Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

[asscreedkinkmeme]

We're about to reach the posting limit on pt.1&2, this is for those who wish to continue/write on prompts on both these parts.

Writers! It is your responsibility to link back to the original prompt.

There are no request in this part of the meme.

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Part 1
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Part 3
Part 4
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Fill: Daughter of none [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Altaïr bint-La'Ahad stood with lowered eyes before her master, glaring at his desk. In the corners of her vision wisps of incense swirled upon the breeze. The sun was low, obscured behind thick cloud burnished red in the evening, giving the airy halls of Masyaf an eerie glow. In her current furious state, it reminded her of a haze of blood.

"Pull back your hood, girl," said Al Mualim, and she obeyed without shifting her eyes, still staring at the solid wood of his desk. Her heart still pounded, her fists clenched with anger that showed no sign of abating.

It always happened this way - whether the fight initiated by an insult, a slight against her virtue, a sly pinch in the hallway that compelled her to defend her honour with fists and feet. Or, like this time, her refusal to watch near full-grown men bully a younger boy. Whatever it was, Altaïr knew that it would be her to end up before Al Mualim. She should accept it.

Altaïr felt her palms slippery with blood and sweat, the sting of salt on skin scraped raw. Gradually she calmed herself, digging her fingernails in to her own skin to focus the pain more sharply.

Al Mualim rose from his chair, palms flat on his desk. Altaïr kept still as he reached to lift her chin. She kept her gaze fixed on the open window behind him as he tilted her chin this way and that, examining her split lip, the graze across one high cheekbone, the swollen bridge of her nose, the smear of crusted blood across her upper lip.

"Who has done this?" He demanded.

Altaïr was silent. She would not lie to her master, but nor did she have any intention of revealing names of her Brothers however much she despised Abbas and Daoud and their bullying friends. She might be merely a female among them but she had as much honour as they did. More. Any decent person would be ashamed to behave as they did, singling out smaller and younger boys to terrorise them.

Besides, Al Mualim would learn about the fight soon enough from the physicians. By now, Abbas and Daoud were already in the infirmary. She wondered with a suppressed smirk if Abbas had yet regained consciousness, and if Daoud would be able to walk tomorrow.

"Wipe that insolent expression off your face," ordered Al Mualim, slapping a hand on his desk. His irritation grew when Altaïr did not twitch at the noise but merely brought her attention calmly back to him. "Your sex does not spare you any discipline among our ranks. Don't think I won't have you beaten like any of the boys."

She straightened her mouth and tried to manage an expression more respectful than her usual glare. She well knew Al Mualim's discipline and though she had never in her life feared something as inconsequential as a beating, of course no one in their right mind desired it.

"Your hands, child."

She held them out for him to see, without hesitation, though the wound on her left hand - of her third finger amputated not two days ago - ached and stung anew with its dressing scraped off, caked with dirt and blood.

As she had expected Al Mualim took her hands roughly with little care for her wounds. Altaïr did not flinch.

He turned her hands, taking in the bloodied mess of her left hand, and the skinned knuckles of her right, the scraped raw palms filthy with embedded dirt.

"Answer me, Altaïr. With whom did you fight?"

She met his eyes mutely with a brief flash of defiance, and Al Mualim dropped her hands with narrowed eyes and a mixture of irritation and grudging acknowledgement.

It was at least a sign of loyalty when one student refused to turn in another for misdeeds. In his experience, only a weak-minded youth preferred the contempt of his peers to the wrath of his master and the pain of a thrashing. And he was reminded continually that Altaïr, despite her sex, was not weak-minded.

"Fool of a girl," he muttered. "Go to the infirmary and get that hand seen to. Find out how long your training with the hidden blade will now have to wait."

That, at last, made her sink inside. It must have shown on her face, as Al Mualim gave a soft pah of derision. Then he turned to the window dismissing her. "I will order your punishment when I decide what it is to be. Go."

"Yes, Master." Altaïr bowed her head in submission and respect as although his back was turned, he would know if she did not. She padded from his study on feet kept silent from habit that had become equivalent to instinct.

In the courtyard Qasim was waiting for her, leaning against the wall. He looked mostly unharmed from his encounter with Abbas and his friends. Certainly he had fared better than Altaïr herself.

Though her first impulse was to walk past ignoring him, she stopped at his worried expression, so out of character with his normal cheeky grin.

He said nothing and his face darkened with an odd expression Altaïr could not read. She supposed he was humiliated at being defended by a girl. Qasim's talents leaned more to stealth and subterfuge than to open combat. His quick wit and sharp tongue plunged him into trouble as often as Altaïr's temper did for herself. Small, dark-haired and bright-eyed, he could move more silently than anyone Altaïr knew, climbed like a cat and had a memory for names, dates, places and shifting politics that would someday rival Al Mualim's. But none of those qualities helped him when set upon in the courtyard by three men bigger than him, and he had been on the ground within seconds.

"Did Abbas tear out your tongue at last?" she said as Qasim simply stared at her seemingly unable to speak.

His face fell in dismay and he looked away. "I - hope you won't be punished on my account. That's all I wanted to say." Evidently that wasn't all, though, and he opened his mouth again, hesitated, and stammered - "And you - it was a sight to see. The fight, I mean."

A brief wave of remorse washed over her at her earlier assumption. Qasim was hardly ashamed of receiving her help, in fact his tone was admiring. But she only shrugged. "Whatever the punishment, I will survive it."

"Oh, I know -" Qasim said, and flushed. But she was already stalking away to the infirmary, glaring at the dirt under her feet.

**

"Through here," snapped old Yazid the physician as Altaïr entered the infirmary. He showed her to a small room that looked more like a cleaned-out store cupboard, despite the small cot set up in a corner. "I don't want any more trouble from you or Abbas, so you'll stay well away from each other. Sit on the bed." He set up his equipment, muttering in his cantankerous way but there was no real anger in his voice. His hands were deft and gentle as he washed Altaïr's bloodied hands with warm water.

"Assassins," Yazid grumbled as he delicately brushed embedded dirt from her palms with the corner of a clean cloth. "The lot of you are fools with your honour and your pride. This will hurt." He poured something sharp-smelling on another cloth, folded it, and held it lightly over the wound of Altaïr's missing finger. The searing sting felt like fire. It almost hurt worse than losing the finger had, and she breathed deeply, embracing the pain, accepting it as she had been taught. Yazid grunted approval as she kept perfectly still.

"Hmph. At least you make good patients. Just as well, seeing how often you all end up here. And I have to manage with two assistants and a stupid boy who can't even boil rags without burning himself and making more work for me. You would think I would complain, but I don't." He glared at her. "You didn't ask, my girl, but I will tell you anyway. Abbas is awake."

What a shame, Altaïr thought, but said nothing.

"And it turns out that Daoud is not badly hurt, although you gave him a fine kick to his knee. The other one, can't remember his name -"

"Umar," she supplied darkly, but Yazid was not listening.

"- but who cares. He has not shown his face, so I can only assume he has not suffered some debilitating harm. But I expect I will see you back here to treat you for a flogging, anyway. Pah! Assassins!" He squeezed water from the bloodied cloths and tossed them into a basket, the gesture containing all his contempt for the ways of her order. Altaïr would have been insulted if she hadn't liked Yazid so much.

"Ah. Before I forget." He tossed a neat package beside her on the bed - a supply of clean, folded rags. Altaïr flushed with her usual humiliation at any reference to her body's strange needs. But Yazid in his usual practical, impatient way had already moved his attention to other things. "Take these off," he said, tweaking impersonally at her stiff cotton robes. "And don't be silly about it, girl! If you have other injuries I know you will not tell me about them, so it is your own foolish fault. Quickly, I do not have all night. Move your arm and let me see those ribs..."

With a sigh, she submitted to Yazid's examination, the sound of his irritated, half-affectionate prattle rather comforting.

Despite deciding there was nothing really the matter with her, Yazid kept her in the infirmary until morning. It was a welcome break from the barracks, where the men gossiped as much as the huriyah in the garden, although with less giggling and more bragging.

Fill: Daughter of none [2/?]

[(Anonymous)]

The afternoon was warm and Altaïr retreated with Malik al-Sayf and his brother Kadar to their favourite place - a cliff face where a series of smooth, tiered rock ledges overlooked the river far below.

The place was perfect for their purposes and the three of them had developed somewhat of a routine. Altaïr would take a book for her studies and read, shaded by the cliff on her favourite rock. On the ledge above her, where she could not see them, Malik and Kadar would strip off their robes and leap down to swim in the deep slow swirl of water below.

A peaceful routine - Altaïr could feel her friends' companionship without owing them conversation... At least, until Kadar came back to talk.

After his swim Kadar climbed back to the higher ledge. Lying on his rock like a lizard in the sun he inched forward so he could talk to Altaïr on the ledge below him, dripping water onto the pages of her book.

"When will you try swimming, Altaïr?" he said. "You have to learn some time."

"Maybe later," she said, flicking drops of water off her book.

"You say that every time."

"I mean it every time."

"Do you doubt our honour?" Kadar said, his voice a little plaintive. "We would turn our backs as you do for us -"

"Kadar." Altaïr's voice, though calm, contained a warning that even Kadar could not miss. He changed topic.

"What will happen to you? About the fight?"

Altaïr simply turned her page, feeling the question too stupid to be answered.

"Altaïr?"

"How should I know," she said.

"Do you think you'll be flogged?"

She shrugged with disinterest.

"It would be unfair," Kadar said tentatively. He was always treading a line with Altaïr, knowing at some point his questioning would irritate her beyond her tolerance. But sometimes it was fun to find her tipping point. "Don't you think?"

Any sharp reply was cut off as more drips of water and an extra shadow overhead indicated that Malik had joined Kadar on their rock.

"Altaïr will get what any of us would for fighting," Malik told his brother repressively. "But it is down to Al Mualim and not for us to decide."

"I know that," Kadar said. "I was only saying. I think Altaïr was in the right. Don't you, Malik? Aren't you loyal to your friend?"

"I'm loyal, but that doesn't mean everything Altaïr does is right, Kadar," said Malik in frustration. "It was her choice to put Abbas and Daoud in the infirmary when calling for Rauf would have ended their mischief in an instant. It is always her choice to fight, and there are consequences."

Altaïr heard the boys brushing water from their bodies, then the familiar soft clink and creak of leather and cotton and buckles as they dressed. They couldn't understand why she had to fight - their position at Masyaf was assumed by birthright of their sex while hers would always be tenuous. If she ran to the training master with every problem, if she did not constantly reinforce proof of her abilities, proof that she was to be feared - she would surely find herself dismissed. She reached the end of her page, frowning, and realised she had taken in nothing.

"Though," said Malik with grudging approval, "I'm glad I don't have to see Abbas and Daoud at training for a while." Dressed fastest as always, Malik dropped nimbly to Altaïr's platform to sit beside her. "Move over, Altaïr."

She shifted to make room for him, grumbling. "I am trying to read."

"Keep trying," said Malik. "Persistence is everything, though perhaps you should start with something simpler than philosophy. If you want me to write the alphabet for you, Altaïr, just say so."

She ignored him.

"You could have avoided that fight, Altaïr," Malik said.

"But why should I? A bully only stops when his own tactics are thrown in his face. And it seems I'm the only one with the skill and courage to do it."

"Yes, yes, you're the only one," Malik said, rolling his eyes. "Maybe you should listen to us more often, Altaïr," he said. "Some day you will need us. You can't do everything on your own."

That deserved no response, and Altaïr gave none. Instead the three friends sat watching the river in companionable silence, their bickering only ever surface deep.

Fill: Daughter of none [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Rauf, training master at Masyaf, found Altaïr where he had expected - in the courtyard with the al-Sayf brothers. She and Malik trained, while Kadar watched them both in admiration. Rauf liked Kadar, although he sometimes considered the boy too easily led. At least Malik led him well. In Altaïr's influence, Rauf had less faith.

Though Altaïr's left hand was bandaged and Rauf had not been able to fit her with her hidden blade, she could still practise many of the motions she would need to wield it. All Assassins were taught such techniques from childhood.

Rauf watched as the young woman engaged Malik in another round of sparring, the older al-Sayf brother's own newly-fitted hidden blade removed for fairness.

Malik began relaxed and slightly crouched. He did not need to wait for Altaïr to make the first move - lightning quick as always she darted forward. Altaïr feinted a punch at head-height with her right hand then twisted to aim a strike at Malik's ribs with her left, flicking her wrist to simulate the action of a hidden blade.

Malik ignored the feint, swept the blow aside and returned with a strike to Altaïr's throat. She ducked, sidestepped and danced back. The two students circled each other, looking for weaknesses, openings. Altaïr's aggressive style showed in her low crouched stance and tense readiness. Rauf was forever telling her that the tightness across her shoulders would slow her movements - a bad habit of which he hoped to cure her.

They sparred on, testing each other's reactions and timing. Rauf felt a stir of pride at the fluidity and grace of his students' motions. Both were holding back so as not to injure the other but their deadly precision was evident for all to see.

Rauf watched. Neither had the upper hand. Malik was heavier in the shoulders, stronger and taller than Altaïr, but strength mattered little with the hidden blade. Speed and accuracy were everything. With his longer arms Malik had the advantage of reach, but Altaïr was faster. All in all they were evenly matched.

The balance shifted when Malik swept Altaïr's knee, sending her into a roll. But she came up with a handful of dust, released it in Malik's face, and leapt on him while he coughed and spluttered, knocking him to the ground. Holding the front of his robes with her right hand she raised her left hand high, then tagged the dirt beside his throat to claim the kill.

Malik threw her off his chest in disgust and both stood, brushing off their robes.

"A dirty trick," Malik said, glowering.

Rauf caught sight of the gloating look on Altaïr's face and disapproved.

"You have much work to do, Altaïr," he called to her. "The hidden blade is not a weapon designed for brawling."

"I will use it as one," she said, shrugging, and he frowned.

"...Master," she added, bowing her head.

"You have many things to learn, my friend," he told her. "Respect and subtlety not least. In fact, it's for this reason Al Mualim has sent me to find you."

Rauf wasn't looking forward to what he had to do. It wasn't just the thought of beating a woman that made him uneasy; in fact Rauf had never approved of physically punishing any of his students. And he had no reason to think that beating Altaïr would have any positive effect on her.

But Al Mualim's word was law. "Come with me, Altaïr." He would at least do it in private. Ordinarily this sort of thing was done openly, in front of the other students, but Rauf wouldn't have it. That was the one concession he had wrung from Al Mualim.

Kadar paused to look at Altaïr with a hint of concern as she passed him, and Malik rewarded him for his efforts with a cuff on the side of his head. For his own part, Malik looked steadfastly in the other direction as Rauf led his friend away. The last thing Altaïr needed was for her friends to add to her humiliation by staring - even if she had just trounced one of them in the ring.

"Come out of the castle," Rauf said. "We'll go up that hill." He gestured east. "Behind those rocks. No-one will see."

Altaïr shrugged and followed him. Of course he had expected her to pretend the matter was of no consequence - that she didn't care where or even whether it happened. Still, her apathy annoyed him.

They walked in silence to the place he'd chosen.

"Here?" Altaïr asked, her voice determinedly uninterested.

He nodded.

Without hesitation Altaïr turned her back and unbuckled her robes with a series of quick practised motions. She dropped her belt and sash, shrugged her robes down to bare her back and knelt, holding the folds of dull white cotton to cover her breasts. Her hair fell free of the scarf binding it, and she shook her head to swing the long brown waves over one shoulder. Then she bowed her head and waited.

Rauf found himself completely unprepared for the sight of Altaïr like this. He froze for a moment, staring at the long, strong curve of her back, the glow of pale brown skin. Her body was unlike anything he had ever seen or even dreamed of. She was lean - too lean, he couldn't help but think - and her arms were hard as rope, her shoulders straight and square.

Rauf unfolded the strip of hard leather he'd brought with him, and began the lashes he'd been ordered to deliver. Altaïr, of course, was still and silent - even when the leather whip cut into her wealed skin, drawing stripes of blood. Rauf despised himself for this, but if he went lightly she would suffer worse for it from Al Mualim.

Near to the end he thought he heard her voice a moan, but he could have been mistaken. In any case she quickly stifled the sound.

Finally he was done with the odious task. He threw the whip aside - if only he never had to touch it again!

Altaïr remained kneeling, and now Rauf could hear that her breathing was ragged. She began to ease her slender body back into her robes, her movements now painfully restrained. Rauf knelt to help her, and to his amazement she didn't fend him off.

Once Altaïr had dressed, she stood, swaying, her back still to him. Rauf caught her arm, then picked up the scarf that had bound her hair. She took it with shaking hands, tucking her hair down and tying it in place. When finished, she drew her hood up once more and finally, turned to face him.

Rauf was shocked at what he saw. Altaïr's usually light brown face was pale and her eyes dull with pain. But worse was the humiliation in her downcast eyes. Her usual spirit of defiance was replaced by abject shame. It was that, Rauf knew, that Al Mualim had sought to instil. He hated that he had done it successfully.

"I'm sorry Altaïr," Rauf whispered. "I had to, you know. I didn't want to."

"I know," she said, but her eyes didn't stir to life.

Then - because he didn't know what else to do, and he couldn't stand her looking like that - Rauf took Altaïr by her shoulders and kissed her. Even as her lips parted under his, he knew everything about it was wrong. She was dazed and in shock - she needed Yazid's rough-edged care, not kissing. But instead of pushing Rauf away, Altaïr returned his kiss. Her chapped lips felt firm and full. The tip of her tongue met his, pressing ever so slightly into his mouth as his pushed into hers.

Then she stumbled, catching at Rauf's arms, and he cursed himself. What kind of a man was he? He drew her arm over his shoulders to support her, and did what he should have done in the first place - he took her to Yazid.

***

"Back again," Yazid grumped. "Just like I said. Off with these, then." He tugged at the sleeve of Altaïr's robes.

Already the kiss seemed to Altaïr like a fever dream in the face of Yazid's toughened practicality. Had it even happened? Thinking about it made her head spin.

Cotton had stuck to the cuts on her back, and it was a pained effort to peel it away.

"Foolish girl - you'll make it worse. Lie flat and let me do it. These robes are ruined, you know."

Yazid sounded like an old woman from the village, Altaïr thought dizzily. The old man's sigh of exasperation told her she had giggled aloud, more from confusion and light-headedness than from humour.

The robes came free and Altaïr felt the sting as Yazid cleaned her cuts, every huff of disapproval communicating to her his opinions of Assassin discipline and her foolishness for incurring it. But as always his thin old hands were careful and skilled as he treated her.

Altaïr's head spun. Why had Rauf kissed her? More to the point - why had she let him? She was an idiot. She should have pushed him off and slapped his face. Now he would want to marry her, and her father would probably agree to it. She would never be an Assassin now. Why had she been born a girl? It wasn't fair. She felt rage settle deep in her belly.

Why, why hadn't she pushed Rauf away? What right did he have to kiss her anyway, when she had been about to - but no, that couldn't be right. Altaïr had never fainted in her life, why would she start now? Then why had she let him do it?

She found herself wishing for Malik, for his curt sense and clear head. If only she could tell him. But that was impossible, of course.

There was no alternative - she would have to fight Rauf, and she would definitely lose. Either way, she would be thrown out of the Brotherhood. There had to be a way for her to retain her honour, while staying inside the Brotherhood. There had to be!

********** PSA from the author: Let me know if anyone's reading this and I'll see if I can finish it **************

Re: Fill: Daughter of none [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

This is great! Please continue!