Chapter Text
[MEMORY BLOCK 1]
Altaïr did not wish to hide.
Robert de Sablé-–Grand Master of the Templar Order-–was there with them in the hidden crypt beneath Solomon’s Temple. He stood between them and the treasure they had been sent to retrieve.
Robert de Sablé had to die.
The reasoning was airtight, but Malik wanted to debate it in whispered voices while every moment that now passed was a moment wasted, a moment in which Robert de Sablé might slip through their fingers. Now that the chance lay before him, Altaïr couldn’t fathom returning without the glory of this kill.
So Altaïr ignored Malik’s warnings, beckoned Kadar to come with him, and dropped down into view of the Templars.
Bold words flew back and forth.
Altaïr lunged for the the Grand Master.
Malik grabbed for his arm to stop him, and that slowed him down–-at least that’s what Altaïr kept telling himself–-but even then, his blade struck true, piercing deep into Robert’s neck just above the collarbone.
But Robert only headbutted Altaïr and in a swirl of light and confusion, threw the Assassin from the room. Altaïr felt wood splinter as he crashed through scaffolding and heard the rumble of collapsing stone. He saw Malik and Kadar drawing their swords, and Robert turning away with a smile on his face, feeling his neck, glowing with a strange aura.
And then masonry began to fall, and Altaïr had to scramble backwards, and when the dust had settled, found himself cut off from his fellow Assassins and the treasure and the Templars. He heard the ringing of swords and shouting voices and stared helplessly at the settling stones for a long moment.
In the end there was nothing to do but turn his back to the sounds of slaughter and run.
>>[FAST-FORWARDING MEMORY TO A MORE RECENT ONE]
>>[...]
Everything went wrong after that.
He was chased from Jerusalem by half a dozen Templars–-knights with well-honed weapons and grim, tireless horses, and armor against which Altaïr’s light weaponry could do little. He lost them by crossing back and forth across the Jordan River and taking the longer path west around the Sea of Galilee, but that wasted precious days, and it was nearly two weeks before Altaïr returned to Masyaf and reported his failure.
Malik returned too-–bearing the treasure.
Altaïr’s face burned with shame and anger as Malik, clutching an arm covered in blood and already smelling of rot, spat at him, cursed him, called for his life. Kadar was dead. A life was owed.
Altaïr angrily pushed the thought aside. The boy had been a first-degree Assassin. He knew the risks, and he hadn’t the skill to match them. But he didn’t dare say that out loud–-not when Malik’s eyes were so full of grief.
And then the horns blew, and Altaïr knew, with sinking, deepening certainty, that he hadn’t lost the Templars after all. He ran to aid in the evacuation of the village, and saw that the Templars had brought with them a legion of their Crusaders, who now ran through the village, killing, burning, raping.
When as many villagers as they could manage to find were safely in the fortress, they retreated. Al Mualim made it clear that he had no wish to endure a siege, and sent Altaïr to spring a trap as the Crusaders reached the fortress gates–-to crush man and horse alike with great trunks of trees sent tumbling from a chamber in the Assassin’s watchtower.
Robert and his surviving men retreated, dragging their injured along, promising vengeance.
Altaïr hoped that the part he played in the battle would absolve him of some wrong-doing, but in the week that followed, the price of his folly grew ever higher. Four Assassins had died in the village’s defense, and after everyone had been accounted for, over thirty villagers had been killed, and a dozen more maimed or left without a livelihood. Repairs would be costly. Recovery could take years.
>>[FAST-FORWARDING MEMORY TO A MORE RECENT ONE]
>>[...]
And so, in the wake of his failure and shame, Altaïr felt Al Mualim’s knife pierce deep into the flesh beneath his ribcage, and he felt certain that he would soon be dead.