Bab 473: Assassin's Creed: Transcendence by DelayedInspiration (Percy Jacksonx Assassin creed)
*My only issue with this story is the continued focus on the Christian God*
Latest Update:July 11, 2023
Summary: Kronos amasses enough power early on to send an infant Percy back in time. Finding this development unsuitable, the Fates interfere, and only the soul of Perseus is sent back, while his body remains in the present occupied by a fake soul. Now, what is Percy doing in the past as he works his way back to the present? Eradicating the Templar Order, of course.
Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12390716/1/Assassin-s-Creed-Transcendence
Word Count:465k+
Chapters:81
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August 18, 1993
New York hospital
Maternity ward
Dr. Elliot Timone walked gracefully into the maternity ward of the hospital. Amongst all of the sleeping infants present, there was only one that Dr. Timone was interested in. Walking down the paths created by the rows of either occupied or unoccupied cribs.
Jackson…
Jackson…
Jackson…
Why were there so many Jacksons…?
Ah! Perseus Jackson. Timone's blue eyes bled into a sickly gold, and a crack emitting golden light appeared on the good doctor's sternum, shining through his shirt of lab coat. Elliot grimaced as he realized that his time grew ever shorter.
Even with the amount of power Kronos had managed to scrape together, his time possessing a mortal host was limited, as evidenced by more, smaller cracks appearing upon the body of this meat-bag host. Acting quickly, Kronos scooped his future enemy into his arms.
Titan of Time could see the future; go figure.
Damn those Fates, and their divine rules. If not for them, Kronos would've simply crushed the infant in his hands and would've been done with this, or at the very least, used a scalpel and rendered young Perseus' head from his shoulders. As it was, the Titan could not directly kill the demigod or bring harm to him. So throwing him off a building wouldn't work either.
However, there were loopholes that could be exploited.
The golden-eyed Elliot stood in front of the blackest, most unlit corner of the maternity ward. Staring intently into the void, cracks of golden light appeared on the concrete surface, before huge chunks were torn clean off and sucked into a whirling vortex of golden energy. Strangely, this portal into somewhere back in time made no sound, but even if it did, it was nothing a little Mist couldn't fix.
Elliot's body was covered in golden cracks by now. Kronos' mighty spirit was beginning to heavily take its toll, and using so much power as to open a time-hole all the way back to the Jurassic Era was cause for great body deterioration. Elliot's time grew short, but Perseus' would be even shorter. While Kronos could not harm the boy, nature was more than ready to bring an end to the infant's life.
So many millions of years ago, the Primordials still reigned supreme. No Titan had been born yet, as well as no mortal man. Perseus' power was so finite at the moment, not even Gaea would register his existence before a hungry dinosaur came and devoured the little morsel.
Elliot stared down at the silent babe in his hands. "Good bye, future enemy. Though you may have brought me great pain in the future, now you are a nonfactor in my plans. Still, I am not so cruel as to prolong the suffering of family. May your death be swift and painless, grandson."
With that, Kronos casually tossed Perseus Jackson into the portal. The vortex vanished, and the wall repaired itself. The power of the Titan of Time ended Dr. Elliot Timone's life in a soft flash of energy, his body and clothes dissolving into little particles that faded away into nothing. None of the infants were affected. As for Kronos himself, the father of Zeus' essence returned to Tartarus, and would lay dormant and unaware of all for many years.
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Unknown
The three Fates shared a collective sigh as the sleeping child of prophecy hovered in between the three of them. While this was hardly the most strenuous dimension they had had to manage in recent times, it was by no means an easy one. Granted, this Perseus would be infinitely more manageable than his counterparts, specifically select others.
Still, what to do from now was quite the mystery. Divine law prevented them from simply returning the babe to his crib in the maternity ward, because a life-altering event had occurred. A fitting analogy would be that a doorway had been opened and stepped through, and then that same door had been shut and barricaded with titanium from the other side.
This Perseus wasn't exactly special like so many others, lacking in any form of energy or power beyond demigod Essence, and it wasn't like they could convene with a Shinto deity and have the boy given some form of power and left to alter the destiny of some anime world.
Hmmm. What should be done with this situation, pondered the Fates.
Clotho suddenly had a lightbulb moment. "I believe the dimension this Perseus hails from has seen heavy influences from Abstergo Industries?" Her sisters instantly caught on to her idea, but there were kinks that still needed ironing.
"But if the body and the soul are sent back—"
"—then death will bring him to the Underworld—"
"—and so many things will go wrong—"
"—then a solution is needed—"
"—yes, but what—"
"—what about only the soul—"
"—excellent idea—"
"—but the body—"
"—left to stay here—"
"—fill in the gap—"
"—but without a soul—"
"—it will not function, of course—"
"—a fake soul then, to power the body—"
"—yes, a fake soul and the real body in the present—"
"—with the real soul and a fake body in the past—"
"—in the past to glide through the eras—"
"—yes, a blade in the crowd—"
"—a wraith in history—"
"—a face in the crowd—"
"—a cycle of reincarnation—"
"—reincarnated until the present is reached—"
"—and when the present is reached—"
"—the soul and the body will be reunited," all three Fates finished as one.
Their plan now made, the daughters of Ananke set about their work. Their fingers moved nimbly as they separated Perseus' soul from his body, kept his body functioning, made a fake soul, a hollow soul, and implanted it into the tiny body of the child of prophecy. Perseus squirmed as his new soul entered him, and the Fates tensed, thinking they had made a divine mistake, and something had gone wrong.
His diaper was turning yellow.
The divinities deadpanned as one. Putting this little spectacle into the backs of their memories, the Fates opened two different portals. One showed the maternity ward, or more specifically, Perseus' empty crib, while the other portal revealed a candle-lit tent, with a woman frozen in childbirth, a look of pain on her sweat-drenched face. With that, the Fates gently placed the body into the crib (which didn't break any divine laws, seeing as this body was occupied with merely a place-holder soul, and not the real thing), and put the demigod's soul into the pregnant woman's womb, and into the child within.
The half-divine soul, as morbid as it was, devoured the mortal soul of the unborn baby, asserting its existential dominance over the body.
With looks of grim finality on their faces, the Fates closed both of the portals, and sat back with those same grim looks. It would take over 800 years for Perseus' soul to return to the present, and all the sisters could do was make sure that the demigod properly returned to the present, safe and intact.
Well, as intact as an Assassin's soul could be after eight centuries of murder.
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January 3, 1167
Masyaf Castle
Umar Ibn-La'Ahad, the Muslim Master Assassin and devoted spouse of Maud Ibn-La'Ahad, the Christian Assassin, tightly held onto his wife's hand as she gave birth to their second child. Altaїr, their first-born son, was being cared for elsewhere in the castle. The lad would be three in a few days.
Umar winced, both at the sudden pressure on his hand via his birthing wife's iron grip, and at the pain in his ears at the volume of her scream as she gave a final push. Finally, the wet nurse held their second child, a boy, the woman said, but there was a problem.
Their son wasn't crying.
"Hand him here," Umar intoned silently. The nurse did as instructed, handing the babe to his father. Umar stared at his son, not bothered by his nakedness or the sheen of fresh blood that coated him. The Assassin did see something that brought great relief to him, however. Umar saw the steady rise and fall of his newborn son's tiny chest. He was merely sleeping.
Then the weak arm of Maud clutched Umar's robes.
The Master Assassin looked at her, and his blood froze. Her face was drawn and her eyes gaunt. Her skin was ashen, and her hair was more of a mess than ever. She looked weak, very weak, and her breathing was barely there. There was an abnormal amount of blood pooling around her, soaking into the bedding.
Umar was at her side in an instant, their son held tightly in his hand.
"Give him to me," Maud weakly whispered. Umar gently handed their son over to her. The Christian woman, in her final moments on this earth, gazed at her baby with an intensity of love only a mother could produce. Maud brought her son to her face, and gently kissed his little forehead. In his sleep, the infant smiled. "Faris...my little horseman...I want you to know that I love you...and I always will…"
Maud weakly beckoned to Umar, and the Master Assassin was at her side. "Yes, my love?" he asked shakily, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"Umar...promise me...promise me you'll be there for our sons…"
"I promise."
"Promise me you'll raise them right...by the Lord…"
"I promise."
"Promise me...promise me you'll tell them that no matter what...they are loved…"
"I p-promise," Umar's voice broke.
Maud managed a weak smile. "Thank you, my love...I'll be waiting for you...in Paradise…"
Maud Ibn-La'Ahad fell limp in her husband's arms.
Faris Ibn-La'Ahad began to cry.
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Altaїr stared at his infant brother with a gaze only a three-year-old could manage. It was one of trepidation, hesitance, curiosity, and uncertainty. It was the look of bewilderment upon coming into contact with an unknown, and subsequently failing to dissect it into understandable terms.
Faris, for his part, stared up at his big brother with wide eyes of amazement, before gurgling happily and raising his pudgy little arms up to be held. Altaїr's expression didn't change, but he did flinch back slightly at the infant's sudden actions.
"Go on, son," Umar said gently, "pick him up."
With great reluctance, the toddler did as instructed, and slowly reached out for his brother. Faris' face, which had begun to fall and become a border-line sniffle at the lack of attention, picked right back up in a toothless grin as he was lifted out of one set of arms and into another. Altaїr made a face.
Being a newborn, Faris couldn't have possibly known what that face meant, but he did set about running his pudgy hands over the not-so-much pudgy face. Altaїr squirmed as he was literally felt up by his brother. Umar, for the first time since his wife's death, allowed a ghost of a smile to cross his face.
As Altaїr looked at Faris out of the corner of his eye, his head angled back so as to avoid his brother's overly-inquisitive finger, only one thought passed through the three-year-old's developing mind. 'You're the reason Mother is gone.'
This thought would define the brothers' relationship for years to come.
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June 23, 1173
Faris' age: 6
Altaїr's age: 9
"Wait, Altaїr!"
The Assassin-in-training scowled as his little brother's voice reached him. Over six years had passed since the siblings' first meeting, and their relationship had not gotten any better. Altaїr kept Faris at arm's length, and used any excuse possible to escape from his presence. The boy still blamed the six-year-old for the death of their mother, and the reason why their father always seemed to be on a mission.
Still, despite the snickers from his friends, Altaїr stopped, and allowed Faris to catch up to him. The younger boy came to stand by his older brother, and, despite the intensity of his frantic sprint, was barely winded. Faris smiled brightly at Altaїr. "Can I play too?"
Altaїr ignored the quiet snickers from his friends behind him, and instead focused on staring down at his little brother from the bridge of his nose, like he was no more than an insect scurrying in front of his boot. Now being able to recognize facial expressions and emotions on a better level than when he was an infant, Faris knew of the contempt that was directed at him, but he ignored it in favor of trying to get close to his elder sibling.
"No, you cannot."
Faris' smile lessened by a fraction, but the hopeful spark never left his eyes. "Please? I promise I won't be a burden."
Altaїr was about to deliver a much more forceful rebuttal, but Abbas Sofian piped up from behind. "Come now, Altaїr. It won't hurt to let Faris join us in our game today."
Faris beamed. Altaїr scowled.
"What game were we going to play, anyway?"
Abbas smiled. "Climbing."
Altaїr was no longer scowling.
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As trainees, Altaїr and his friends were being instructed in the arts of climbing and running across structures with ease, and to leap from building to building, scaffold to scaffold, and beam to beam, without fear or hesitation. As such, it was encouraged by the Masters for the trainees to practice and hone their skills whenever the opportunity presented itself, which typically led to the denizens of Masyaf Fortress to bearing witness to young children performing stunts across the villagescape.
Being a child of six, Faris had yet to be introduced to such arts, and was therefore extremely nervous about what was about to happen, but her buried his trepidation, and put on a brave mask, so as not to embarrass his big brother in front of his friends. Even as young as he was, the boy understood the concepts of pride and ego.
"Follow us," Abbas said warmly, "and don't worry if you can't do it yet. You're still young, after all."
Whether that was a barb or a cushion Faris did not know, but he decided to think positive.
The chosen course was a simple one, just a stair-step series of boxes that led to a couple of beams, and then onto a rooftop, and the course would go from there. Jamal went first, then Umar, then Abbas, and finally Altaïr. Each boy was able to leap from spot to spot with almost what appeared to be ease, but each of them were panting slightly, except for Altaïr. He was just silently staring down at Faris.
The six-year-old swallowed heavily. He could do this, he could. Although, the tunic that billowed about his legs might prove to be...not good. Faris readied himself, ignored the exchanging of coins from the older boys, and took off as fast as his little legs could carry him. He reached the first box, leapt on it, then leapt onto the next, and then leapt on top of the final box. Now it was just the beams and onto the roof.
Steeling himself, Faris jumped. There was a terrifying moment of weightlessness, the absent feeling of solid ground. Then the boy was impacting the beam...via his stomach. His little muscles hadn't been powerful enough to propel him with enough force to reach the top of the beam. Still, Faris refused to let go, and hauled himself up with all the strength he could manage.
He must've attracted quite a lot of attention by now.
Looking up, Jamal and Umar were openly snickering, Abbas hadn't lost his warm smile, and Altaïr continued to stare silently at him, his eyes hard and cold. Faris took it as a challenge to do better and make his brother proud of him.
Precariously balancing on top of the beam, just a few feet off the ground, Faris stood, his arms out wide to steady himself his. Eyes darting from where he stood to the beam, the boy tried to formulate plans in case he made it, and in case he didn't make it. Finally, confident in his ideas, Faris leapt.
Those feelings of weightlessness and fear returned, but this time, the boy made it. Feelings of elation and pride coursed through him, making him warm, making him smile. Faris stood...and he wobbled. His dark eyes widened as balance left him, and he fell backwards. His arms rose in a desperate attempt to grab onto something, but there was nothing there to grab.
But there was Altaïr! He was up there! Faris locked eyes mid-fall with his brother, sending a desperate plea for aid. Altaïr remained motionless, and continued to silently stare at his falling sibling. Even amongst the horrified visages of Jamal and Umar, the wide-eyed look of Abbas, Altaïr's countenance never once changed in the event of the potential death of Faris.
And so the boy fell, the uncaring visage of his older brother burned into his memory.
Even though it couldn't have been more than eight feet, to a six-year-old child, it might as well have been a fall from the highest point of Masyaf Castle. Faris crashed down hard, luckily just landing on his back instead of his head, therefore the only real damage was the locking of the diaphragm, causing Faris to begin choking on nothing as his lungs refused to contract to draw in the precious oxygen that the body needed for all functions.
As Faris' mind drowned in panic as his vision darkened from his inability to draw in breath, there was one thought that prevailed over these primal feelings of fear over the encroaching Reaper: Altaïr's face. The uncaring visage, the cold gleam, the silent watch. It hurt; more than the fall, more than his brain undergoing a feeling of constriction; it wasn't his big brother's lack of action that pained Faris so, it was the fact that his big brother chose not to act that was the source of this agony.
Faris was suddenly hauled to his feet, and air returned to him. Looking at the one that had set him on his feet, the son of Umar stuttered, "M-Mentor…"
"Go. Return to your studies. I will handle this from here," the black-robed Al Mualim commanded.
"Please...don't punish them too bad," Faris said quietly.
The boy retreated into the gathered crowd, and silently made his way back to the castle.
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August 18, 1176
Faris' age: 9
Altaїr's age: 12
Weeks ago, the Saracen forces under the command of Salāḥ ad-Dīn laid siege to Masyaf. The Assassin held strong during this time, stronger than what the Muslim warrior would have thought possible, but all things come to an end eventually, something Al Mualim understood greatly. So, he dispatched a spy among the Saracen ranks, a spy by the name of Ahmad Sofian, father of Abbas Sofian.
Sofian was good, and after a day of espionage, he located Salāḥ ad-Dīn's command tent. Upon receiving this news, the Mentor dispatched his top Assassin, Umar Ibn-La'Ahad. The father of two was unhappy with the assignment, given his sons' rocky relationship (Altaїr wanted nothing more than to be rid of his brother, and Faris wanted nothing more than to be close to his brother), but he stuffed his displeasure deep into the recesses of his mind, and slid into the shadows of the night.
He almost made it.
It had been easy for Umar to slip into the camp, wind his way through the vast expanse of the tents, avoid the guards at every turn and juncture, sneak into Salāḥ ad-Dīn's tent, and leave the warning stabbed into the man's desk. However, while it had not yet been discovered, Murphy's Law still applied to the late 12th century. Salāḥ ad-Dīn walked in on Umar just as the man was leaving.
Years of training took over, and the Master Assassin fled swiftly from the Saracen camp. The only hiccup was the nobleman—most likely the father of a soldier—who had decided it was a good idea to stand in the way of a fleeing Assassin. While the tenants of the Creed strictly prohibited the taking of innocent life, the Creed also prohibited the compromisation of the Brotherhood…which Umar had technically failed with flying colors, seeing as he was running for his life in a camp full of angry Muslims.
As such, Umar Ibn-La'Ahad made short work of the nobleman, and escaped with his life.
Things would not end in happiness. The spy Ahmad was caught, interrogated, tortured, and gave in to his weakness by giving the Saracens the name of the one responsible for the nobleman's death. The next day, the uncle of Salāḥ ad-Dīn, Shihab Al'din came to gates of Masyaf Castle, to open negotiations.
It seemed that the Saracen leader had taken the Assassin's warning to heart, and had departed elsewhere, but Umar's killing of the nobleman was not without consequence. While the Muslim army was willing to end their siege of Masyaf, they would only do it if they were to leave with the head of the father of Altaїr and Faris.
Al Mualim protested this, both the accusation and the stipulation, but when the battered form of Ahmad was brought forth, Umar had words with the Mentor…words of great sadness, but words of even greater honor, and duty, and sacrifice.
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"You are very brave to do this…may Allah have mercy on your soul," The Saracen executioner said quietly to Umar.
The Assassin just nodded stiffly. He was weaponless and clad only in his robes. His hood was down, revealing a face that looked much like his sons', only a great deal older and an even greater deal more serious. His hands were bound behind his back—a useless dark formality. There was no point in trying to escape. To do so would bring about great pain and hardship for the Brotherhood…and his sons.
As a father, that was something Umar would not allow.
And so he did not fight as he was gently pushed to his knees, and made to rest his neck across the wooden block.
Beheading; a swift and painless death.
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Altaїr pushed his way up onto the ramparts of the gate of Masyaf, and pushed his way through the crowd so that he could see what was going on. Father hadn't been there this morning to oversee his and Faris' training, and that concerned the eleven-year-old. Deeply. It wasn't like Father to miss morning training—oh my God.
"Father!"
Umar raised his head, and even from this distance, Altaїr could see his father's eyes widen.
"Father!"
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"Your son?" asked the executioner.
"Y-Yes."
"By Allah…this…this is…do you have any words for him?"
"I do."
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Faris, following quickly behind his brother, made his way to Altaїr's side. "Brother…what's going—"
"Altaїr! You'll need to look after your brother for me, understood? You're the man of the house now, my son." Umar smiled, unshed tears brimming in his eyes. "I love you, Altaїr, and tell Faris that I love him too."
Faris, panicked and quickly becoming distressed, desperately tugged on his brother's sleeve. "Altaїr! What's happening? Altaїr!"
But the boy wasn't listening. He was numb, and in great shock. He was…he was…he was what? And he had to…Faris…but why him? Why did he have to look after that little nuisance? Why was this happening? What was happening? O Lord, why was this happening!?
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"I was tasked with taking the head of an Assassin, but I am forced to take a father away from his children…Allah, please forgive me," the executioner almost sounded like he was weeping.
Umar smiled at his firstborn, unaware that his second born was hidden behind the stone rising of the rampart. In his final moments, the Master Assassin thought of his wife.
'Maud…I'll be there soon.'
Umar heard the grunt of one lifting a blade, then the tell-tale whistling of metal through the air, and then everything erupted in a beautiful white.
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That evening
In the late Umar Ibn-La-Ahad's chambers, Altaїr sat numbly at the foot of the bed. His brother clung tightly to him, sobbing silently into the front of his robe, but the eleven-year-old paid this no heed as his mind was solely focused on what he had heard and witnessed that morning. His mother, taken from him by his own sibling, and now his father, taken from him by a stranger, but not before handing down the responsibility of caring for Faris.
On that thought, Altaїr's glazed, lifeless eyes traveled down to the unwelcome attachment to his torso. And he silently sneered. Tears…tears were for the weak. Tears were for those who could not bear pain. Tears were for useless little brothers who spent more time crying like a little girl, than working to better themselves so that they might bring peace to the land via the absolute power of the Creed.
The door creaked loudly as it opened, and Altaїr was once more stunned into an unthinking state as Ahmad Sofian entered Umar's chambers. Faris, upon hearing the sound of the door, raised up from his brother's chest and wiped his eyes. Even at the tender age of nine, Faris understood what had happened today, and, like his brother, freely blamed the man before him for the death of their father.
But something was wrong.
Ahmad was crying. His battered face was marred with tears, and what could be seen of his eyes was red and bloodshot. He walked with trembling steps, but he did not seem injured. Clutched in the man's hand was a knife, which put the brothers on an extremely sharp edge.
Ahmad fell to his knees, weeping. "I am s-sorry. I am s-so s-s-sorry. Had I not been so w-weak, your father would b-b-be here now. This…" his voice broke, "this is my repentance."
Ahmad stood to his feet…and slit his own throat.
Altaїr and Faris stared with wide eyes as the man collapsed like a puppet without its strings. A pool of crimson quickly spread from Ahmad's corpse, staining the rug. The boys continued to just stare at the body, completely stunned and shocked over what they just witnessed.
By the time the body began to cool, Altaїr's synapses finally began to fire once more. For the first time in what must have been ever, the older brother did something gently with his younger brother, as in he gently lifted him off his chest.
"Stay here," he said to the still-shocked Faris, "I'll go…I'll go get Al Mualim."
And so Altaїr left, leaving his little brother to keep Ahmad Sofian company. When the firstborn left, Faris whimpered at the sudden perceived loss of contact between himself and his source of comfort.
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August 26, 1176
While one couldn't call Faris excited, or even happy for that matter, there was a certain air of…lighter emotion about him. His father had recently been decapitated in front of him, and then the man that had been arguably responsible for said decapitation had come in the middle of the night and slit his throat right in front of him…and then Faris' brother had up and left him alone with the corpse for several hours.
Que traumatized nine-year-old.
Of course, no one knew such details aside for Al Mualim and Altaїr, but on orders of the Mentor, the story of Ahmad's final moments were to be kept secret for all time. The lie was that Sofian had run away in the night into a self-imposed exile for reasons. Abbas had taken it about as best as one could expect for one hearing that their father had just left them for some vague purpose, but at least he hadn't developed a grudge against Altaїr and Faris over it.
Back to the present, the reason for the younger brother's…positive feeling was that today he would get to watch his big brother and Abbas train together in the art of the sword.
In the middle of the castle courtyard, the wooden practice ring stood proud and bold. Assassins milled about aimlessly, chatting idly with one another. Even Al Mualim was present, although the majority of his attention seemed to be focused on talking to the Masters around him. There were a few that paid attention to the upcoming spar between Altaїr and Abbas.
Faris' eyes narrowed when he saw the dark light in Sofian's eyes, and his dread grew when the older boy asked to use real swords as opposed to the wooden practice ones. Was Faris the only one picking up on the wrong feeling in the air right now? Apparently so, because no one else thought it strange that two novices were being allowed to use real blades.
Altaїr and Abbas stood apart, swords brandished. Labib, the current training overseer, gave the order to begin, and all Hell broke loose as Abbas charged, screaming and yelling in absolute fury, accusing Altaїr of lying about his father's suicide. Faris became anxious, dancing on the balls of his feet as Abbas' assault continued unabated. The second-born's anxiety grew when Abbas landed a cut on Altaїr, and knocked him to the ground.
Faris whined in distress as Abbas began to ferociously punch his brother in the face, and no one seemed to have noticed yet, despite the massive amount of commotion going on in the practice ring. Labib didn't seem interested in stopping the fight either. Abbas continued to wail on Altaїr's face, no one seemed to notice it, and Faris had enough.
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Abbas' anger consumed him, but he was not so singularly focused on Altaїr's face to not hear the rapid pitter-patter of approaching feet. However, he looked up too late, and when he did look up, he did so just in time to see the shoulder ram into his face.
Abbas hit the ground, his nose broken, but it didn't stop there.
Now it was his turn to have his face broken in.
Faris did not have the greatest relationship with his brother, no, but despite the uncountable number of times Altaїr had not been there for him, Faris refused to give up on his brother, and he refused to stand by and watch as his brother was beat almost to death. Still, there was only so much the eight-year-old with barely any training could do against the twelve-year-old with a few years under his belt.
Abbas threw Faris off him with a grunt.
The last Sofian bolted to his feet, his anger now directed at the youngest Son of None. Once more, Abbas' sole focus on a singular thing cost him, as he completely missed Altaїr's fist meeting his cheek. Abbas stumbled, the blow dazing him, and a miracle happened.
Faris was next to his brother, and the two launched a brutal assault against their mutual attacker. They worked in perfect tandem, their strikes flowing like water, yet hard as rock. One would grab, and the other would hit; one would push, the other would lash out; one would pull, the other would punch. By now, the full courtyard was watching, their attention glued to the beat down before them, and they were stunned. Even Al Mualim was finding it difficult to discover the will to act.
The dislike Altaїr had for Faris was one of the most well-known secrets in the Brotherhood, so to see them doing something together, and doing it well together (seriously, it was as if they were linked mind-to-mind), was astonishing.
The brothers knocked the barely conscious Abbas back, sending him tumbling into the wooden railing lining the practice ring. His eyes were rolling about in his head, and his head was lolling from side to side. The signs of a mild concussion. The brothers looked at each other, a silent message going between their eyes, before they nodded in tandem. They both rushed forward, their arms cocked back.
They got to Abbas and landed a dual uppercut straight to the jaw that lifted the boy out of the ring, and out of consciousness.
Al Mualim finally found his voice. "Boys! Library! Now!"
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It was as if an invisible barrier had been broken, a nonexistent ice shattered. Whatever had held Altaїr back from loving Faris was no longer there. Now the brothers seemed inseparable, and Al Mualim had the decency to put the two in the same class, seeing as how Faris had made it a rather bad habit to skip his own classes to be with Altaїr.
At first, there had been concerns with the teachers that Faris was biting off far more than he could chew by skipping three years of learning. That was not the case, however, as Faris picked up on everything that Altaїr did, just as fast, if not faster, and with an equal amount of skill. It was unnatural.
What was also unnatural was the brothers' bodies. Their stamina was something out of a myth, being able to run great distances at top speed for long periods of time, being able to fight off their entire class and come out with barely a sweat, being able to shrug off what most would consider to be debilitating wounds—and then those same wounds were seemingly healed moments later, and being able to climb almost anything without issue.
Years past, and Altaїr and Faris became nothing short of prodigious in their studies of the deadly arts. Their skills with the blade were second to few, with only Masters and a small handful of lower ranking Assassins able to match them; their skills with the short sword were just as superb. The siblings also had a way with throwing knives, and they made it a competition between the two of them to see who could throw the most, and the most accurately; this practice often led to dummies being riddles with holes and lacerations, with the straw spilling out like water from a waterfall.
Faris had also begun to devote his time to a personal project of his. When asked by Altaїr what it was supposed to be, all the budding teen would respond with was: a bow, but smaller; a lot smaller. The Elder sibling gave up trying to figure out what it was after the first drawings were complete. He may have finally come to his love his little brother, but he was still far from understanding how Faris' mind work.
Now, tonight, an important event was to take place. A ceremony held in the upmost regard by all members of the Brotherhood, held in even higher regard than the promotion to Master ranking, and even higher still in regards to the receiving of the title of Mentor. The ceremony that is held in the highest regard is one of honor, sacrifice, and the upmost devotion to the Assassin Brotherhood:
The removal of the ring finger.
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January 1, 1182
Faris' age: 14
Altaїr's age: 17
The chamber was dark, the only light coming from a fire gathered in the middle of the room in a brazier that provided enough illumination to reveal the entirety of the chamber in a painting of flickering reds and oranges. The entire Brotherhood, those that were above the rank of Novice at the very least, had gathered, all wearing cloaks that hid their bodies, with hoods that were bigger than what was necessary.
Before the brazier was a stone table, a high one, one that had been intricately and meticulously carved with several scenes and moments from the Bible. The Crucifixion; the stone rolled over from the entrance to the tomb; Daniel in the lion's den; the Fiery Furnace; Haman hanging from his own noose; the Judgement of Solomon; Samson pulling down the pillars; and Jesus carrying his cross.
This was the stone stable in which an Assassin sacrificed in the name of their Brothers, in the name of their Order, and in the name of their Lord. Twas a ritual that showed the commitment of the Assassin, their willingness for the cause, and their devotion to the Creed.
Al Mualim stood on the side of the table facing the fire. In front of him, Altaїr and Faris stood, both looking nearly the same, and both with identical looks of steel on their faces. Clasped behind the Mentor's back was the sharpest, most revered knife in the whole of the Brotherhood.
"Laa shay'a waqui'n moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine. The wisdom of our Creed is revealed through these words," Al Mualim spoke clearly. "Altaїr…Faris…both of you have shown exceptional talents in our ways, and have displayed a devotion to the Creed few your age possess. As such, it is only fitting that the both of you become a member of the Brotherhood as one. Hold out your hands."
Altaїr brandished his left arm, his ring finger extended.
Faris brandished both of his arms, both of his ring fingers extended.
Beneath the cloaks, many pairs of eyes widened at this development. Altaїr said nothing, for he knew that his brother wanted to do this. Al Mualim said nothing, for he was old and wise, and had come to expect many things about the two before him. This, while not surprising, was most definitely out of the ordinary. And the Mentor loved it.
Al Mualim raised the Knife. "We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins."
In a soft streak of gold, the Knife glided through flesh and bone as seamlessly as though through air. The brothers did not flinch. They did not grimace. The did not cry out. They did not hiss. Nor did they so much as twitch. The stumps of their fingers glowed dully for a brief moment, before fading and revealing nothing but curved skin. The Mentor looked proud, but in the shadows, it was hard to tell. He swiped his hand over the stone table, and the severed fingers vanished.
"Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember…"
Quoth the Brotherhood, "Nothing is true."
"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember…"
Quoth the Brotherhood, "Everything is permitted."
The fire in the brazier went out, bathing the chamber in darkness. Soon, the silvery light of the full moon directly overhead shined down into the chamber via a hole in the roof. Revealed upon the stone table were three leather bracers with five metal plates across the top, and what could only be described as a small sheath on the bottom.
The brother donned their Hidden Blades, and, with a distinct SNIKT, extended the blades. Death came swiftly through the space where their ring fingers once were. Altaїr smiled at his younger brother, and Faris smiled right back.
"Let's go for a run!"
And so raced the brothers into the night.
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They gracefully climbed the battlements, scaled the towers, bounded from beam to beam with practiced ease, and there was no fear to be held in their bodies. Not anymore. Such a fear had been trained out of them. Now what they did was mere routine, just another part of your average day, no more odd or nerve-racking than breathing or eating.
Soon enough, Altaїr and Faris reached a point where the only way to go was up, and the only destination was the very top of Masyaf Castle. So they climbed, swiftly, easily, effortlessly. From beam to beam, ledge to ledge, and over the stone barricades at the tops of the walls. Finally, they made it to the final stretch before they reached the top of Masyaf.
Altaїr went first, scaling the wall till he could grab the outcropping, then he leapt sideways to the beam. From there, he scaled up the wall, leapt out and grabbed the outcropping, before hauling himself to the top. The firstborn looked down at his brother with a smile. "Well? Come on, then."
Faris smiled, and repeated the same moves as his brother, but there was something dangerously different about his ascent. On the final outcropping before the roof, the stone came loose when Faris grabbed it, and he fell. Unbidden, memories of so many years ago ran through his head.
The memory of weightlessness, of falling, of flailing, of reaching out for something that wasn't there. The memory of desperately pleading with Altaїr to save him before he died. The memory of Altaїr's stony face, his steely eyes, his uncaring stance, his resolute aura. The memory of betrayal, and the feeling of being stabbed through the heart.
SNATCH
Faris blinked away a few tears when Altaїr's arms shot out, grasping his own before Death could claim him. The elder teen smiled. "You need to be more careful, little brother. I won't always be here to save you."
With a grunt, Altaїr hauled his brother up with a single arm, bringing him to stand on top of Masyaf's roof. Faris smiled. "Thank you."
Altaїr patted him on the back, and moved to stand at the edge of the roof, next to a statue of an eagle. Faris stood on the opposite side of the eagle. Below them spread the whole of Masyaf, and further than that were the mountains and valleys of the Holy Land. Across the village, hundreds of lights shined like stars as the candles of families lit their homes.
"It is a good life we lead, brother," Altaїr said.
"The best."
"May it never change."
"And may it never change us."
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Link: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12390716/1/Assassin-s-Creed-Transcendence
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone