 2nd half and i didn't wanna get stuck, i'm happy to share it. ^^
It's a kinda long, so i'm gonna add a Read more line to not fill your dash with text. Also, first time trying formatting out! XD
So, originally this post was just gonna be a "i actually wrote something! Look!" thing, just showing of some work i did, but after writing the reason why i wrote a line a certain way, it went into something very sad and kinda dark, so if you don't wanna read about death, a light mention of suicidal thought and grief... just stop after What even is my life.
Idk why i wrote it, but it took alot of effort and it feels... important to me, i guess. Part of processing and such. So, yeah. Read at your discretion. Thank you for your time. 💜
Ezio had many regrets in his long life. Not being there when his father and brothers were arrested. Of not being there more for his sister and mother. Of not trying to be together with Cristina. Not being able to save her. Or being able to save Uncle Mario and Monteriggioni. But biggest of all, not having spent more time with his family before the execution.
He had love, but didn't cherish it. Didn't truly feel it and took it for granted. But unlike so many others, Ezio could take those regrets and change them. Thanks to Desmond.
When he walked into the Library, he thought he might get an answer or two in return for many more. He truly didn't expect that calling out Desmonds name while the Apple bathed the walls in gold would result in it being answered by the being himself.
The being looked like a man, clad in a white light, eminating from a strange device under his right arm. His face looked like an exact replica of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad's face, though his build was closer to his. Broad shoulders hidden underneath a strange hooded white doublet and long legs wearing strange tight fitted pants made from a material he did not recognise. Even the scar was the same as his! Was Ezio made in the image of the one he was the Prophet for? Was Altaïr the herald? All questions Ezio wondered, but not knowing if Desmond was like Minerva or not, he dared not waste any questions if the beings patient was thin.
But first: "Are you Desmond?" He had to know, have it confirmed, even if the being appeared after the name was called.
"Ezio? Is this the Library? Am i seriously bleeding while dying!?" Desmond was looking around at the empty tomb, before his eyes returned upon Ezio.
"Yes, this is Altaïr's library. You are bleeding? I do not see any blood and you are dying!? Is there anything i can do to help you? Please, my lord. Tell me what i need to do to save you." Ezio was desperate to know his purpose and if all his life lead to this moment, where he could save Desmonds life, he would fulfill it.
"There's nothing you can do. I am dying semi willingly and even if this is some Animus infused death hallucination, it is nice having my last moments with you, even if your not really here. I am so sorry i couldn't answer any of your questions or try to save you from losing everything. You never deserved any of it. In the end it didn't really even matter. I am sorry you wasted your time chasing riddles and ghosts." He looked so grieve struck while saying it and the look Desmond had while gazing down onto Ezio could only be described as lovingly.
"What do you mean? Could you have saved my uncle!? My father and brothers!? Why didn't you if you do not think i deserved it! I have served the Brotherhood almost my entire life, sacrificed so much trying to find out what Minerva meant and now your telling me that it was all for nothing!? If you think i wasted my time then give it back!"
Desmonds eye's widen before softly smiling and saying: "Your right, you wasted your time and sacrificed too much for nothing. Let's change that."
Before Ezio knew it, the world went white and he knew nothing more.
—————
When Ezio awoke, it was to a bed he hadn't seen in almost 40 years. His childhood bed and his room. He couldn't believe it. He was given a second chance. To live his life. To right wrongs. To save his family! To think going to the Library would result in this!
At the thought of the Library, Ezio suddenly remembered Sofia. To have forgotten her and even abandoned her without a second thought left Ezio feeling guilty. Would she wait outside the Library before realising he would never come back? Or because he is now in the past, a past where he intends to change the future, would she never meet him? Never exist? The thought of her hurt, but like so many others, Ezio knew that him being in her life would have risked hers. Even if she knew and accepted it, it is still better if she never got the chance to know him and inevitibly suffer because of it. Same with Cristina. Though he could now choose her, he knew that despite the many mistakes in his life, the Brotherhood was not one of them and his refusal to properly let her go killed her. Letting that life affect her once again was too cruel. It was for the better to just let her go.
Federico nudged him with his elbow. "Brother, what has you thinking so hard you look like you bit into something bitter?"
"Nothing much, just wondering what i should get." Ezio smiled and laughed. He was currently out with his family on a trip the market. The last time around, he had decided to sneak off to spend some time with a girl he didn't even remember the name of anymore instead of spending time with his loved ones, to his great shame and regret. This was the last thing his family had done together outside of dinners before the execution in 3 days. That he missed out on it was one of his biggest regrets, but Desmond let him change it.
That Ezio might never truly understand or know what or who Desmond is, how he watched him in the Vault or even what Minerva's people and the Pieces of Eden truly were will forever haunt him, but the trade to see his family again and to even be able to save them is a fair trade. He can go his life wondering these questions and maybe try to find them now that he will have more time, thanks to already knowing the Templars plans and who will be an enemy or ally.
He felt a finger poke him inbetween his eyebrows.
"There you go again Brother. Thinking too hard! Be careful or you might hurt yourself." Federico teased before yelping and then laughing when Ezio pushed him.
"Please don't start fighting now sons." Their father said before turning back to the stall owner to continue discussing what wares to buy and the prices.
"Sorry Father!" Ezio said before giving his brother a teasing look that promised this was not over.
Ezio remembered this day well enough. Not to remember the woman he decided to chase, but enough to know that when his family had been at the market a horse had run wild there and according to Claudia, nearly trampled her down in the confusion.
He was a bit sceptical to believe it was as close as she had made it out to be, but he knew horses much better now than he did before. After years of riding them to and from places in the chase for his targets, he knew that having one running towards you in a blind panic could scare anyone. Even though he knew to be wary of them and treat them with respecy during his original childhood, he didn't truly get how these gentle beings could be as scary as his sister had made the poor creature out to be.
According to his family, it had been a war horse, bloodied, running around in a blind panic, probably scared from a skirmish. Being chased by guards hadn't helped and eventually the guards got a good shot at it and put it down.
Ezio wanted to save his sister years of fearing horses, so he kept an eye and a ear out for any signs that the animal was on it's way.
There. A scream. Everyone stopped and looked around for the source. The source was still hidden by the crowds, but in the distance you could start seeing people moving away from something coming this way and the screams were getting closer.
Ezio breathed and slipped into his Second Sight, the Eagle Vision, as he now knew Altaïr had called it. Or more accuratly, Eagle Sense. With the years, his constant use and need for it had changed his Sight. It had become much stronger, letting him see farther, expanded his hearing, to let him hear his enemies heartbeat and even know what moves they were going to make. Even let him know where his enemies was going to go on a patrol route.
It truly was a gift and now he would use it to try and predict where the animal would go, as to lead his sister and family away from the danger. Then he saw it. The shine of something important. Something that glowed as strongly as the Apple of Eden had. The horse.
There was much about his Gift he could not explain. He had tried, but it is much like explaining sight to a blind person. Why things he didn't even know about could glow gold and lead him to the answer. Why allies glowed blue and enemies red, nor how he could tell friend from foe and now. His Sight told him, with the same intuition as telling friend from foe, that this horse was Desmond.
How is Desmond here? Why? Did he lie about dying? Or was certain death only a large chance that Desmond beat? Ezio supposed it did not matter. If he lets events play as they had before, Desmond would be struck down by an arrow within minutes. Oh, maybe Desmond had tried to prevent his father and brothers demise, but was struck down in the attempt? Though, why choose to do it as a rampaging horse? Either way, Desmond was clearly panicking, almost upon him now. If Ezio could not calm him down, his death was guaranteed.
But how? Ezio has just seconds now to plan a way to stop him before he is trampled down.
Then, he finally realises, that among the bright gold he shines, he also glowes blue. Such a deep colour which he has only seen in the greatest friends or closest family and he knows, Desmond would never harm him. The look of pure love on Desmonds face made more sense now.
So Ezio decides to not move and simple raise up his hands, as if to pet the horse.
"EZIO!"
————
Desmond was in pain. He knew that Juno lied about his death being quick and painless, but god, why did it have to hurt so much!? During his hallucination, it wasn't nearly so bad! And can't forget the weird nightmare he's having ontop of it. He's a goddamned horse on some battlefield. He was rearing up when the nightmare started, neighing as his rider was shot and killed by an arrow.
There's so much blood. The smell strikes fear in his heart. There's so much red. He slips into Eagle Vision and there's even more red. Not a spec of blue. A sword slides against the armor he is wearing and the screech of metal is too much. He bolts.
He needs to run. Away from the monsters with sharp sticks. Away from the smell of blood and death. Away from the shadows hiding hunters. They follow him. They chase him for a long time.
He is getting so tired.
He needs to get back to the barn. His owner would make everything alright. He would croon soft noises he did not understand, but the tone was soft and gentle. He would give him a treat while brushing him down after a hard days work.
He did ride him into scary battles he did not understand, but afterwards he would wash and groom him extra thoroughly, while feeding him the best apples, crooning more sounds in a happy tone. He would repeat one of the few sounds he understood, which meant "him" and "pay attention to me".
Dante.
But he wasn't on his back anymore and he didn't hear his voice. Just the loud, scary noises of more men in the shiny hard thing. They had the pointy sticks too and tried to take the things dangling from his mouth. Only his owner can touch that! Only he is to be trusted with them.
Running is getting harder, there is large, straight hills in the way and the path is narrower with many strangers in it.
There is still so much red. He can still smell the blood, feel it clotting his fur. Too much red!
Blue.
Suddenly there's blue in front of him. He knows blue means ally. Though why and how this person is blue confuses him. But he is Blue and running him over is not good, but why is he standing there!? Does he not see the red!? Smell it!? Does he not understand we need to run!?
"Desmond"
That single word pierces the fog of fear and wild panic that has flooded Desmonds mind. Ezio is in front of him, hand already gripping the reigns while the other rests on his muzzle.
"There we go Desmond, everything is alright."
Desmond still feels phantom threads of fear, but with Ezio's calming blue glow and his voice saying gentle reassurances, it feels far away.
Now with his mind fully human and not driven by horse instincts or memories, the question becomes: How and why the fuck is he a horse in 15th century Italy with Ezio!?
What even is his life.
————
So, a couple parts i'm stupidly happy about is the "He had love, but didn't cherish it. Didn't truly feel it and took it for granted." part. This, as you can probably tell was inspired by the famous quote "When I was a young man, I had liberty, but I did not see it. I had time, but I did not know it. And I had love, but I did not feel it."
I believe Ezio didn't fully understand liberty until he tried to live a peaceful life with Sofia and realised he would always fear Templars taking revenge on his family and time, because the knowledge that he would never see his children grow up to adults had never been a concern before he met Sofia. He probably thought he wouldn't have a family at all.
But love. Love he would understand what he missed. He would understand it just days after he lost his father and brothers. Those moments you missed out on. Of opportunities to spend time that you squandered away. Time you will never get back, because in real life we don't have time travel.
And now i understand it. Before the end of the last year, i was like Ezio before the loss. Before i lost my grandparents only a few weeks apart.
Those opportunities to spend time was rare and thankfully i took most of them, but i still squandered it away by not actually spending time with them. I just visited and hid away in my room, wasting the time by sitting on the phone.
I will forever regret that because ny memory is shit and besides a few childhood ones, i have no memories of them. I still remember their voices, they were pretty distinct thankfully, but how long until i forget that.
It hurts and as someone who is afraid of death and it's finality, such a reminder that time and love is finite is soulcrushing. It is only recently that i have truly started to think of my grandparents and i guess try to process the fact they are gone forever.
When we first got the news that my grandpa had died, i was even more glued to my phone, not wanting to acknowledge what was happening. I also didn't wanna sleep and only got some when i passed out from exhaustion. We even went to the doctor to get time of work and some sleep medication i didn't dare end up taking.
I even had thoughts of just taking all the pills and just sleeping, to get away from the pain forever. But i'm thankfully too much of a coward, so it just stayed thoughts. I'm doing much better now and as i mentioned, i think i'm starting to process the fact that they are gone.
So, yeah. This post went in a direction i didn't expect. But it feels important and maybe in a few years i can look back at this post and see a snapshot of who i was and reflect on who i am now. So, here's to the future me and anyone else who needs to hear it:
I hope things are going well and if they're not... well, things get better. They always do. You're loved and even if your loved ones are gone, they live on in you. You will carry that love with you, for the rest of your life. 💜
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Manuela Aguiar - Modern Gang Assassin's Creed OC
A member of the modern day Assassins, Manuela joins the ragtag team that helped Desmond escape from Abstergo and who are now training him through the Animus.
Manuela was the only child of a Brazilian-American family from New York, and grew up unaware of the Templars and Assassins. She pursued a career in Psychology, getting good grades and specializing in delusion and dissociative disorders. She herself is mentally disabled - having the comorbid conditions of autism, ADHD, general anxiety and depression. Her condition made her more sympathetic and understanding towards her own patients, as she knew where their worries were coming from, having experienced many of them on her own, and planning out her own coping strategies.
Her career got her an entrance in Abstergo when she was 20 years old, where the pharmaceutical scientists told her her research on dissociative disorders matched their own researches on another field. Before she could treat her first patient in the company, however, her curious nosy nature revealed to her their secrets: the Animus machine, and the unethical experiments performed on Clay Kaczmarek, designated Subject 16.
She came home to find her parents murdered, and a goon from Abstergo claiming she would be next. Before he could shoot at her, she was saved by a team of Assassins.
William Miles, their head and Mentor, explained to Manuela that her parents were once Assassins, but had left the Order to raise their child. And now, the Order had a place for her, should she choose to avenge her family.
Manuela accepted.
During five years, Manuela worked as a psychologist for the Order, and underwent some training in combat and parkour - even going as far as climbing her first rank and being gifted hidden blades. Due to starting out at an older age though, it would be many years more before she had the same abilities as the other members. And then - the Assassins replicated the Animus, and with it, the efficacy of controlled Bleeding Effect in training.
When Desmond, William’s son, had been kidnapped by Abstergo to be forced into their Animus, Manuela stormed the company with two teams of Assassins. One team launched a front assault, but the Abstergo soldiers were too numerous, resulting in a massacre. Her team sneaked into the company amidst the confusion and stole the engineering files on the Animus, as well as the datacore of Subject 16’s experiments.
With this material, Rebecca Crane and other Assassin engineers were able to create the Animus 2.0.
Manuela was set to work with Desmond’s team. At first, she was only a psychologist, assigned to the team by convenience, to monitor Desmond’s use of the Animus and keep him from going Code 16. Until research from William revealed she had two Assassin ancestors, and therefore, could train her abilities using the Animus as well.
Her ancestors were the legendary Altaïr's right hand man, Malik Al-Sayf, as well as Siomara De La Cruz Cárdenas, an Assassin raised as a Templar, whose memories would provide important information on ancient Templar secrets.
(Siomara is my friend's OC, @sharonz-arty-corner03)
#assassin's creed#assassin's creed oc#ac oc#my ocs#my art#my posts#my writing#fanfic#fanart#desmond miles#rebecca crane#william miles#malik al sayf#manuela aguiar#modern AC
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Got any more AUs ideas? If so, please tell us every. SINGLE. DETAIL (pretty pls)
honestly I haven't thought of too many lately, if someone says something relevant that I think would go good with the boys is when they brew. but within this last week it'd be;
• Arno, Desmond & Connor as nurses. specifically hospice nurses, they love being there for people for their final days, and they love being in their company. seeing their smiles makes them happy. they get emotionally attached too. whenever they lose a patient not only do they attend the funerals, but they send flowers and cards to the family. family members always give them a little memorabilia of their patient, all of them keep the little memorabilias with them, or at home. they also have selfies & pictures with their patients (as long as they're okay with it) they're all loved by the patients families to the point where even after the patient dies, they still send holiday cards and such to them.
• Arno, Altaïr & Ezio as boutiques/florists. Ezio's favorite event to make flowers for is weddings/dates. Arno & Altaïr's favorite event is funerals, the reason being its something that can be seen as a beautiful goodbye gift. Ezio prefers coral & red roses, bleeding hearts, and alyssum in his bouquets. Arno prefers pansy, rosemary, daffodils and verbena. Altaïr prefers Lilies, white jasmine, morning glory and marigolds. (for their bouquet designs for said events) but it also varies per customer. all of them look into the person they're making the bouquet for, so they can get a glimpse at how they are/were in life.
• linking to the one above, I see Arno, Altaïr, Ezio & Connor being into flower language for some reason.
this is all I've really thought about in the past week for AU's. I love the florist one so much tbh.
my grandma has been on hospice for a couple weeks and passed last Thursday evening. after taking a turn for the worst a week ago today, she had pancreatic cancer and a bad liver. my dad and I took care of her hence why I didn't post anything for a few days--
#ezio auditore#ac#assassins creed#ezio auditore da firenze#desmond miles#arno dorian#arno victor dorian#ac desmond#altair ibn la'ahad#connor kenway
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First Meeting 💗
Mini Fanfic Time! 🥰
A mysterious man in a white robe with a hood over his head stared at Tami with golden and cold eyes, but there was a hint of curiosity there.
She couldn't believe her own brown eyes, he existed in her world and it makes her blushing a lot.
She wanted to say something, but the mysterious man keeps on fascinating her.
He kept looking at her, not at all going to leave somewhere and patiently waited for her words.
"Hi… Do you know about dinosaurs?" Tami asked shyly. The man raised his eyebrow in wonder, but said nothing.
"Oh, excuse me! Let me introduce myself! My name is Tamara Fountain, but call me Tami!" She smiles nervously, knowing she screwed up.
The man chuckled quietly, but immediately hid his smile to make himself look serious. Tami tried to say something but her siblings called her. That made her sigh in disappointment.
"Oh well, I have to go. Have a nice day!" she said goodbye and walked away from him, thinking that she would probably never see him again, but at least she now knows he exists.
"Weird..." the man whispered to himself, "but in an interesting way..." and then he hid in the shadows...
(↓ Credits under Keep reading)
Programs: XNALara & Fire Alpaca
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad © Ubisoft
The Sims © Electronic Arts Games
Tami © Me (TamiIsntHere) Note: I don’t own the most Custom Content. These belong to their creators.
Altaïr’s Robes Model © LorisC93 (DeviantArt)
“Altaïr's” Head Model © carbint (DeviantArt) Note: This is AC3 Desmond’s model, which I edited textures on it.
Village © Oo-FiL-oO (DeviantArt)
#Assassin's Creed#assassins creed#assassin#Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad#Altaïr#Altair#Altair Ibn-La'Ahad#Tami Fountain#Tami#Altami#altaïr ibn la'ahad#tamiisnthere's artwork#tamiisnthere's fanfic#canon x self insert#canon x oc#canon character#oc#persona#self insert#the sims#sim#the sims 4#sims 4#xnalara#xps#cringe#couple#first meeting
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I'm 99% sure that Maria was the disciplinary parent.
Darim and Sef database in Revelations says that:
"Both were raised - as Altaïr was - at Masyaf, trained to be Assassins by their father, and diplomats and men of honor by their mother"
And even though it adds:
"Altaïr, though often stern, was a patient father too, a man determined to give his sons what Al Mualim had given him - guidance and respect."
Altaïr maybe was a stern fighting teacher but we're talking about a guy who throw out of the window all traditions of the order and established new ones.
Wanna use poison? Sure! Leave the finger? OFC It'd be dumb to amputate something because of tradition! Keeping low profile instead of making assassinations noticed by many? Yep. That's what we're doing right now. Burning dow the body of Al-Mualim? Duh!
Like Altaïr would tell his sons off not for doing something illegal but for getting caught while doing it.
Meanwhile Maria would be the one teaching them the Knight's Code of Chivalry and following the rules because it's a right thing to do and that's the only reason they need. She's a.former Templar, she HAS to have at least a bit of liking for order and rules.
#assassin's creed#shitpost#so many assassins#gaming#altaïr ibn la'ahad#maria thorpe#altaïr#altmar#darim ibn la'ahad#sef ibn la'ahad#assassin's creed imagine#assassin's creed headcanons#random thoughts
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sorry sometimes it just hits me out of nowhere how much i love altaïr ibn-la’ahad. he grew up to be so selfless and compassionate and curious and thoughtful and he taught himself ALL of it. he was groomed to be a weapon his whole life and instead chose to be good and forgiving without any examples or influences. he literally brought LOVE back to the Order. al mualim literally banned parents from showing affection to their own children bc he told them it would make them weaker, altaïr was emotionally isolated from his own father and only family in the short time he knew him. he literally had no examples and no reference to learn kindness he was so alone growing up and he still grew up to be wise and patient and loving and he changed the entire assassin orders perspective on love because HE loved so much he loved his wife and his sons and his friends and he was a devoted husband and father even though he had ZERO good role models in that area but he did it anyway because he loved them so much and i’m just so proud of him i love him so much
#assassin's creed#assassins creed#altair ibn la'ahad#altaïr ibn la'ahad#altaïr my meow meow#i’m crying over the pixel man oh my god
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Rules & Info
note: fnaf roleplay sideblog (I follow from this blog)
fandomless/multifandom angel oc rp blog here.
Hey, my name is Ria, I use she/her pronouns, I’m 26 and welcome all to my blog. This will be a multi-fandom blog. Requests are OPEN. I will accept up to 10 asks before closing them so I don’t overwhelm myself.
NO NSFW in this blog.
RULES
Have your age stated somewhere or tell me if you are or not 18+
Remember to be nice when asking.
Anons are welcome here.
Please no NSFW.
Be patient, don't push me to finish something but you may ask how it's going nicely.
I will pick up requests that interest me, if I didn't pick yours don't feel .
discouraged, you can ask for something else.
You will not find politics stuff here, this is a safe writing blog.
My reader will be female or gender neutral.
WHAT I WILL WRITE ✔
❤ Romance
⚘ Fluff
😥 Angst
💔 Hurt/Comfort
⭐ Alternate Universes
Fandoms
ISWM - In Space With Markiplier
Mark Egos
WKM - Who Killed Markiplier
(Note: I will NOT write for actual irl youtuber Mark)
Genshin Impact
FNAF - Five Nights At Freddy's: Mostly SL, Pizzeria Simulator, Security Breach, FNAF 4
Outlast: only the main trio (Miles Upshur, Waylon Park, Blake Langermann) + Eddie Gluskin
JoJo: up to part 3 I haven't watched the rest so please no spoilers
Uncharted 4
FNF - Friday Night Funkin': specifically the Mid-Fight Masses mod
Attack on Titan (up to date, I will tag spoilers)
Tokyo Ghoul the manga (I haven't finished Tokyo Ghoul: Re so please no spoilers)
NEW!
Assassin's Creed: Altaïr and Ezio trilogy.
CoD: MW2 (2022 reboot)
WHAT I WILL NOT WRITE ❌
Self-harm
Minor x Adult
NSFW
Yandere (it's not cute to me and it makes me uncomfortable)
Abusive relationships (I may write about a character that has been abused)
R*pe or mentions off.
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Rescue from Jerusalem
A very late gift from the Christmas Winter Whumperland exchange 2017 (😅) for the gracious and ever-patient @collapse-and-comfort!
Also available on Ao3
Fandom: Assassin’s Creed I
Tags: Gen, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Altaïr/Maria, Malik, OC Villain, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Fever, + 1 x bonus fanart
Summary: After Altaïr mysteriously vanishes whilst on a mission in Jerusalem, Maria Thorpe sets out for the city, determined to find him and bring him home. But it seems the hand of an old enemy is still at play, and Maria is horrified by what has become of Altaïr when she finally discovers him.
Words: 5,997
___
It had been more than a week since Altaïr was last heard from.
Maria Thorpe crouched on the sandy rooftop, her blades ready at her wrists and fingers itching with worry and anticipation. Below her, a group of Crusader guardsmen were dragging several figures through the shaded alleyway towards the building she had come to infiltrate. It was too dark to see the victims’ properly, but Maria could hear frightened whimpers and sniffling from underneath the bags that covered their faces. As they reached the building, the doorway was unlocked from the inside by two more guards, and the prisoners were ushered roughly inside. Straining closer, Maria thought she heard a voice with an unusual accent - something European, but unfamiliar - but then the door was slammed shut. Even from the rooftop, the clank of the key in the lock and thump as the door was barred from the inside were clear to hear. She would not get in this way.
Cursing, Maria retreated from the edge of the rooftop. What now? Perhaps she should return to the Bureau and seek Malik’s advice. Two days had passed since they had arrived in Jerusalem from Masyaf, having ridden as quickly as their horses could manage, fear for Altaïr’s safety spurring them on. That made it a total of nine days since Altaïr had vanished. The first morning in the city, they hastened straight to the Bureau to question the new rafiq. He knew little of Altaïr’s mission - only that it was in some way connected with the Knights Hospitalier, and with one of Altaïr’s previous Templar targets - Garnier de Naplouse. Altaïr had rested at the Bureau when not out investigating, and then one day had not returned. That gave the rafiq little cause for alarm, but when several days had passed and Altaïr neither appeared nor was there any talk in the city of the hooded man or any suspicious deaths, he had become worried and sent word to Maria and Malik at Masyaf. The following two days were spent scouring the city for clues to Altaïr’s whereabouts.
Maria crept over to her bags and reached inside for the map Malik had found in the Bureau’s archives. Mingling with the people, she had soon learned that something - though it was not clear precisely what - was going on in this fairly innocuous-seeming compound. Disappearances, they had said. Those who went in never seen again. And occasionally, some swore, screams. She shuddered.
The map detailed the layout of the building and the surrounding streets. With frustration, she marked a cross against the entrance in the alleyway below her. Access from the ground would not be possible. She could enter via the roof, but archers patrolled it at all hours of the day - to take them out without alerting the guards inside would be difficult.
She frowned. There was no simple option. This would need cunning, resourcefulness, and all of her skills as an assassin. She placed the map back into her bag and shouldered it, and then began to quietly clamber back down the side of the building to the deserted city streets. As she climbed, a plan began to form in the back of her mind.
* * *
“Assassin! Heretic!”
Maria almost laughed as she sprinted ahead of the Saracen guards, dodging and weaving expertly through the crowds in the direction of the compound. These men were faster than many she’d encountered - not quite the typical middle-aged ex-soliders, invalided back from war and just looking for an easy living, that she was used to - but they weren’t as fast as her. Her feet pounded the dirt as she began to approach her target. The guards, a small group, were about twenty paces behind her, though she was widening the distance with every second. She had to be careful not to lose them until the exact correct moment.
She rounded the corner with the agility of a wild gazelle, and the main entrance to the compound suddenly loomed in front of her. There were four guards on the gate, wearing unmarked armour yet still unmistakably Crusaders. She hoped the men pursuing her would be an even match for them.
She dashed past the door guards before they properly had a chance to register her, though a faint cry of “Another assassin!” reached her ears as she darted off down a side alley. She heard the metallic slice of swords being drawn, but then- just as she’d hoped: cries of alarm and Saracen shouts, followed by the clashing of blades and the sound of a struggle. She didn’t stop, fearing that one or two of the group wouldn’t have taken the distraction and could still be chasing her. Instead, she sprung sideways, leaping nimbly up a pile of crates that had been left against the outer wall, grabbing the closest window ledge and beginning to haul herself rapidly upwards. She heard more yells coming from above as she ascended - the archers on the roof running to join the fight. This was her chance.
As she reached the rooftop, she paused, trying to figure out exactly where each man was from the sound alone. There were curses and the panicked sound of arrows being knocked to bows, all coming from her right side. Dangling from the roof edge, she carefully shimmied her way around a corner in the building, the ground far below her, and then peeked her head over the parapet. They were all distracted, facing away from her. Good.
Close to silently, she lifted herself up and then quickly slunk her way over to the centre of the roof where the access hatch was, watching the archers warily the whole way. They were too preoccupied with the fight - which seemed to be going badly for the poor Saracen soldiers - to notice as she lifted the hatch and dropped noiselessly inside.
Inside the building was considerably darker than the sunny streets had been, and far quieter too. Maria paused as her eyes adjusted, relying on her other senses to assess the situation. The air was heavy and smelt… well, frankly, foul, not unlike the scent from the slaughterhouses behind the butcher’s market, but mixed with all manner of strange herbal and spiced aromas. There was little detectable movement in the air, so the building had to be well and truly sealed off from the outside. As the darkness ebbed away, she realised she was standing in a storeroom, surrounded by shelves of bottles, jars and odd-looking equipment. Altaïr wasn’t here. In the distance, the sound of the fight she’d started seemed to be petering out. She couldn’t hear anyone in the rest of the building, but it was still best to be cautious.
As she crept through the maze of rooms, her heart began to pound and her stomach grew more and more anxious as the buildings’ secrets were revealed. The place wasn’t as unoccupied as she’d assumed. Everywhere there were beds and raised tables, and on these lay the sorriest forms of humanity she’d ever encountered. Most were drenched in filthy bandages, many stained with blood, and their skin as grey and loose as the tatters of cloth. A few looked up as she passed, their sunken eyes pleading, but Maria regretfully had to push on past them. Occasional cries of anguish echoed out from hidden corners.
She needed to find Altaïr. Her worry for him had tripled now that she saw what horrors had been occurring here.
She went to round another corner but stopped sharply as a tall figure passed immediately in front of her. Pressing herself flat against the wall, she held her breath as the man walked unknowingly past, and then stopped at the end of the corridor. He turned to inspect the contents of a cabinet, and Maria got a first decent look at his face.
She knew this man from her Templar days. His name was Baldwin de Carreo. He was an associate of Garnier de Naplouse, and also a member of the Knights Hospitalier, though not, she believed, a Templar himself. She had never personally interacted with the man, but from what she had overheard, he was devoted student of de Naplouse’s, and tended to the doctor’s work with a zeal and eagerness that was known to put even the other Templars on edge. The doctor’s death at the hands of the Assassin Order - at the hands of her beloved, in fact - probably only pushed him further in that evil, twisted fanaticism. She could well understand why Altaïr would have considered even rumours of the man’s presence in the Holy Land to be an urgent concern worth dealing with personally. Now, it seemed, it was up to her to deal with him.
De Carreo turned and continued along the corridor, still unaware of Maria’s presence. Slowly, Maria peeled away from the wall and began to stalk him through the space, crouching low, like a leopard fixed on its prey. Suddenly he stopped. She froze. He didn’t turn around, but his head cocked slightly to the side. Had he heard her? Should she attack now, while there was still perhaps a chance to catch him unawares? He outweighed her, and was taller, broader, and likely at least a decently skilled fighter. A scuffle between them might alert the other guards, or he could call for help. Maria had only seconds to make a decision.
She sensed de Carreo begin to turn towards her, and seized her chance. She leapt forward, swiftly grabbing his nearest arm and twisting it high against his back, then used the leverage to drag him closer, forcing him to bend his knees. He tried to struggle but her hidden blade flashed quickly to his throat. That stilled him. He seemed surprised at first but the shock on his face was quickly replaced with a sinister confidence.
“Where is the assassin?” Maria growled at his ear.
“Assassin?” he began to chuckle, but the noise became strangled as Maria squeezed her blade tighter against his throat. “I don’t know what you mean. None of my patients is a killer.”
“A man in a hood,” she pressed. “With a blade, just like this. Altaïr.”
“And if I tell you, you will let me live?” de Carreo asked.
“I don’t see that you deserve to.”
“How so?” he said.
Maria scoffed. “What you’re doing here is unholy. You are torturing innocents!”
“I am trying to help mankind!” responded de Carreo, his voice suddenly full of anger. “To advance the understanding of healing, to save countless lives in the future! That a few lives should be sacrificed for the good of the world is surely something you Assassins understand.”
Maria paused, her blade still held against his throat.
“Your ‘brother’ was equally ignorant,” de Carreo added, with a twisted smile.
Fury filled Maria. She tightened her grip on his arm. “Where. Is. He?” she repeated.
“If I may not bargain for my life, I do not see why I should help you,” he said casually.
“Very well,” replied Maria darkly, and then she dug her blade into the flesh of his throat and drew it sharply to the side, ripping through the tissue and sending a cascade of red hot blood spilling to the ground. De Carreo made a strangled cry and clutched at the wound, sinking to his knees as she let him go, but his hands could do nothing to stem the flow and he soon folded to the ground into the puddle of his own blood, the light quickly fading from his wide eyes. He twitched a few times, and then was still.
Maria regarded his body coldly, with nothing but stern conviction in her heart. Then she shook herself and returned to the search. She peered into every room as she passed, hoping, pleading, to find her beloved in one of them. Panic was beginning to set in. She had to find Altaïr soon, before the guards discovered either her or de Carreo’s body, or this would all have been for nothing. Where was he? She entered an alcove, and was suddenly greeted with a sight that both filled her with relief and horror.
Altaïr lay limply on top of the table. His wrists and ankles were bound with coarse strips of leather, so tight that she could see sharp cuts in the red, raw skin around each restraint. His eyes were closed but as she stepped closer she could make out the shaky rise and fall of his chest, and breathed a sigh of relief. Alive. She gently swept the hair from his sweaty forehead and cupped his face. “Altaïr? Can you hear me?” His eyelids fluttered in response but remained closed. At his side, however, his fist clenched and he began to pull against the restraints. Quickly, Maria cut each of the bonds with her hidden blade and laced her fingers in his, squeezing his hand tenderly. “I’m here. It’s me, it’s Maria. Oh, my love,” her voice cracked. “What have they done to you?”
From outside there came a muffled voice. Maria froze. One of the guards from the gate was walking towards the room, calling back to someone else in the building. She could hear each heavy footstep thudding closer and closer. Altaïr mumbled something faintly. She squeezed his hand again, silently begging him not to rouse now, not when they were at their most vulnerable. The guard was getting closer. If she killed him, the others would soon wonder where he had gone and she could not move Altaïr in time to avoid a confrontation. But suddenly there was a cry of pain from another part of the building, and then the sound of the guard’s footsteps fading away as he went to investigate that instead. Maria exhaled shakily. They needed to leave, now.
Turning back to Altaïr, she saw that his eyes were open, but clouded with pain and unfocused, gazing blankly at the ceiling. “Altaïr?” she whispered again, leaning close over him. His eyes moved hazily towards the sound of her voice, but his gaze was blank and soon drifted away. What was wrong with him? Looking round in confusion, Maria now noticed several bottles and jars of dried leaves next to his bedside. She didn’t recognise the concoctions but there was a strong smell, like hemp or maybe poppy. Combined with the general odour of death and blood, it was nearly enough to make her gag.
She shook her head to clear it and then leant over Altaïr’s body and slid her hands underneath his shoulders and heaved. He cried out in pain as she hauled him off the table and his legs buckled, dragging them both to their knees. Maria’s hands shot to his sides to steady him, but she was shocked to feel something hot and wet beneath her fingers. She pulled them away with a sickening feeling and glanced slowly down. Her fingers were stained with crimson blood. It was starting to seep from beneath Altaïr’s robes, from some wound in his side. She swore violently. Altaïr slumped forwards against her, his breath laboured at her ear. For a moment she just knelt there, holding him closely in her arms and trying to think what to do. There was no time to try to stop the bleeding; another guard was bound to come through at any minute. If they could make it back to the Bureau they could treat Altaïr’s wounds and everything would be alright.
Decided, she pushed Altaïr away and wrapped his arm around her neck, trying to ignore his wince as she gripped the band of damaged skin around his wrist. Taking his weight on her, she staggered to her feet. His blood had begun to trail down his leg and drip onto the floor. With her free hand she tried to clasp at the wound, causing him to groan in pain and flinch away from her. No time for comfort - she began to stumble towards the exit, half-dragging Altaïr whose head still hung limply. His breathing was ragged as he limped along beside her, but he seemed to be conscious enough now to understand the need for silence, each groan he made muffled through gritted teeth.
The other patients seemed to understand as well, many of them staring pleadingly at Maria as they passed their beds, but remaining silent. Maria only wished there was time to rescue them as well. But Altaïr could not wait - when he was healed they could return and liberate all of de Carreo’s prisoners, but not now as blood continued to drip from his side.
They reached the door, unlocked it, and awkwardly negotiated their way through. Outside, Altaïr recoiled at the blinding sunlight, almost trying to push Maria away in his attempt to shield his eyes. She gripped his arms tightly. “Come on,” she whispered, and firmly but gently guided him out into the street.
Navigating their way back to the Bureau was challenging. Where possible, Maria kept them to the back alleys, away from prying eyes. Altaïr soon struggled to stay on his feet, trailing his free hand along each wall as they passed to support himself. Between his moans of pain, he had begun to murmur something, but Maria couldn’t make out what. On several occasions, Maria had to carefully set him down in the shadows, hating herself for it as he grimaced with pain, and eliminate a number of guardsmen who were blocking their path. By the time they arrived at the Bureau they had garnered far too much attention and she was exhausted.
“Altaïr!” Malik shouted. He ran forward to help as Altaïr finally slipped from Maria’s grasp and sunk to his knees. “What has happened?” Malik said breathlessly, alarmed to see the red staining Altaïr’s robes. Altaïr looked up at him as he firmly clasped his shoulder. His eyes were brighter now but still hazy and uncomprehending.
“Inside,” was all Maria replied. Malik nodded. Together they lifted Altaïr back to his feet and carried him inside the Bureau’s sanctuary.
“Lay him on the counter,” Malik instructed as he swept the books and quills hastily to the floor. Altaïr grunted and clawed at his side as Maria did so. His forehead shone with sweat.
“Water,” Malik gestured to the rafiq, who darted off.
“Who did this to you, brother?” Malik asked softly, his hand back on Altaïr’s shoulder. Altaïr was too weak to reply.
“Later,” snapped Maria. She drew her hidden blade and used it to slice open the sodden, bloody fabric around Altaïr’s wound. Malik nodded and helped her as they peeled away the robes to reveal Altaïr’s chest.
“By God…” Malik whispered. Criss-crossing Altaïr’s torso were at least five deep cuts, all quite fresh and unbandaged. A few had crude stitches holding them shut, including that at his side, where the threads had been broken by the movement of the last few hours. Several looked badly inflamed. Each was at a different stage of healing, and there was an awful precision to the sharpness of their edges. This had been deliberate.
The rafiq returned with a large jug of water. As Maria stepped back, stroking her hand across Altaïr’s forehead, Malik carefully poured the water onto the wounds. Altaïr started at the sensation, and Maria had to press his shoulders firmly back to the table. Again he mumbled something, his head rolling from side to side, but she couldn’t make out what it was. As the blood caked around his side washed, away the worst injury became clear. Malik examined it closely.
“This will require stitches. But first we must stop the bleeding.”
He motioned Maria to pass him a clean section of fabric. Folding it, he placed it carefully over Altaïr’s side and then positioned his hand on top and leant down with all of his weight.
Altaïr’s reaction was immediate. He cried out - in fear as well as pain - and his bleary eyes shot open and darted around wildly. “No no no. Not again. Stop this. Not again!” he gasped. His hands were gripping the edges of the table, knuckles shining and muscles shaking. Startled, Malik and Maria leapt back. As the pressure relented, Altaïr relaxed and fell back, his chest heaving.
“Altaïr?” Maria said uncertainly, taking his hand. “It’s us. We’re trying to help you. You’re safe. It’s alright.”
Altaïr made no reply, once again turning towards the sound of her voice but not seeming to be able to focus on anything around him. She squeezed his hand but got no reply.
Dismayed, Malik picked up the material and hesitantly pressed it back against Altaïr’s side. Altaïr cried out again and his legs kicked out, knocking the jug of water off the edge of the table top.
“Hold him down!” instructed Malik. The rafiq scurried to Altaïr’s legs and gripped both of his ankles where the restraints had cut into them, pressing them down hard. Altaïr writhed and fought even harder. Maria gripped his shoulders and leant over him, forcing him flat. She could feel his whole body trembling under her palms. He continued to moan “No no no no…” over and over.
“It’s alright, my love,” she whispered soothingly down at him. He didn’t seem to hear her.
Malik pressed down on the cloth again and Altaïr let out a strangled cry. His breath was coming in short, panicky gasps, and his body jerked as he tried to fight off whatever foes he was seeing through his clouded eyes. His cries and murmurs grew gradually louder as the others stood around anxiously and waited for the pressure to stop the bleeding. It seemed that whatever potions de Carreo had inflicted on him were beginning to wear off.
The fabric slowly stained red as it soaked up Altaïr’s blood. Eventually, the bleeding appeared to slow enough for Malik to cease the pressure and remove the cloth. He began to prepare a needle and thread for the stitches. Altaïr quietened and relaxed a little, giving Maria a chance to stretch her arms. They were already aching with the exertion of holding him down. And the worst was yet to come.
Malik managed to thread the needle and turned apprehensively to Altaïr. He steadied himself, and then reached down towards the edge of the wound.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. Then he pierced the needle point into the flesh.
Altaïr screamed. A raw, guttural howl of agony and horror, tearing out of him as his body bucked and thrashed against their grip. Tears pricked in Maria’s eyes. This was awful. What had de Carreo done to him to make him so frantic to escape? If it wasn’t taking all of her strength to hold him down against the table, she longed to cup his face, to do whatever it would take to make him realise that he was safe and with friends, and that - whatever horrible things had been done to him - it was all over now. They weren’t trying to hurt him. A teardrop dripped from her eye and fell down onto Altaïr’s chest.
Malik continued with the stitches, staring intently and grim-faced at his work and obviously trying to block out all the other distractions. Maria wondered how he could manage it. At least the quicker the wound was stitched, the sooner Altaïr’s pain would be over. A broken whimper escaped from Altaïr’s mouth amidst the roars and gasps of pain. His struggles were growing weaker, though it still needed both Maria and the rafiq to hold him still enough for Malik to work. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and every inch of his face was contorted with agony, his eyes screwed tight.
“Stop. Please stop,” he managed to plead, his voice beginning to break. Maria’s heart twisted at the desperation in his voice. She’d never seen him like this before. He was always so strong. Seeing him like this… it hurt more than she could bear.
“Nearly done,” Malik muttered. He pulled the last of the stitches through Altaïr’s blood-stained side - eliciting another gurgled cry - and snapped the thread off at the end. Altaïr’s body slowly slackened as the pain ceased, and he collapsed exhausted against the table, eyes still closed and panting heavily. Maria removed her shaking hands from his arms and went to stroke his face again. He flinched weakly away from her touch at first, but seemed too weary to keep fighting. His skin was as hot as ash underneath her hand.
“It’s finished, my love. Rest now,” she whispered.
“I will prepare somewhere for him to rest,” said the rafiq, and vanished into the courtyard.
Malik fetched clean bandages and began to carefully wrap them around Altaïr’s chest, concealing the horrible wounds. Maria breathed a small sigh of relief as she lifted Altaïr’s now-limp form up so that the cloth could be passed underneath. His head lolled weakly against her, eyelid fluttering, but he remained silent as they worked, and only let out a faint moan as she set him down again.
Once the bandages were done, Malik warily reached for Altaïr’s wrist and inspected the damage. The skin there had been rubbed raw to the point of bleeding, and cut into by the edges of the restraints. Altaïr flinched ever so slightly away. Saying nothing, but with a grave expression, Malik poured out two bowls of water, and clean pieces of cloth to go with them. He handed one to Maria, and then, taking a wrist each, they began to slowly wash away the blood from Altaïr’s skin. The depth of the cuts and bruised skin around them was gradually revealed, but it still looked better, cleaner, without days’ worth of crusted redness. Altaïr lay still, exhausted.
“How could we have allowed this to happen?” Malik murmured quietly, not looking up.
Maria shook her head. They could never have foreseen something like this.
“I take it the one responsible is-”
“-Dealt with,” Maria finished, her voice cold. Dead by her blade. As he goddamn deserved. “He will never lay hands on an innocent again,” she said.
Malik nodded, seeming satisfied.
They cleaned, dried and bandaged both of Altaïr’s wrists and then his ankles. Altaïr barely stirred as they worked, though Maria could tell by the heavy rhythm of his breaths that he was still conscious. Then the rafiq returned and together he and Maria lifted Altaïr’s listless form off of the table and carried him out to the courtyard, where the rafiq had arranged rugs and cushions for him to rest on. Bowing respectfully, the rafiq returned indoors, and after offering a consoling hand on her shoulder, Malik followed him, leaving Maria and Altaïr alone.
Maria sighed deeply and gazed at Altaïr with sorrow as she stroked his forehead. His brow furrowed slightly into a frown and she watched intently as his eyes slid blearily open. They were glazed with pain and confusion, but not as worryingly blank as they had been before.
“…Maria?” he whispered weakly.
“It’s me, my love. I’m here,” she squeezed his hand.
His gaze flickered around the empty courtyard. “…W-Where…?” he croaked.
“You’re safe, you’re back at the Bureau.” She ran a hand through his tangled hair and smiled softly. “It’s all over.”
Seeming relieved to hear it, Altaïr slumped back into the cushions and his eyes fluttered slowly closed again. She gazed down tenderly at him as his breathing settled and the last of the tension drained out of his body. His forehead was still very hot and clammy to the touch, which aroused a wave of concern in her, but seeing him almost peaceful and back with them, safe, was enough to dampen the worry for now. She leant over and placed a quiet kiss on his forehead, and then left him to his rest.
* * *
Altaïr’s fever broke on the third day.
It had been a horrific ordeal for Maria to watch as he suffered and burnt up from the inside out, and there were dark moments in the dead of night when she honestly didn’t know if he was going to pull through. She had barely slept since they had brought him back. Though she and Malik took it in shifts to stay by Altaïr’s side, she found that not even the bone-deep exhaustion was enough to steal her away from fear for him when she tried to get some rest.
Malik, likewise, seemed grey with tiredness, bitten with worry, and constantly uneasy. When it had become apparent that the fever ravaging Altaïr’s body wasn’t abating, he’d sent the rafiq out to seemingly every apothecary in the city for any poultices and tinctures that might help calm the infection. Maria got the sense that he didn’t really know what to do for Altaïr much better than she did.
They applied fresh poultices to Altaïr’s wounds often. At first, it needed both of them, as Altaïr continued to try to fight them off, but as he grew weaker and more delirious in the grip of the fever, Maria found she could manage alone. She still couldn’t stand to look directly at the cruel incisions as she carefully peeled away the old bandages and replaced them with fresh cloth. Altaïr would still stir whenever anyone touched him. He was too feverish to be fully conscious - when his eyes were open, they were dull and distant, and never managed to stay open for long. During the worst of the waves, he began to writhe underneath his blankets. His head would toss from side to side, his face twisted with anguish, and his hands clutched emptily at the air or sometimes at his bandages. Maria had to gently pry his clawing hands away, and often sat for many hours holding them at the wrists and trying to soothe him back into sleep.
He also shied away when she tried to help him drink the potions they’d acquired. Whether that was because of the foul taste, or because of associations with whatever had happened to him during his captivity, she didn’t know. It broke her heart, but she still patiently cradled his head and poured each dose down his unwilling throat.
What distressed her the most, however, were the quiet cries that constantly slipped from his lips. He would call out through the delirium with muffled curses or pleas as he tried to fight against whatever invisible demons he was imagining around him, or sometimes mumble strange things she didn’t understand, about mankind or science or morality, apparently arguing with people who weren’t there.
On one occasion he seemed to ask after her, and for a moment her heart was lifted, thinking he had finally returned to them, but when she leant close over him and whispered “I’m here”, he just continued to repeat the same breathless murmurs - “Maria… w-where are… where are you…” - eyes unseeing. Eventually she tried to harden her heart to his cries, and just stayed for hours by his side, tending to his injuries and wiping gently at his clammy forehead with a damp cloth.
On the third day, she was almost dozing off with Altaïr’s head cradled in her lap, when suddenly she heard him speak. “Maria?” His voice was croaky, but sounded more his own than it had since he first descended into the haze of the fever. Hope leapt in her heart and she looked down at him. His eyes were fully open, bright and alive and gazing up at her. He moved to sit up, and though he grimaced and pressed a hand to his chest, with Maria’s help he managed to get upright. He looked around the courtyard and then turned back to her.
“How long have I been out?”
Her face broke into a smile as relief flooded her. “Three days, my love. I thought- …I worried you would not return to us.”
She rubbed at the back of his hand. He squeezed back hers back.
“I dreamt… ” - he frowned - “…strange things.” A dark look crossed his face like a cloud eclipsing the sun. Maria held his hand tighter.
“De Carreo is dead,” she announced. “And the rest of his patients have been liberated.”
Altaïr nodded, but Maria could see in his eyes that his mind was still elsewhere, doubtless dwelling on the last clear memories he had. He shuddered ever so slightly, but then he blinked and turned to smile at her, this time consciously.
“Did you come alone?” he asked, surprised.
Maria shook her head quickly, suddenly remembering. “Malik!” she called out loudly.
There was the sound of movement from inside the Bureau, followed by a loud thump and muffled cursing, and then Malik appeared in the doorway. His hair was dishevelled and he looked dazed, but his eyes shone as he noticed Altaïr.
“Brother, you’re awake!” he cried, smiling widely.
He rushed to kneel beside them, and grasped Altaïr’s shoulder firmly.
“It is good to have back with us,” he said. His voice was warm with sincerity and relief.
Altaïr bowed his head and lifted a hand weakly to his chest in acknowledgement. The shift in position made him wince and Maria felt his weight suddenly pressing back on her again as he faltered. “Easy, my love,” Maria calmed him. Malik quickly caught Altaïr by his other shoulder and they lowered him back against the cushions. A few beads of sweat had reappeared on his forehead and his eyes were outlined with frown-lines as his face twisted with pain.
Maria picked up the wet cloth and dabbed gently at his face. He leant subtly into the cool of the cloth as Malik unfastened his robes and began to unbandage his chest. “Just breathe,” Maria whispered. Removing the bandages, Malik examined the injuries underneath.
“Argh! Son of a jackal…” Altaïr flinched and cursed beneath his breath as Malik pressed carefully at the edges of the cuts.
“Apologies, brother,” Malik responded, but with a wry smile. He finished his examination and straightened up. “Your wounds are healing well,” he declared happily. “In a few days, we should be able to return to Masyaf. It will be better for you to finish healing there.”
* * *
Two days later, the three assassins sat aside their heavily-burdened horses, the road ahead winding into the parched mountains and Jerusalem slowly disappearing into the sand-haze behind them. Maria rode behind Altaïr, keeping a watchful eye on him. His injuries were not yet fully healed and she knew the jostling of riding had to be paining him, but he seemed to handle his steed confidently on the rocky path. The strength of this man she called her beloved never ceased to amaze her.
She paused and turned to look back at the city. She hoped it would be a long time before they ever had to return to Jerusalem. She felt no doubt that they would both be plagued by the memories of what had happened there for some time to come. But for now at least, they could put it behind them and focus on returning Altaïr to his full strength.
“What is it, my love?” Altaïr’s voice cut across her senses. She turned back around. He and Malik had halted their steeds, and were waiting for her. Altaïr’s face was lined with concern as he gazed at her. Another pang of love for him blossomed in her heart. She drew her horse alongside his, and leant over to him.
“Nothing, my love,” she smiled, and kissed him deeply, feeling his lips soften beneath hers as he ardently returned the kiss.
Malik sighed with feigned impatience ahead of them. Altaïr’s mouth rose into a smirk as he and Maria slowly parted and settled back into their saddles. Then, spurring their horses on, they continued together along the path towards home.
#long post#my fic#my art#assassin's creed#assassin's creed 1#altair ibn-la'ahad#maria thorpe#whump#hurt/comfort#winter whumperland#winter whumperland 2017#haha#i hereby ban myself from participating in fic exchanges ever again XD
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9, because NB might die and that's hilarious to me.
You enjoy NB’s suffering too much, Cher 😂💕
Snippet: Desmond BAMF (assassins creed)
Two semi trucks and one red volvo have already passed him by, but Desmond is patient. He’s had a lot of practice with waiting for things. He’d waited to leave the Farm. He’d waited for a real life for himself outside of the “cult” he’d been raised in. He’d waited for a chance to get off the streets. He’d waited through all the memories of his ancestors. He’d waited for whatever message the precursors had for him, whatever solution.
To Desmond, it seems like he’d been waiting his entire life. He isn’t even sure what for, anymore. Then, he’d died, so… he supposes that it doesn’t actually matter, in the end.
Maybe he’d been waiting to die.
Another semi truck comes veering down the desolate highway. The squeal of the breaks kicking into gear catches his attention, and Desmond gives his himself a mental shake. He watches the truck roll slowly to a stop before him, and stares up at the passenger door. It flings itself open after a moment, and the driver peers down at him.
“Hop in,” the man says amiably, with the unconcerned air of someone who is in no way new at this. This isn’t his first hitchhiker, Desmond assumes.
The driver crawls back, and the young time traveler wraps his hand around the bar on the side of the truck and hauls himself up into the cabin. He pulls the heavy door shut behind him, and gives the trucker a quirk of his lips once in the seat.
“Thanks,” Desmond says, because he may be an assassin, but he is an assassin with manners.
“No problem,” the trucker says, pushing the clutch into second gear and urging the semi back onto it’s journey. “Name’s Raoul.”
“Denny,” he supplies in turn. “Bet that’s familiar enough to remember, huh?”
Raoul laughs. “A trucker’s paradise, huh? Eh, I’m more of an Applebee’s guy.”
The ride is quiet for the next few miles, Raoul not seeming to be very nosy or interested about his backstory, which Desmond is grateful for, because it gives him some more time to think. Calm comes easier now than it had while still so close to the Farm, and with the dull roar of the truck engine in the background, Desmond finds he can finally plan.
He hefts his backpack into his lap and pulls out the notebook and it’s wad of pens. It’s a small thing, 7 by 4.5 inches with just a hundred pages. Easier to fit amongst his other supplies, he guesses. Desmond flips the book open and pauses when he notices that it isn’t blank like he had assumed it would be. There was writing on the first page already, in pencil, and as Desmond peers at it, he realizes with growing incredulity that it’s a journal entry.
Well, reading through it, it’s less of a journal entry and more of a report than anything, but as Desmond assumes that he’s the only person that was meant read the contents of this notebook—it’s not like he had anyone outside the Farm—it’s obvious what it’s meant to be.
He resists the urge to bury his face into his hands even as a strong feeling of disappointment not his own comes pulsating from the back of his head. He too distracted by his younger self’s stupidity to decipher which of his ancestors it came from, but he’s putting his bet on Altaïr.
Ezio was a bit too vain to really and truly get why exactly it was a bad idea to write about oneself, and Connor probably wouldn't really care all that much, but Altaïr knew the dangers of having any sort of personal information on such a tangible and accessible location as paper record, not unless you were intending for others to read it. Well, his Syrian ancestor has always felt more… involved, with Desmond, than the others. Almost like he cares the most about what’s happening to him, always perking up with something that feels like distant pride when Desmond accomplishes something particularly skillfully, or a pulse of chiding when he does something incredibly stupid. Or perhaps that’s just Altaïr‘ inner-Mentor peeking through. Connor has his moments with that, too, come to think of it, and Ezio-
Desmond clutches the notebook tightly in his hands, focusing his gaze on a word in the middle of the page as the rest blurs around it in a odd, physical sort of tunnel vision. There he goes again, thinking that long dead men were actually, mentally with him, acting like having the voices of his ancestors in his head, giving him guidance, is normal. Thinking that this was something other than just another fucked up side effect of rifling through the history of his bloodline, through memories that aren't actually his.
The murmuring goes quiet in his head for the first time all day, and Desmond refuses to think about how it seems definitively wrong to feel so alone in his own head.
He loosens his grip on the notebook, slowly prying his fingers from where his sweaty palms have adhered his hands to the paper. He flips to the next page—he’d deal with the entry later—and pulls a random pen out from the bundle of them he shoved between his thigh and the seat.
Uncapping the implement, Desmond draws a bullet point in the first line and taps the pen on it for a moment. He stares at the ink dot for what feels like a few minutes, before finally starting to write.
#wip sampler basket#assassins creed#desmond miles#time travel#vodka answers#vodkassassin fanfics#slight angst#but that’s par the course#pls expect that from me#CherFleur
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Proposal: instead of Desmond sets up a bakery, he sets up a new bar. But specifically manages to pull off such weird drinks from the future that everyone is fully 100% convinced that he’s really a witch.
Baker Desmond AU in Third Crusades Levant, Renaissance Italy and Colonial America
“This is witchcraft! Sorcery! The work of the devil!”
Desmond wondered if he should just book it.
Sure, it had taken time to create this bar. So many long hours finding the cheapest most okay building in a busy street. So many times talking to people to get them to open up to him and finally give his drinks a shot.
Well… more than a shot.
He knew cocktails would prove to be his selling point.
He even made mocktails for those who do not partake but he made sure they were more expensive than the usual because… well… profit.
Could Desmond be doing something else in his new lease of life?
Absolutely.
Was he going to?
No.
This was Altaïr’s territory… sorta.
Desmond had complete faith that Altaïr do as history demanded.
So Desmond could retire.
But, in all honesty…
He wished Altaïr could just assassinate Garnier de Naplouse already so he wouldn’t have to deal with this crap.
He should have just opened his bar away from Levant.
Maybe he should?
“Desmond, if you can just prove to the Grand Master’s representative that you don’t make concoction of the devil-”
The knight was one of his regulars. He was just trying to help (and keep his favorite bar alive).
But Naplouse’s representative.
He could see the greed in the man’s eyes as he continued to hurl garbage at him.
Desmond was pretty sure Naplouse didn’t even order this.
Desmond made sure he was kept busy with not being able to have enough ‘patients’ after all.
(Just because he’s not actively assassinating Altaïr’s targets doesn’t mean he would just a turn a blind eye to the atrocities he knew was happening)
No.
This man wanted to learn his secrets.
He wanted to encroach on Desmond’s hard-earned monopoly.
Desmond’s lips curved into the smile he had perfected after years of having to deal with the lowest trashes as a bartender.
“I understand.”
The greed in that man’s eyes shone brighter.
… as Desmond’s smile grew colder.
“I will pack up and leave then.”
“WHAT?!”
The exclamation of surprise came not only from the man harassing him and the knight who was trying to help him but from the three other guards who were just standing behind them.
An intimidation tactics if Desmond ever saw one.
He was sure they would trash his place if they were ordered to.
Reluctantly, of course.
But trashing one’s place was better than being called insubordinate and punished for it.
If things go to shit, Desmond could just kick all their asses and book it.
Desmond clasped his hands together as he said lightly, “Actually, someone came before and offered me a job in Ḥalab. I refused, of course.”
Which was true.
“But considering how-” Desmond stressed the word, “… unappreciated I am here.”
Desmond continued to smile as he said, “I believe it’s time for me to leave this place. Ḥalab is filled with many merchants with different ingredients I can use for my…”
Desmond glared at the greedy man as he continued to politely smile, “… concoctions.”
“Tha-that’s-” The man spluttered before shouting, “That is an admission of guilt! By not showing how you make them, you are admitting to being a devil worshiper.”
Desmond could see that none of his guards were buying that crap.
But they were powerless as well.
Desmond’s smile fell as he said, “If you’re not going to let me leave in peace, then I’ll just have to take you all down and keep you silent until I have to leave.”
“I promise not to give any of you lasting damage except you…” Desmond stared at the greedy man who flinched, “I’ll hurt you in a way that will make you remember your stupidity every single day.”
Desmond stepped towards him, making the knights take a step towards the man to protect him, the nearest one whispering, “Desmond, wai-”
“I won’t kill you.” Desmond smiled once more, making everybody freeze as a cold shudder went up their spine, “But you will waste the rest of your life wishing I had.”
.
.
That afternoon, Desmond the bartender left Acre. When the people checked his bar later that night, they saw men unconscious on the floor with one of Naplouse’s men tied to a chair, conscious but barely coherent.
Carved on his forehead was the words “1 Timothy 6:9”.
.
Desmond did not, in fact, go to Ḥalab.
But he did start his next bar in one of the cities that is part of the Silk Road.
#ah my bible knowledge once more comes to use#my religion teachers would be so proud /s#no altaïr in this one#i went with third crusades because#well it’s me#and also because renaissance italy would have loved desmond#and i wanted desmond to get annoyed XD#assassin's creed#desmond miles#ask and answer#teecup writes/has a plot#fic idea: assassin's creed
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and if she leads
Pairing: Altaïr & Maria (platonic)
Word count: 2028
Discovering he’s kind is the worst mistake of Maria’s life.
Hating them, disdaining them, has been easy especially after Robert’s death. She bore no undue fondness for the man, an ass who paid her no favors and only brought her on because her wages cost less than a man’s, but he had given her opportunity where no one else would. Continuing his grudge was easy tribute.
“Here.”
She looks up, hands already forming fists, to see the Assassin offering out a waterskin.
“You haven’t drunk anything and your face is” — he fans his fingers across his face as if to indicate a flush — “red. You need to drink.”
“I’m fine,” she snaps.
“Drink it,” he insists. “You’ll be ill.”
She takes it from him mostly to get it out of her face and scowls for good measure. Her face feels hot as a fire iron, dry and cracking from the heat in this cargo hold.
“I don’t need you babysitting me,” she snaps in Arabic, “and I speak your tongue better than you speak French.”
He doesn’t protest but only holds his hands up in placation and takes the skin back when she’s done. They sit in silence a long while, only broken by the sway of the ship and the slosh of waves against its sides. The Assassin seems unbothered, his arms resting over his knees and eyes half-lidded as if dozing. She doesn’t share his patience, and watching him only makes irritation crawl up her spine like spiders’ legs.
“What are you running from?” she asks at last.
“I am not running from anything,” he retorts.
Raising an eyebrow, she looks pointedly to the dismal cargo hold. No one chooses to travel in such accommodations unless they’re desperate. The barrels lashed to the floor groan with the swaying of the ship, scraping against each other with tired whines.
“I’m looking for something,” the Assassin finally mutters, grudging.
He doesn’t offer any more or ask what she’s running from, and so the swaying silence settles in again. It isn’t any more welcome the second time around, and Maria tilts her head back against the wall to keep from smacking her forehead into it just to relieve the tedium. She’s never been one for sitting still, for waiting for something rather than reaching out and making it happen herself. Growing up, her mother berated her for her lack of patience and her bullheadedness, as if reprimands could reshape what nature wrought.
“Is is true your leader is a prophet favored by old gods?”
That earns a sound almost like a laugh from the Assassin, a snort that is equal parts amused and tired. Running a hand back over his hair, he drops his white hood to his shoulders and leans his head against the wall in a mirror of her pose.
“I do not feel like a prophet,” he remarks, quiet, “nor favored by any gods.”
With his face out of the shadow of his hood, he looks surprisingly young and his answer stops Maria short. Even with tired shadows under his eyes and the whisper of stubble along his cheeks and jaw, he looks young. Far too young to be the Old Man of the mountain. He cannot be much older than her, if any at all, and the stories of the Assassins’ leader stretch far into antiquity.
“You?” she demands. “But the stories are of an old man, a long white beard — you cannot be the great Mentor of the Assassins.”
His lips twist, displeasure in their curl.
“He was old,” is all he says.
A sneer curls Maria’s lips before she can think better of it. Haste has ever been her saving grace and downfall all tied together.
“So that’s it,” she says. “You killed the old man for glory and ambition, to steal his own seat. How base of you, to turn like animals against your master.”
“There was no glory in it,” he snaps, straightening. “I did not do it for ambition.”
He’s straightened, turned toward her with jaw tight and amber eyes hard. His hands have tensed to fists, and she half expects that wrist-borne dagger to jut forth and cut her throat for the asking. Lifting her chin in challenge, she meets his stormy glare with her own. He looks away first, turning sharply from her and pulling his knees back close to his chest. His shoulders are still tense, hiked up, and he flicks his hood over his head once more with a sharp gesture.
It’s not like she cares what he thinks or what his motivations really are, but Maria can’t swallow down the strange guilt that worms up her chest. His fury seemed genuine, lashing out as if to protect an open wound. She doesn’t care about him, but it still feels wrong to have probed a hurt like that with so little finesse. He’s a far cry from a gentleman, but in all their interactions, he’s seemed an honest man. It seems unfair to have questioned that so rudely.
“Was he your father?” she asks after a moment, trying at a gentler tone.
The Assassin exhales, short, and doesn’t answer immediately. There isn’t any surprise on what she can see of his face, though, only the tight-lipped look of someone unsure of the right answer. That, more than what he says, gives her the answer she sought.
“No.”
Close enough to one, though, if she judges right. That hesitance didn’t come from an easy answer. Lacing her fingers together, she toys with the ring on her middle finger and lets her questions die. It was a gift from Robert, a token from a man she killed for him. It’s morbid, perhaps, but it was the first time he commended her for something other than simply not being in the way.
“Why did you join the Templars?”
The question startles her, pulls her gaze from the past to the Assassin instead. He watches her, patient, the temper gone out of his posture and expression. He doesn’t look any happier, either, just — blank. There’s a coldness to his expression, a mask of impassivity. He can’t have scrubbed the fatigue from his features, but he seems to have found some way to coil it into armor, that earlier vulnerability bound tightly away.
“I was looking for something,” she replies, dry, before sighing and releasing the ring to interlace her fingers. “Back in England, I was expected to be a — a very specific image of a lady. To dress well, to mind my tongue, to bear sons for my husband. I wanted something else.”
“And did you find it here?” he asks.
He sounds genuinely interested, as if he’s truly asking for the answer rather than just to be nosey or needling. Seeking an answer to his own search? she wonders but doesn’t ask aloud.
“Yes,” she answers truthfully, “in a way.”
The life she’s lived here in this desert land has been rough and bloody, rarely honorable and never glorious. Still, it’s given her freedom, raw-fingered and dirty as it is. She thinks back to England, to the girl she was on her wedding day, and knows that that girl would be proud of the bared-teeth grin she sports now instead of a bridal veil.
“And you? I hear the Assassins recruit from cradles,” she says, trying not to make it sound like she’s provoking him. “Or did you join of your own will?”
“There is always choice,” he says, as though it’s an automatic response.
Dropping his head back against the wall, he tilts it to one side as if in thought. He’s quiet a moment, though she’s starting to get used to these pauses. Before now, she would not have called him a thoughtful man, but then, she hardly knows him at all.
“I was born to the Brotherhood and joined when I was of age — some years out of the cradle, at least.” He shoots her a look, half-teasing, before carrying on, “But I have chosen this life.”
If she was looking for any answer in particular, that wasn’t it. She doesn’t know what would be. It seems too mild, too settled an answer for a bloody young leader chasing the unknown as a stowaway. Perhaps she is more romantic than she wants to admit.
“So you believe your Order is right, then?” she asks.
“Yes,” he answers before pausing. “I believe that we carve the path to truth, and that the path is as fallible as the men who make it but the pursuit of freedom, of truth, is worth the errors. Plato himself believed in the pursuit, even within his—”
“What, are you a monk now?” Maria demands
She’s heard strange tales of the Assassins, but never that they would wax poetic about dead men’s beliefs. The stories around them were ever of the mystical and bloody sort, about their ability to vanish from thin air and reappear in places no man could reach. Magicians, she would not be surprised by, but scholars?
Now, the assassin pauses, looking surprised. The bemusement on his face is enough to make her almost laugh, and she stifles the smile that threatens her lips.
“You do not care for philosophy?” he asks, in the same tone as someone shocked that she does not like fish or incense.
“For the thoughts of long-dead men who believed all the answers of the universe were contained in their own minds?” She scoffs. “Show me one who did something with those grand thoughts, made some real change in the world, or better yet, show me a woman, and perhaps I will care for it.”
He stops short, seeming to process her words before relenting with a slight inclination of his head, something like concession in the gesture. Amused, Maria offers out her hand.
“My name’s Maria, by the way,” she says, “Maria Thorpe.”
He cants his head, eyeing her hand as if uncertain of the gesture. Instead of shaking her hand, he clasps her forearm instead, hand firm even if his attitude isn’t.
“Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad,” he replies, releasing the hold.
By now, she’s become used to the descriptiveness of the names here, and her eyebrows rise slightly at his own. How handy of their titles to provide such information, though she does wonder at the thought of an orphan being made a leader of his people.
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier about you,” she says, folding her arms over her knees, “and your French isn’t really that bad.”
“It is fine. Your Arabic is” — he pauses, wiggles his hand as if in ambivalence — “passable.”
Startled, she looks to him sharply and finds a grin pulls up the corner of his lips, curling the pink scar cutting through them. The start of her irritation fades, irrationally won over by something like amusement. She probably deserves it, anyway.
As the ship docks and they separate to steal onto land, she has a feeling a bookmark has been placed in this conversation, that the final chapter is not yet written. Despite her better judgment, she likes the thought.
---
“Aristoclea!” he calls the next time they meet.
She freezes with one hand on the top rung of the ladder and twists around to squint at him. Is he having some sort of attack? Is it a code for a band of assassins to trap or kill her? He’s two arms’ lengths below her, scaling the wall instead of the ladder like some overgrown spider.
“What?” she demands.
“A female philosopher, who did more than sit and talk,” he says, leveling with her. “The teacher of Pythagoras.”
Before she can form a reply, his quick hand has snatched the Piece of Eden from hers, and he hauls himself over the edge of the roof with a single fluid roll. Before he’s fully on the roof, his feet are under him and propelling him forward. She scrambles after him, irritated at being duped, but she can’t fight the smile pulling at her lips. Even without seeing his face, she knows he wears a matching one as they race across the rooftops.
#assassins creed#ac fic#asscreed#altair#altair ibn la ahad#maria thorpe#my writing#i just wanted some maria in my life#also philosophy#i miss philosophy#hm
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Day 5 : Caress - Malik Al’Sayf
I rushed as fast as I could to the medical ward after hearing that an emergency occured and I must heal a patient in a critical state, being the Head Medic of Masyaf, but what I wasn't expecting was to see my fiance on the table, barely conscious and in excruciating pain.
"What the hell happened here?!" I raised my voice in a panic as I rushed to his side, examining his terrible injuries.
"Their mission was a success, but at great cost." one of the assassins there informed me.
"What about Kadar and Altaïr?! Where are they?!" I asked in concern, not seeing them around, but the assassins shuffled on his feet slightly, clearly uncomfortable.
"I...Do not know the details, but Altaïr compromised the mission by disrespecting the creed and got Kadar killed, while he got back to the Kingdom unscathed. Malik was the reason for the mission's success." the man fumbled with his words seeing how dark my aura became as I heard his words.
"I see...Be a dear and bring Altaïr to me as soon as possible. Tell him...I have to look for his injuries." I bit my lip in anger, turning around to work on Malik's injuries at once.
"Yes, ma'am. He is on an urgent mission at the moment, but as soon as he's done, I will bring him over." he said in a stern voice, leaving the room, leaving me alone with Malik.
"My dearest Malik...Why must you always be hurt in such ways? You don't deserve this misery...You're such a beautiful man, you don't deserve any of this pain...I'm so sorry I couldn't be there to protect you..." I could feel tears welling in my eyes, already falling fast down my cheeks, but I couldn't allow weakness, I had to make sure he stays alive and well.
It took days to heal his injuries, and the fact that I was forced to amputate his arm made it even worse, for there was barely any anaesthetic or painkiller that could save him from the pain of this procedure or of the painful healing process. It felt like I was hurting him all over again, like I was creating this torturous agony, instead of saving him.
It felt like hell.
I have never seen him cry until then, until that excruciatingly unbearable pain took over him, when he was pleading me to stop and just let him die already, but I couldn't listen to his pleas, I had to keep my oath as a Doctor and save him, no matter how much my heart was grieving for him and crying to be allowed to just stop and hold him through all this abyss he was succumbing to.
It took weeks of intense healing for him to become stable, time in which I could barely get a wink of sleep due to having to pay close attention to his wounds so they wouldn't fester or spread.
I never prayed in my life, but this month, I prayed religiously, more than a monk could possibly pray to his Gods, just so he would wake up and become better...Stable.
And not just physically, but emotionally and mentally as well. I didn't even realise I fell asleep, or maybe I didn't, for my brain might still be quite awake - It seemed like a catatonic state that I was swimming into, but it was comfortable and warm, for some reason...It felt safe.
"You never cease to save me, do you, Katrina?" a low, familiar man voice was heard faintly around me.
"You'll never get rid of me." I mumbled out loud - or at least I think I did - since I heard a chuckle as a response.
"You are the only thing dear in this world that I have left. Without you, my time here on this world would be meaningless." he continued, which made me scowl and fought with my mind to wake up, which I did, with a jolt.
"What the...? When did I fall asleep? Damn it...I'm glad you're awake...I think. How are you feeling? Still in pain? Need me to find some alcohol or painkillers?" I wobble on my feet, leaning on the bed to keep myself upright, due to the exhaustion taking over me.
"I can manage without them now, I'll be fine. You won't, though. Get some rest." he told me in a firm voice, but I only shook my head.
"Someone needs to take care of you. What if your condition gets worse?! What if I can't cure you?! What if-" I tried to reason, but he shook his head and reached out his sole arm to me, and I automatically rushed to hold his hand with both of mine.
"Then lay here, with me. You look dreadful. I told you to never neglect your health for someone else, even if you're the Head Medic. Masyaf can do with 1 less assassin, but without their Healer, they are dead." he deadpanned, making me slap him...Or almost slap him, for my hand stopped just before it could collide with his skin, before it dropped down on his shoulder and I hung my head down.
"You're lucky you're in such a bad state, otherwise I don't know what I would have done to you if I heard you speak such nonsense. Why are you allowed to grieve and treasure me, but I cannot do the same for you?! What, my feelings don't matter?! You think I'd go to that insufferable Altaïr and slap his face of I didn't care for you? Why, Malik, why can't I be allowed to treasure you, but you can do that with me?!" I let go of my frustrations as tears started spilling down my face again, but Malik only sighed, motioning me to sit down next to him.
"You are an important person, Katrina, both for the Kingdom, to Masyaf, and to myself, of course. I've already lost my brother and my position as a top Assassin. If I were to lose you aswell because you overworked yourself tending to me, I would never forgive myself. I don't want to see you in pain, that's all I'm saying, and so far, I've been causing you a lot of it." he tried to explain, but it only pissed me off.
"Shut the hell up, dumbass." I scowled, making him widen his eyes in shock.
"Katrina...You never swear. Don't make a habit out of it, it's not like you." he furrowed his brows together as he raised to lean his back on the bed resting side, reaching his hand to my face, wiping away the tears from my face.
"You annoy me so much sometimes that I forget myself. Sometimes, if you'd just shut uo and let me do my job, it'd be so much better. You're not talking to those idiots out there, Al'Sayf, you're talking to your fiancée! Do you really think I'd actually listen to you? Of course not. So shut up and let me worry about you!" I huff, glaring softly at him as I put a hand over his, lacing my fingers with his.
"Man, you're scary when you're angry. I bet Altaïr pissed his pants when you started yelling at him. I think I got a nightmare that you were yelling at me instead of him, once, after hearing that." the man chuckled, making me gasp in embarrassment.
"Y-You heard that?" I sweatdropped, covering my face with my other hand.
"Loud and clear, love. VERY loud and clear. It made me go through the pain, to be fair. It was the best entertainment I got here." he smirked, but I could only sigh in aggravation.
"You'll get your share of yelling at that idiot, so preserve your strength. Besides, why would I ever yell at you? You are stubborn, sure, but your intentions are not bad." I smile softly at him, as he gently caressed my face, gazing into my eyes tenderly.
"I love you so much, you can't even begin to imagine. I'm so happy that you are my fiancée. Sometimes, I take your kindness for granted, but it's moments like this that I remember just how special you are to me and how your soul is right here, by my side, whenever I face hardships." he put a strand of my hair behind me ears, highlighting how exhausted my face looked.
"I hate seeing you so tired, but I will be forever grateful for everything you've done. I love you eternally, Katrina." Malik confessed, leaning in to gently kiss me, his hand on the back of my head.
"So...My beloved...Is it true what they say? Do women kissed by fire kiss the best?" I smirk slyly, tilting my head to the side, watching him behind hooded lids.
"I don't really have what to compare it with, but I may have been kissed by an angel and I'm in paradise. Does that answer your question?" he chuckled as the ghost of an amused smile took over.
"Sounds good to me, my love." I kissed him once again, my hands on his shoulders, bringing him closer to me.
#fluffy self-cember#self indulgent#malik al sayf#Altair Ibn La'Ahad#Assassin's Creed#malik x reader#malik alsayf x reader#Masyaf
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A Mirror Shattered (Callum Lynch x Reader)
When they first brought you here, to one of their Animus facilities (or ‘prisons’ as you liked to call them), they didn’t bother giving you their names. You didn’t ask them to. It didn’t matter to you. But one day, a woman, a head scientist as you’d later learn, introduced herself as Dr Sofia Rikkin. The rebel in you told you to remain silent and hostile but when you saw that shine of honesty in her eyes, you reluctantly swallowed your anger and talked to her as calmly as you could at the time (given how restrained and nervous you were).
She explained your purpose there - they would put you in the Animus and watch your memories - ‘genetic’ memories to be precise. You listened to her patiently and when a pause came, you told her that you knew how that machine worked, how it wouldn’t be your first time in there. You felt a little amused when you saw her face change from calm and collected to surprised. Guess she wasn’t used to hearing that.
Once they ‘released’ you into the ‘social’ area of the facility, you weren’t surprised to see so many kidnapped people in the slightest. You were a long-ago-initiated assassin, a Master. You were a brilliant hacker, IT-specialist, historian, fighter, and on top of that, a great expert on the artefacts of Eden. You previously had the chance to study them very closely, and that alone gave you an edge - you knew exactly how Apples and the other artefacts worked, and what their purpose was. Minerva had chosen you as her ‘champion’ for the fight against recently released Juno, for by the time you actually got into that facility, Desmond Miles had been long gone.
While Desmond was your cousin (and one of the closest friends you’ve ever had), it didn’t stop him from foolishly pressing his palm against that damn pedestal. As grim as 'inevitable’ solar-wind/energy (you surprisingly couldn’t remember which one was right) collision sounded, it was far better than whatever Juno had in store for humanity. Everyone was devastated at his death, even his distant and cold father, who normally would never shed any tears. Fortunately, the team didn’t disband and together with Shaun and Rebecca, you somehow managed to move on - and that’s where the backstory abruptly stops.
At first, you didn’t bother with socializing with the people around you. They kept themselves away from you, not knowing who you were but knowing why you were brought here. For as long as you could, you kept interactions with any of them at a minimum, not only because they were complete strangers but also because you needed some space to observe everything - the structure of the building, guard patrol schedules etc.
On one day though, you saw the eyes of a person who looked like he had seen better days, had a better life. You didn’t know why he did it but when your eyes met, his lips whispered the words ‘Where am I?’, clearly stating that he knew nothing about Abstergo. Thankfully, the guards didn’t pay any attention to that, but you chose to look the other way and poke at your untouched steak.
‘Where am I?’ - the words kept repeating in your head, over and over again. ‘You have absolutely no idea what you have gotten yourself into, pal.’ you thought while laying on your bed, awake and in the middle of the night. You suddenly wished you could send a message to your teammates, let them know where you were but alas, you didn’t have a laptop at your hand’s reach, or even a simple phone to poke around in the Templars’ internal network and search for the Apple located in this damn building.
Once they put you into the Animus the next day, they kept replaying Ezio’s memories - memories, that you had already gone through at the Auditore mansion - to find the place he had hidden the Apple in. What they didn’t know was actually your rather strange ability to directly interact with your genetic memories and ancestors. While no one could explain that - even Minerva - you found it useful, and right now, very comforting because you knew that all of them - Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, hell even Edward - were watching over you, unable to physically aid you but staying there with you as your pillars of sanity.
Callum, as you finally learned his name, was slowly getting accustomed to life in here. Moussa became his first friend, then Emir, and as bizarre as that sounds, even Nathan (the descendant of a traitor, Duncan Walpole). You kept noticing him glancing at you whenever you entered the hall to have lunch or spend some time playing basketball.
Once you got your tray with lunch, you sat at the table next to him. You told him the words you first thought of after he first arrived here.
‘You have absolutely no idea what you have gotten yourself into, pal.’
‘What do you mean?’ you smirked.
‘We are prisoners in here. Forced to revisit the memories of our ancestors. Find what they seek.’ Suddenly he seemed very confused at your words.
‘Who’s “they” and what are we supposed be to looking for?’ You subtly shifted your gaze to your surroundings, looking for anyone eavesdropping on you. The camera wouldn’t be able to hear your conversation in this hall anyway.
‘Ancient artefacts. Not made by a human.’
‘Are you saying there are aliens out there?’ As amusing as that sounded, you kept your poker face.
‘It would be rather difficult to explain it to you here where we are not exactly alone. Besides, I’d need the artefact in my possession in order to show you how it looks like, and how it can be used.’ Now you saw him in deep thought, probably just processing your words. An alarm signalled for you to finish your lunch, and then go back to your designated cell.
‘I think I might be able to get one for you.’ Since the guards were already approaching, you had only enough time to give him a small nod. ‘Finally.’
Some days later, Dr Rikkin asked for you to step inside her lab. Whether it was for another ‘interview’ or not, you frankly didn’t give a fuck. And then...you saw it. The Apple, laying inside a small chest, just waiting for you to come and get it. But you wouldn’t dare to do it. It wasn’t the right time.
‘I have an offer for you, Y/N. One that would benefit both of us.’ You already knew what she was about to tell you. ‘Not a chance.’ you thought.
‘Oh, please. Don’t tell me that I’m going to have to dig deeper, and when I’m finally finished, you’ll have your father pardon me. That scenario won’t happen, I assure you.’ For a moment she looked sad but the she made her face neutral again. She knew you were right but what else could she offer you for your cooperation? You wouldn’t budge so easily. She decided to be honest with you, for reasons she herself couldn’t understand. Perhaps you were just charming enough.
‘No. He won’t. But I do want to help you. I-’
‘Look, it will never work out between us. I know that you’re trying to bring Callum on your side by telling him a story about how both of your mothers were killed by an assassin but he won’t get you what you want. No one here will.’ you paused, to let her mull over your words a bit. Not giving her the option to open her mouth, you continued.
‘Your father, you, and your countless followers can’t seem to understand that the Order you’re all trying to achieve so hard will never be realised. While we Assassins fight for the Freedom, we understand that we can’t give people too much of it, or the world would become even more chaotic than it already is. The Order on the other hand practically equals slavery. You are trying to find the Apples of Eden like the one behind you.’ She turned to look at it but made no move to close the lid of the chest.
‘What do you think your fellow Templars would do to the innocent people? Enslave them. Make them mindless puppets to play around with.’
‘My father has always said that our the Templar Order would make our world peaceful. That we would never have to fight anyone again.’
‘Then you were either raised as a blind mole or an ignorant fool. Look around you. Why do we, perfectly normal people, have to be kept in cells and used as your personal Indiana Jones’ to find a thing that you have absolutely no real knowledge of? Oh yes, you have absolutely no idea how the Apples, or should I say any of the Eden Artifacts, work.’ She was stunned, to say the least. The things you just said...seemed baffling to her. She slowly and with a small hesitation, started to believe your words. The Templars had neither good and peaceful intentions nor the knowledge on any of the artefacts of Eden, and that one day, it would be their downfall.
‘I believe you, Y/N, but unfortunately, I don’t have the power to release you. My father would never betray the Order or its principles.’
‘But I see that you can. I’m not going to offer you a place within the Brotherhood. You can come there yourself if you want to. The only thing I’m actually pleased about is that you finally know the truth and recognize it. No one benefits from lies - everyone has to swallow the bitter pill in the end .’ With that, you left her lab, letting her think it over and decide for herself, whether she’ll betray her father or not.
While you were talking to Sofia, Callum faced his shadowy ancestor in his cell, staring at him through the glass window, looking him in the eye. After the last Animus session, he began experiencing hallucinations, dubbed “the Bleeding Effect”. He couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what wasn’t. Unbeknownst to him though, Alan Rikkin was looking at him through the one-way mirror, silently observing his moves. He was fascinated by it because as a Templar, he would never be able to experience such a thing. It just didn’t work on the Templars as a whole. But there was also that feeling of dread like he knew something bad would happen with his ‘guest of honour’, like he would be able to tear down the whole facility if he kept gaining Aguilar’s combat experience. He would have to keep a close eye on him.
You don’t hear it when it happens. The Riot. You simply stare at the ceiling, doing nothing. Then suddenly, Moussa barges in through the door to your right. You jump up from the bed and raise an eyebrow, silently asking ‘What?’ He only smiles and throws you a strong rubber baton.
‘We goin’ hunting now?’ you ask.
‘After you.’ he motions to the door, and without a thought, you ran into the hall so fast, that Moussa is having trouble with keeping up with you. The more unconscious or dead bodies you pass, the stronger your will fight is. Spotting a guard stepping out of a hallway, you run up to him and jump in the air, just high enough to flip and land on his shoulders, twisting his neck with your thighs. Your companion is very impressed, to say the least. When you finally reach the main hall, you see the other Assassins having finished the fight in there. Emir runs up to you.
‘We need to find Cal.’ you’re quicker than Moussa.
‘In the Animus room. He’s there, I know it.’
‘Then let’s go!’
The fight between you six and the guards doesn’t last long. Nathan lays dead on the floor along with Emir. It was safe enough to take a breath. Callum though has another idea in his mind apparently, and runs away to God knows where. Then you realize that he’s after Sofia. ‘She will escape, Cal. You won’t catch her in time.’ The three of you - Moussa, Lin, and yourself, leave the room, but not before bowing your heads in respect of your fallen comrades.
You and Callum escape the facility.
‘You want to get that Apple, don’t you?’ he asks you one night after your escape. You nod.
‘I was after it long before I let myself get captured by them. Sometimes it’s necessary to take such risks.’ You briefly thought of Lucy and her betrayal. ‘But they don’t always pay off.’
‘I assume you know much more about the Creed.’
‘I do. I’m one of its current leaders actually. I know that you’re not familiar with the name of William Miles but he’s the one who is trying to keep the Brotherhood together. He’s given away a lot of things to keep it that way, and I’m trying not to let him down because he’s the only blood family I have left.’ You hug your shoulders, and Callum puts his jacket on your shoulders, trying to keep you warm and at the same time comfort you.
‘True, I don’t know him but you could introduce us to each other someday perhaps? Right now, we need to follow Alan Rikkin and retrieve the apple he’s stolen.’
‘That’s the part where you realize that we Assassins can never afford any holidays. We always have to be on the move, always have to be alert and cautious. It gets so tiresome sometimes that you wish you were already dead and at peace.’ He actually laughs at this. What would Moussa and Lin say about this? Perhaps the guy upstairs knows, you can’t tell.
‘Indeed. Now, let’s sleep. We won’t have enough time for it tomorrow
The next day is practically all a blur to you. Alan and his followers converge at a ceremony in a Templar sanctuary in London to celebrate their ‘triumph’. You all dress up into black hooded outfits. Rikkin begins his speech. His neck gets pierced by a hidden blade. He lies in a pool of his own blood, while Callum retrieves the Apple from his hands. Sofia cries for her father and vows revenge against Cal. The four of you depart, vowing to protect the Apple from the Templars.
Present day, Luxembourg
"How glad am I to finally have you back in my arms," Shaun sighs as he holds you close to him. You squeeze him tighter, letting a tear escape your eye.
"And I you, Shaun. Frankly, it was a mess in there. I’m glad that it’s finally over."
"Me too but I know that you were able to handle things in there just like you always do - perfectly."
"Don’t flatter me, you bastardo." you mocked him with a perfect Italian accent, which he loved, if anyone asked you. Rebecca went over to you two and gave you a tight hug which you happily returned.
"I was really worried, Ryder. Try to be more careful next time, okay?"
You rolled your eyes, “I always am. Now let me go and attend the Council. As rather useless as it is, I need to give them a full report about what happened in Spain."
”Alright, go but return ASAP. We’ll need you, and this guy over here specifically.’ She pats Shaun on the shoulder and he answers with an indignant ‘Hey!’
As soon as you leave the room, you spot Callum standing in the shadows at the end of the long hall. He looks you in the eye and nods. You nod back.
The plan is set in motion.
#just reposting the fic again#callum lynch x reader#callum lynch#callum lynch imagine#assassin's creed#assassin's creed movie#sofia rikkin#edited it a tiny bit#ryder is your last name#creedwork
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The Guards: *patiently wait for Altaïr to have a dialogue with his dying target and collect his blood*
Altaïr: *the literal second he comes to*
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Can I have a preference where the reader takes a bullet for them, like the shot was meant for them but she pushed them away getting hit instead. Keep up the good work!
Well yeah, I'm sorry for the looooo~oong time I was away..
I hope this is what you meant, actually I'm a bit nervous, but still, have fun!
Enjoy~!
Altaïr:
The first time in his life were he feels ignorant, idiotic and even stupid, all because of you, a simply passant, a flower girl. The tilt of a sword hit your head after Altaïr was pushed out of the way from you, the person was killed quickly as you fell to the ground, unconscious. About two hours ago and you still haven't woken up yet, it was the soldiers fault, for sure. All he could do was wait, even though he wasn't extremely patient, but if something happens if he would go away -he doesn't even want to imagine it. So here you were, laying in Altaïrs arms as he gently cradled you against him and run with his fingers through your hair. To know that you were still there, very much alive.
Connor:
Connor was angry, not just on himself, but on you and then archer as well, not only had he to fight you till the drug went off but all the other attackers as well and despite that he also had to keep an eye on you so you wouldn't get yourself killed. All in all, the day wasn't like he had planned it and so Connor walked angrily around not wanting to say anything till you did, but actually, you were a bit terrified to say anything, so the room was silent despite the sounds of Connor walking. Your head still hurt, but the few injuries you got were treated, differently to Connor, his once white robe is tainted mostly in red and in his face was a visible scratch that you caused as he tried to inject you a medicine. Short, Connor was Angry and you were Emotionally down.
Desmond:
This wasn't how it was supposed to go, not even near. This whole thing seems like a Dejavu to him -you laying in the animus, wounded by a shot wound, so you don't have to endure all of the pain because they don't have enough medical supply to treat you fully. The self doubt grow in him like a plant, nagging on his mind, if he hadn't allowed you to come with him then all of this wouldn't have happened. Still he needed to calm down, for your sake, stress only triggered his bleeding effect. How blady wished Desmond, you would just open your eyes, or show a little sign in the animus that you're alright, a shame that such things always happen to him.
Edward:
How could that happen? God, he should've seen the enemy that stand above, he didn't but you did, and because of that you also took the bullet that was meant for Edward. He never felt so sick and scared in his entire life as Pirate and Assassin, he put many people in danger but you weren't even meant to be at deck when the crew fought, so how could that happen? Well, it doesn't matter anymore, you laid motionless in a bed by a doctor, Edward sitting next to you, gently running his fingers through your hair. He hadn't slept since the accident, nightmares kept haunting his mind, should you ever open your eyes again he had to do a serious conversation with you.
Ezio:
The grown man walked nervous up and down before the house, every person could see the distress in his face. Ezio could stand much things, but to see his wounded wife on a table by the doctor, whimpering and silently crying wasn't one of them. He knew how stab wounds hurt, overall deep ones, he knew too good, since he had a few, but this was your first life threatening wound. The Assassin clearly remembered how his first wound hurted, to know that you, the person with such a tolerant and open heart, had to through live that pain put him on edge.
Evie:
How could she have been so idiotic, she not only let her guard down but also cause you to get injured. Evie could stop the bleeding quickly, still she knew you were in pain, the bullet seems to be still inside so it hurted much more than needed. In the process of removing the piece of metal you've lost consciousness, which was for the best, Evie would have lost her nerves seeing you in so much pain and distraught. The Metall hid under your shoulder in the soft flesh, probably a muscle, still everything that mattered was to save your life, even if it means you couldn't use your arm anymore. As long as she could get to hear your laugh, to see your smile, to feel the warmth of your body when cuddling, as long as that remains everything would be okay.
Haytham:
His face was a facade, calm and collected as he killed the last attacker. Haytham stood for the whole fight between you and the attackers, like a wolf protecting his lamb against foxes. As soon as there wasn't anyone standing beside him, and you laying on the ground, he gently picked you up, ignoring your gasps of pain. Haytham began to look over your wound after he brought you to his room, he was quite impressed you lasted that long, the sword clearly had the intention to kill. Luckily you fell asleep quickly, the mask fell, sorrowful eyes looked at you, Haytham clearly didn't wanted to drag you into this mess of war.
Jacob:
You were only half consciousness in his arms as he ran slightly panicking, Jacob should have listened to his sister, just this one time. He couldn't afford to lose you, not because of him, your blood soaked through his clothings as his steeps became faster. His voice rings in your ear but you can't understand a word, the struggle to keep your eyes open became stronger. Even the soft rain that fell didn't really got any notice, a small 'huff' left your lips as you fell into a fever sleep. You slept for three days in a row after that, Jacob feels miserable and the only thing that keeps him from losing his mind were the small mumbels you let out every time he would give your hand a small squeeze or a small gentle kiss on the nose, from now on he needed to wait -and to keep his nerves.
Shay:
Your skin was white and didn't really looked healthy, the eyes wich he cherished so were closed and your breathing was flat and ragged. Shay's eyes practically burned with anger and fear, after all you didn't even knew of the war he fought. At the wrong place - in the wrong time, you would've said, if you could talk, what you clearly couldn't. Shaking, gasping for another breath as you clutched Shays hand with a strength he didnt know you possessed. You already got an antidote against the poison, but you and mind wasn't trained for the pain the poison held, everything was warm and yet cold, as if you were drowning without any chance for air and the only thing that held you over water in that storm was the hand you held on for your dear life. You are so going to slap Shay after this hell - if you survived.
#assassins creed#altaïr ibn la'ahad#connor kenway#edward kenway#ezio auditore#evie frye#haytham kenway#jacob frye#shay cormac#imagines & references#ac blackflag#ac rouge#ac - 1/2/3#Desmond miles
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