asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 4

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 4

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.4

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‡ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

‡ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 5
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I've recently developed a very strong love for this pairing, odd as it is, and I need fic of it in my life. It doesn't have to be shippy, although anon would be eternally grateful if it was. And as for the plot... I'll let you decide. Maybe they're chilling in the afterlife or make it some sort of AU where they actually meet. Whatever writeanon wants!

And if writeanon has a prompt they want filled, I promise I will write it for them in return for writing this.

I hope OP doesn't mind another writer!anon jumping in. I'd love to put something up if you're still interested.

The fill that's up now is heartwarming too- koodos!

And as he pulled the hood further over his face, he was dumbfounded. He had been outside once, during the fire, and this was nothing like then. He watched the people mill around, bustling and hurrying, and he decided now was as good as ever. He limped off, standing up straight as he tried to take in everything. From down here, everything looked so much different. He could see the bright yellows and purples in the flags flying, tents selling all kinds of things. He could read most of the signs: flowers, clothes, sweets, and so much more that he was almost overloaded. There were so many smells he didn’t know existed, and the beautiful horses with guards on them were astounding. He found himself wandering over to where one horse was, a hand outstretched. He didn’t hear the guard telling him to back off, but when the horse butted against his hand, he laughed and petted it gently.

When he looked up again, the guard looked amazed. He waved and limped off, going through the crowds streets and marveling at all the life all around him. He gaped at the colors, the smells, and he wandered around, keeping his profile low, until he found another person with a cloak around them and the hood pulled down over their eyes. He squatted there awkwardly, trying to peek at the person, and he jumped when the person looked up and there was a pigeon sitting in the hood. His eyes grew wide, and he watched an actual head appeared. He blinked, still amazed, and watched the head appeared to chuckle. The man had a scar over his lips and beautiful golden eyes. He stepped back, suddenly feeling woefully ugly next to this man, and he squawked in protest when a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

He was going to die. The man had probably seen his face and thought he was a monster, and now he was going to die. He felt something be pressed into his hand, and he blinked as the person gathered the pouch from the ground he hadn’t noticed and vanished into the crowd, the pigeon flew away. He looked at his hand to find a gold coin, and his eyes widened. He patted his tunic, still feeling the pouch and his doll there, and he smiled warmly. He had been given his first gift not from his master.

He limped his way into the main square, holding onto the coin tightly as he looked around for something to eat. He watched a person pay another with a gold coin to get some sort of meat-and-pastry thing, and he squirmed, tucking his coin into the pocket in his tunic so he could get some later—after he rung the bells as midday. He wandered around a bit more, reveling in all the things going on around him, and even tried his hand at a game that they had set up. He had won, some sort of sweet, and he ended up sharing it with a little girl dressed in rags. She had seemed so excited, bouncing off when her mother came, and he could see her telling her all about the treat. He limped off, climbing back up the tower at midday and rang the bells, then scurried down for what he actually wanted to see.

He weaseled his way through the crowds to see people dressed up in the funny clothes, and a man in a hooded orange outfit threw his hands in the air and said, “Come one, come all!”

He squirmed as they drew closer, and he could have sworn the man with purple eyes was staring at him.

“Close the churches and the schools, it’s the day for breaking rules! Come and join—”

He couldn’t read the man’s lips after that, but he knew what was said. He watched with excitement as the funny-dressed people seemed to explode in a cloud of smoke to make all kinds of people. There were people rolling and people on stilts, people swinging on poles and people leaping about, and people that flipped upside-down to be a different person. He was entranced as confetti seemed to litter the skies, and he watched all the clowning around. There were all kinds of hideous and ugly masks, he felt much better about his own appearance.

He jumped when he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders, and saw the man in the orange say, “It’s the day the devil in us gets released—”

He jerked away when he felt him try to pull down his hood, and he fled from the man in the orange as fast as he could, over to a stall and stood there, watching the goofy people horse around as he smiled and laughed. He clapped his hands gleefully, watching, and yelped when the man in orange appeared again, twirling him around and throwing him into the crowd, where he stumbled, bumping into someone. They laughed and pushed him away, and he tumbled again, wishing his leg wasn’t bad so he could steady himself as he tripped and rolled, crashing head-first into a tent.

He fumbled with the sheet that came down around his head. When he finally pulled it off, he scrambled to pull his hood up and hunched over, noticing several sets of feet there, and he pulled to his hands and feet to start crawling off, only to be stopped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He stopped, realizing that he had gotten into bad things, and he couldn’t even hear them talk.

He could feel someone crawling around, and he looked up to find a set of bright blue eyes looking at him. They closed as the man smiled at him, and he shrunk back as he watched the man say, “Hello! Who are you?”

He blinked, then realized he wouldn’t get punished for accidentally falling in, and he sat back, signing, “Quasimodo.”

He watched the young man blink, straightening up. Then, the young man took a board of slate and something else from another man who looked like he could be his brother. He took the offered objects and scrawled his name.

“Quasimodo? Like the Sunday? What a horrible name!”

He blinked, pulling back as the other man turned to yell at someone behind him before sitting beside the man. He watched the younger boy say, “What if we called you ‘Desmond?’”

He tilted his head, and the young man took the board, erased his name, and wrote the other name.

“It’s a much nicer name,” he saw the man say. “It means something like ‘man of the earth’ in a foreign language.”

He blinked, then nodded. He liked the name. The boy beamed.

“Good! I’m Kadar, and this is my brother, Malik!”

The other man nodded at him, and he nodded back.

“And this is Adha, and this is—”

He jerked when he saw the golden-eyed man from earlier come around and extend a hand, helping him up. He jerked back when he saw him reach for the hood, and he slapped his hands to face to try to keep himself hidden.

Until a pair of female hands slowly pulled them away from his face.

He tried to shrink back, because the women in front of him was gorgeous, and his master had made sure he knew that he was ugly, and that ugliness was a crime. But the lady simply smiled at him and said, “Hello, Desmond. Welcome to our tent.”

He blinked, surprised that they weren’t flinching away from him—as the people in the sanctuary had done, screaming and pulling away from him. There were four of them, the man from earlier, who gave him the coin, the pretty lady, the two brothers.

“You’re deaf, aren’t you?” the woman said, and he nodded, his eyes concentrating on her lips.

“How’d he get deaf?” he saw Kadar say when he looked at him next.

“The bells,” he murmured, looking down.

He avoided the man’s gaze when he felt a finger under his chin push his face back up. He gasped when he felt a pair of lips on each cheek, and then the people were guiding him out of the tent and saying, “We’ll see you in a bit. Take care.”

They pulled his hood back up for him. He watched Kadar peek through again and grin. “Great mask!”

He blinked, and suddenly, he wanted to keep his gold coin forever. Although, the feeling was short-lived as he felt the man in orange approach, turning to see him look straight at him but not actually come over to him, just gesturing as if to summon him forward.

“Come one, come all! Hurry, hurry, here’s your chance—see the mystery and romance—”

He didn’t hear the rest of it as he limped over to the stage, noticing his master sitting at the far end and waving, noticing the soft smile he got in return. His master looked rather haggard with the remnants of soft squishy foods all over him, but his master was still smiling at him, and that was what’s important. And then, all of a sudden, the man in orange was in front of him, and he exploded into purple smoke.

Then where were two people on the stage, dancing. The same two who had kissed his cheeks in the tent.

And the pigeon took up perch on his shoulder.

He was completely entranced by their dancing, watching them. They were so pretty, and he felt a pang of jealousy that they were so beautiful. All the others around him seemed to be cheering and hollering. They needed to learn that this was something to be treasured. He was going to hold this memory near to him for the rest of his life.

And then the man winked at him, and the lady gave his master her shimmery scarf. Maybe his master would let him use it to make a doll of her.

He smiled and clapped when it was over, not even realizing they had been dancing for so long, and the man in orange appeared on stage with them as they bowed. He thought the man had vanished completely. Maybe it was that magic stuff his master had talked about that was bad for his soul. Still, he watched them pull people onto the stage, wondering what was going on, until the man came over to him and pulled him onto the stage.

“You’ll do great: I’m sure,” he saw him say, and he drew the hood tighter around his face.

He leaned forward, watching as the lady pulled the mask off the first person, and when the whole crowd seemed to react negatively, the man pushed him off the stage, laughing. This continued down the line, the pile of men on the ground getting bigger and bigger, until they reached him and his hood was pushed off. He jerked backward when the lady grabbed at his ears, then staggered back, reviled. He shrank down as the people began to react like his master had said they would, as they had in the sanctuary. He stepped back as they began to say things, and he could see his master get up from the chair he was in, the woman in armor by his side donning her helmet visor to step in, but then he felt a set of hands on his shoulders, and he looked to see the man in orange smirking.

“Ladies and gentleman, don’t panic! We asked for the ugliest face in Paris, and here he is! Congratulations! You’re the king of fools!”

He blinked when he felt a crown drop onto his head, and he looked to see the bells dangling around, the crowd cheering, and all of a sudden, he was being lifted into a decorated seat by the man and the lady. He had a death grip on the chair arms as the chair was lifted into the air, and he saw them approach a platform, where he was set down, and then the lady pulled him up, draped him in a fur cape, and even gave him a scepter, and he was wide-eyed as the people all cheered around him.

And then he felt something smack him in the face. He reached up and wiped his face, seeing a tomato and having just enough time to register it before another smacked him. He blinked and tried to duck when another was thrown, but ended up slipping. He scrambled to get up as he felt another tomato hit him—and then something that wasn’t all that soft smacked him in the side, and he felt a rope around his leg, and another around his neck when he tried to turn to get it off, and he choked as he felt it pull him back, and he struggled as hard as he could as he tried to curl up to stop the things being thrown at him because they hurt, and they weren’t soft at all, and he couldn’t get them to stop as he closed his eye and tried to pull the rope on his wrists off. He squirmed, refusing to open his eye and glad he couldn’t hear anything as he tried to get loose as something hard smacked his side. He cried out for help.

And then it all stopped.

He was ready to cry. This is what he got for stepping outside of his bell tower. He was never leaving again. It had been so much fun, but this wasn’t worth it. He refused to open his eye, and when he felt the ropes loosen, he curled up into a ball, covering his head. He whimpered when he felt a hand on him, then something soft caress his cheek. He cracked open his eye to see the lady from before gently wiping off his face. He pulled back, crawling to the edge of the platform to get away and not even checking as he limped away as fast as he could, through the square and through the gates to his home and into the church. He didn’t ever want to leave here ever again. He didn’t want to leave the comfort of his bed, of his covers, and he didn’t want to do anything ever again that would involve pulling them down from over his face.

He didn’t want to look at his master when he felt him sit. He had shamed him. He had disgraced him. He was so thoroughly embarrassed he wasn’t ever going to leave his tower ever again. Even though his master was rubbing his back, he just wanted to cry. He was going to throw away the cape and burn his little Paris town. Nobody that mean deserved a spot in Heaven. His master had even told him that people had to behave nicely to get there, and he had done his best.

He wasn’t sure how, but his master slowly lured him into sitting up and leaning into his arms as a hand gently cradled the side of his face. He hugged him back slightly, listening to his stomach growl, and he watched as his master stood up.

“Would you like me to get you something to eat, Quasimodo?” he signed.

He looked at his lap, then signed in response, “They called me ‘Desmond.’”

“Who? The gypsies?”

He nodded, and he watched his master kneel in front of him with a soft smile.

“Is that what you want me to call you? I will admit: I’m not the most creative. My pets on the streets were named ‘kitty’ and ‘puppy.’”

He offered a soft smile and nodded minutely. His master chuckled.

“Very well.”

He perked up, then hugged his master. He let his master take the cape and fold it over his arm before pulling out the shimmery scarf from earlier.

“Did you at least make some good memories?”

He nodded, and his master smiled gently.

“And here, you may have this to make her clothes.”

He took the scarf gently, reveling in the cloth as he looked at his master with wide eyes. “For me to use? Really?”

His master nodded. “As an apology for today. I’ll go fetch you food, Quasi—Desmond.”

He smiled warmly and nodded, then pulled out the pouch of coins and offered it back. He felt it get lifted from his hand, and he watched his master leave before getting up. His master always knew how to make him feel better. He washed, changed, and limped over to his Paris, making sure the people here were nicer than the people out there, and he put the doll of his master back. He placed the doll of himself in the bell tower, and he started to make the bodies for the two gypsy dolls. When his master returned (with the food he had wanted to try earlier), he enjoyed a peaceful dinner, telling his master he wasn’t ever going to leave the bell tower again.

He rang the bells again, and the night passed quickly after that.

So high up above the chapel itself, he didn’t notice as the newest captain of the guard entered the church, her armor polished and her sword at her side. She had been given the job of tracking down the gypsies, and one of them was in here now. She was pretty sure it was one of the dancers that had helped the poor thing off the platform.

It had almost surprised her, she mused as she kept an eye on the beggar that had entered, how hesitant William Miles has been about assigning her this. She snorted as the beggar began to look around. He had commanded her not to touch the gypsies as the two guards that had started throwing things at the poor creature were hauled off. He had commanded her not to touch the gypsies after the guards died. He had commanded her not to touch the gypsies as the guards started searching for them.

He commanded her to find them only after they attacked the other guards.
Yes, she mused, the church was something corrupt, indeed. Miles tipped her off they had a nest, because he tolerated gypsies for years, and they had nested somewhere near for a safe haven. No longer, he had told her. He could not ignore them anymore with the attack on the other guards.

Straightening up, she strode over to the beggar.

“Hail, gypsy.”

The old man whirled around, and the hood came down to reveal the man she was looking for.

“You,” he hissed. “You’re that bastard who chased me in here.”

“If that’s how you wish to know me, then yes. I’m also the one who picked the coins you lost and dropped them in that hat of yours.” The man snorted, and she bowed at the waist. “I’m Maria Thorpe, and you are?”

The man watched her silently.

She straightened and scowled. “I asked for you name.”

“Why does it matter if you’ll arrest me?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “I can’t, you moron. You’re in a church.”

The man tilted his head back to observe her with those golden eyes. Something inside her sparked, and she could feel it in her belly.

“You’re not like the other soldiers.”

“I’m not French, but English. Unlike the Godless heathens here, I have respect for the church.”

She watched the man frown, staring at her. She wondered just how long something this beautiful would last inside something so prison-like.

“What do you want?”

“Your name would suffice.”

“Altair Ibn-La’Ahad.”

“You’re a foreigner then,” she stated.

He said nothing more as a pigeon landed on his shoulder. Their eyes met, and it was like one of those stupid stories she had heard about—but instead of love, she could distinctly feel lust, and judging by the look that came across the gypsy’s face, so did he.

“Good job, Maria,” she heard from behind her, and she could see Altair get into a defensive position.

She turned around and saluted. Archdeacon Miles was there, watching them with a weary face.

“You know, gypsy, I didn’t want to have to arrest you. I wasn’t going to until you attacked our guards—I wouldn’t have lifted a finger if it had been just those two guards who tormented my son.”

Altair hissed at her, “You tricked me.”

“As you know, gypsy, as I’m sure you do, I cannot touch you while you’re here. Undoubtedly, you’ve already claimed sanctuary.”

She nodded in agreement when Miles looked at her.

“Very well, but you are confined here. As much as I hate to do this, you will not leave this city alive. Twenty-three men are dead by your hand alone. Leave, and your life is the court’s.”

Maria exhaled as she led the men out of the sanctuary, not noticing when Miles walked over to the gypsy and stood in front of him, scowling. He jerked back when the scent of the man hit his nose. He could smell the fight on the man, and he could still see him killing in that outfit of his—although it was better put on the ground, while the man was in the bath, and that smell was being replaced. That scent was inviting, alluring—
And absolutely demonic.

“What do you want?” the man growled.

He frowned. “I wanted for you to walk free.”

“You can’t fool me: I know what you were thinking.”

Miles snorted. “You wish you knew what I was thinking. It’s a pity I’ll have to kill the man who saved my son’s life.”

Meanwhile, his son had finished the two dolls, deciding to make the other two tomorrow, the two of the brothers. Desmond was going to have a whole happy family living with his doll in the tiny tower. He stared at the two gypsy dolls in their beautiful clothing, smiling warmly. He stretched and stood, deciding to go see if the priest needed help cleaning up. As he crawled through the rafters into the main sanctuary, he was surprised to see the male gypsy peering out of the windows with the priest. He tilted his head as he paced anxiously, angrily. He slipped closer to stare at their lips.

“Do not act rashly, child,” the priest said below him to the gypsy. “You created quite a stir at the festival. It would not be wise to provoke Miles’ emotions further.”

“We killed the men who humiliated that poor boy! Why would the judge go after us for helping his child?” the man snarled, pacing furiously.

“He may not want to, but it is his duty to protect them—”

“That man—he’s not as innocent as you’d think! After that Thorpe woman left, he came over and—”

“Be patient, gypsy. All things will happen for a reason. I cannot help you, but there may be someone here who can.”

He wondered what his master had done.

The man snarled, “Who?”

He watched as the priest pointed to a statue of Jesus, who his master had often told him to pray to. He watched as the priest walked off, and then watched the male gypsy stare at the statue. People were still coming and going in the sanctuary, so he’d have to be careful if he wanted to get closer. He watched as the gypsy slowly calmed down, then rose and moved closer to the statue. He tried to get a little closer. He wanted to see what the man was going to do. He watched as the man started dancing—here, in the church, the gypsy started dancing—in a slow and graceful way, and he could feel his heart skip a beat as he watched, moving slightly closer.

Until he saw angry motion in the corner of his eye, and the people were yelling and pointing at him. He froze momentarily before limping off quickly. This church was his—and he wasn’t even safe here. He hurried up the stairs as fast as his bad leg could carry him, and into his bell tower, where he slammed the door shut and hurried up to his bed, climbing in and pulling the covers over his head. His bell tower: he was never going to leave. He would stay up here and make a bunch of gypsy dolls until they covered everywhere, and then he could pretend to have lots of friends.

He whimpered when he felt a hand on him through the covers. He curled up tighter and cried out when he felt someone tug on the covers gently. He wasn’t coming out—not ever. He felt the person get off the bed, and he waited for what he felt like was a good amount of time, then peeked out from under the covers—

And jumped when he saw the gypsy staring at him. Those golden eyes kept him pinned where he was, and he wanted to believe he saw compassion there, but that wasn’t going to happen for someone as ugly as him. He shrunk back even more when he saw a hand move to touch him, but then he felt it caress his cheek gently, and his eyes were drawn to the gypsy’s lips.

“You’re the deaf man from the Feast.”

He pulled the covers tighter around his head.

“If I had known that wasn’t a mask, I never would have pulled you onto the stage.”

That hand was still rubbing over what little unburned skin he had left on his face as he stared into the gypsy’s eyes.

“What did you say your name was?” he saw in his peripheral vision.

“Desmond,” he murmured quietly, and he saw the faintest hint of a smirk on the man’s face.

“Well, Desmond, I’m Altair.”

He smiled slightly, slowly pulling off the covers and sitting up.

Altair rose after that, looking at him as he said, “This is a nice place you have here.”

He perked up at the compliment, and the gypsy raised an eyebrow before murmuring, “Why don’t you give me a tour? I’ll be here a while.”

He blinked, and Altair held out a hand.

“Come on. I’d love to see what secrets you have hidden up here.”

He beamed and took the hand, rising and showing him everything. He showed him his bed, his wardrobe, all the trinkets his master had bought him, the chimes he had made from the leftover glass pieces he found. He showed him the hand-stitched blankets because it got so cold, and small plants his master had brought him for a garden. He showed him the water-fetching system and even how to get hot water. He showed him all the bells, every single one, and he could see the soft smile on the man’s lips as he gave him the tour. He even admitted to Altair that he hadn’t rung for the evening because he wasn’t sure he wanted to—especially after the way the people had treated him. That earned him a laugh he thought would have sounded gorgeous.

They eventually ended up back at the beginning, where the tiny Paris was, and he squirmed as the gypsy noticed it, raising an eyebrow. He watched him look at all the little people, all the tiny impressions. When he went to touch the doll of him with his golden coin as the base, Desmond jerked, but the gypsy stopped and looked closer. His face turned into one of confusion, then into one of pity.

“You’re lonely,” he saw him say, and he looked at his feet, wringing his hands.

He had placed his doll in between the lady gypsy and Altair so they could hold hands. He had been planning on making a whole family of dolls. Sheepishly, he nodded, still not looking as he wrung his hands and stared at his feet, reluctantly looking up when he felt a finger tuck under his chin. His toes curled at the soft kiss on the cheek, and then he jerked back, frantically signing that Altair shouldn’t kiss him because he was so ugly and disgusting—if the people’s reactions from earlier hadn’t proved that. Altair stared at him blankly, and then he realized the gypsy couldn’t understand the signing that his master had taught him.

“Y-you shouldn’t kiss me! I-it’s bad! You should save your kisses for the pretty lady you dance with! I-I don’t deserve it! I’m…” he looked down at the floor again and pressed his hands together. “I’m ugly. I don’t deserve it. I’m lucky my master still comes up to visit me.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then felt the hand leave, and two entered his field of vision, rapidly signing, “You deserve love more than anyone else I know of. Even in the Court of Miracles, I’ve never seen someone more worthy of love.”

He looked, shocked beyond all belief, and saw a smug look on the man’s face.

“H-how do you—”

“I have inside contacts,” he said. “I know nothing else but that.”

He stared at the gypsy. It had to be magic. It had to be. His master said gypsies were masters of magic. And then it got worse, because Altair led him to the bed and offered to stay with him. He could feel his heart trying to burst through his chest. It was the first time in a long time that anyone ever volunteered to stay here with him. He smiled, hugging the man tightly, and then settled down to sleep. He felt so happy and warm inside, and his blood was rushing in his ears, and he could feel a tightening in his belly he was so wound up from knowing that someone beside his master actually cared. He almost could have sworn he was in love.

As he drifted off, he could feel the vibrations in the gypsy’s chest, something he once remembered as “singing,” and it helped him fall asleep quickly. He felt warm and loved, and the Feast’s horrible ending was almost nothing more than a bad memory to be erased. Tomorrow he would show the gypsy the view from the top of the towers.

Of course, the same pleasant feelings could not be said for William. He has his hands in his hair as he sat in his chair, trying brutally to get the images of the gypsies out of his head. He had given Quasi—Desmond—the scarf to get rid of it, to hope it would help sooth his frazzled nerves.

It hadn’t: already, he had touched himself when the images of the taunting demons grew too strong in the bath.

Still, he had to make it through this. He would pray for forgiveness and ask for the Lord’s protection. He had been celibate all his life, even when the other monks and priests had married (much to his chagrin, and much against the vows they had taken), and now, he believed, it was coming back to haunt him. He knew that even in the church, corruption was rampant, and he had planned to set it straight—was setting it straight. He had to set this straight: it was his calling, his mission from God. He knew this, in his bones, in his prayers, in the answers he received from the Lord. He had to set the church straight—at least here, in Paris.

He jerked as he felt the hands of the male gypsy wrap around his chest. The gypsies were going to kill him. His eyes shot open, and he banished the images in front of him, denying them root to grow stronger.

Truth be told, he didn’t want to trap the gypsy in the church, but the gypsy had murdered more guards after the two who deserved to be killed had died. That was wrong. That was the problem. He wouldn’t have pursued them if they had just kept at the two guards who had started the humiliation for his son. No, then they had to go ahead and slaughter the guards that had given chase once the bodies were found. He could have given them freedom if they had just disappeared, as he was used to them doing. This time, things were not so good. They had openly assaulted and murdered the other guards pursuing them. He couldn’t protect them anymore.

But at this point, as he heard that damn witch whisper something absolutely filthy while the man’s hand found its way down his pants, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.

He could always have Desmond help the gypsy escape right into his hands, force them to repent, and then take the lady as his bride. Assuming she would cooperate, which wasn’t likely. His son was so ignorant and had probably already made friends with the gypsy in the church. It had probably wandered up there in its attempts to find an escape, and Desmond had attached himself to it.

Perhaps Desmond would keep the gypsy captured there. Unlikely, but still an option. If that were the case, he could ignore his own urges for the sake of his son. He had to remember his son. Of course, he could always have his son charm the gypsy, then escape with them and follow him. He groaned as the man squeezed his penis gently, breaking his thoughts as the woman laughed against his neck, her tongue doing wonder—monstrous–things to his neck as she pressed against him. He swallowed, trying valiantly to banish the demons.

Yes, he mused, it was either death, marriage, or his son.

Nevertheless, ignorant of his master’s plans, Desmond slept through the night with the gypsy and upon waking found Altair was watching him.

“You sleep soundly,” he saw him say, and he smiled in return, yawning as he forced himself to get up.

He felt as if he were brutally ripping himself away from Altair. He sat up and rubbed his eye as Altair moved behind him. He forced him out of the bell tower, telling him he didn’t want him going deaf as he rang and told him to come back up once his master left. He would save some of his breakfast for him. The gypsy left with a soft look, and he went up to ring the bells. He remembered what they sounded like, the deep gonging sound. That was before he went deaf, a long time ago.

When his master came up with breakfast, he was more than eager to greet him. They sat down as the man smiled at him, looking exhausted. He unpacked the basket with gusto, squirming at the sight of the all delicious looking food. After prayer, he wolfed down half of it, then remembered to save some for Altair.

“Why do you look so tired, master?”

His master jerked slightly, then rubbed his eyes. “I… had a long night thinking about the gypsies.”

He tilted his head, and his master frowned.

“Which brings me to a point: you need to be careful, Desmond, around the gypsies that come through here. One has claimed sanctuary here. Watch out for him.”

“Why?”

“He watched the murder of two of the guards from the festival, then slaughtered the ones that came after his friends. He fled here, and my new guard captain, Maria, went in after him, but he claimed sanctuary.”

“Then what?”

“I managed to corner him, but I got… distracted. Be careful, Desmond. Gypsies are masters of magic, and they can use it to manipulate you and your thoughts. You must be extremely cautious when dealing with them. If the gypsy here comes to your tower, cast him out before the devil gets you.”

Desmond blinked. Perhaps that was why the gypsy cuddled with him last night.

“They will do whatever it takes to get what they want. That includes getting out of here, and if he does escape here, he will continue to wreak havoc across all of Paris.”

“Why?”

“That is the gypsy way: to do evil and serve Satan.”

“They do?”

His master nodded. “Promise me you’ll be a good boy until I deal with the gypsy problem.”

He nodded. “Of course, master.”

He was almost happy when his master left and the gypsy appeared soon after. The man sauntered in as he sat on his bed and thought about what his master had said. He laid down, not happy in the least.

“What’s wrong?” he saw the gypsy say as he knelt down in front of him.

Desmond stared at him before pulling the covers over his face and trying to hide. He didn’t want to talk to the gypsy man if his master said not to. He waited and waited until he thought the gypsy was gone, and then he peeked. He didn’t see him immediately, and he sat up, sighing for an arrow dodged. He rose and walked over to his Paris, his eyes growing wide when he saw his Altair doll missing. He looked about frantically, and he flinched when he saw the gypsy man at one of the open windows, studying the doll in his hands. He approached warily.

Only to have the man turn around and startle him by staring at him.

“This is an incredible replica of me.”

He looked down at his feet, wringing his hands. He didn’t want to lose his favorite doll. He just wanted his doll back. He jerked when a finger tucked under his chin and gently guided his head back up.

“You’ve got a lot of talent.”

His ears were burning. Only his master had ever told him that. He shrunk back when he felt Altair kiss his cheek.

“Why are you so unaccepting of me all of a sudden? Just this morning, you seemed happy to have company.”

He looked away. “Master said you do evil. He also said you work for the devil.”

It took him a while before he could actually look him in the face, and then Altair asked, “What have I done that was evil?”

“You murdered the guards!”

“They were attacking my friends. They wouldn’t have relented.”

He looked away again, wringing his hands. He really wanted his doll again. Dolls were so much easier than people to deal with. He just wanted to go to bed and forget this ever happened. He never should have gone to the Feast of Fools. He glanced at Altair, who was frowning. The finger under his chin dropped, and the gypsy turned around, only to turn around again.

“You should come with me to the Court of Miracles,” he said, hopping onto the railing to sit. “You’d live a good life. You deserve a good life.”

“I do have a good life!” he exclaimed, scowling, then looking back down. “And gypsies are bad.”

The gypsy waited until he looked at him again, then looked unimpressed. “Am I bad?”

He looked back down, still nervous. Then, reluctantly, he shook his head. He shifted, uncomfortable. When he looked again, the gypsy had a soft, but smug look. He rubbed his hands as he looked back down, then shifted and continued to stare at the ground. Finally, he peeked back up, and the gypsy seemed to be at conflict with himself. Then, the man sighed, cursing one of the brothers (who he recognized by the name) he had met in the tent. And in speaking of which, he needed to make the dolls of them after he got his other doll back.

“Why can’t you stay here with me if you’re not bad?” he murmured.

If the gypsy wasn’t bad, he should stay, then Desmond could help him convince Master Miles that it was all a misunderstanding, and that the gypsy man should be free. He would be more than happy for the company, too. They could play with the dolls together, and they could read books together, and they could have fun together. They could have lots of fun together. And maybe Altair felt the same feelings for him as he did for the gypsy—that happy-nervous, let-me-make-you-smile feeling.

Altair had sighed, frowning as he looked around, then pointed. Desmond looked to see him pointing at the small garden he had. He was confused but looked back at Altair anyway. The gypsy had his doll clasped between his hands as he sat on the railings, occasionally twirling it between his fingers to watch the clothes flow in the wind.

“Plants have certain things they need to grow, right?” the man asked slowly, and Desmond nodded.

“I’m like a plant. We’re all like plants.”

He raised an eyebrow, not enjoying the sinking feeling he got as the man spoke.

“I need my freedom to stay alive. Keep me here, and I’ll wilt.”

Desmond straightened, looking back at the plants, then back at the gypsy, then back at the plants.

“Why? I do just fine here,” he said as he looked back.

“You’re a different plant than me.”

He tilted his head. “But…” and then it hit him. “So… you can’t stay?”

He didn’t like the shake of his head. “No, I can’t. I’ll wilt, Desmond, and die. But you can live anywhere. You should come with me. I can’t live here. I need a very specific home.”

“The Court of Miracles?”

“Exactly.”

He could feel his heart sink, and he looked down. He realized there was no way the gypsy would ever want to stay with him. He had pretty lady friends to live with and lots of friends back home, compared to one ugly monster who had to stay in the bell tower because of its ugliness. He never should have gotten his hopes up someone loved him enough to stay with him outside of his master.

“Fine. I’ll help you escape tonight,” he uttered.

He didn’t turn around for an answer before he limped over to his work table and sat down, pulling out a block of wood as he carved the brothers and tried to ignore the pain in his chest. He ignored the gypsy as he came over and watched him carve, still toying with the doll of himself. He ignored him when he placed the doll back and hid before his master came up. He almost missed his master, if it weren’t for the gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Desmond?”

He stared at his master.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked back down at the doll, then sighed and rested his hand against the table. “It’s the reason why no one loves me because I’m an ugly monster?”

He felt his master kneel down beside him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and pulling him close as he signed out awkwardly, “You are not an ugly monster. In my eyes, you are beautiful.”

He smiled slightly at that, looking at his master. “You really think I’m beautiful?”

“I’ve told you a million times I do.”

He looked back down at the gypsy doll. “Then what about everyone else?”

He felt a hand caress his cheek, and he saw him sign, “That is their problem. This world is corrupt, Desmond, and being scarred and maimed is a crime which no one understands.”

He pulled the gypsies down from the bell tower, along with his own hideous doll. “I want to look like them. I want to be able to live in the world and be loved because I’m beautiful.”

“You are loved, Desmond. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

“Then why won’t you give the gypsy man his freedom?”

His master paused. “Because I can’t, Desmond: he slaughtered twenty-three men, and his comrades murdered even more. He must pay for his crimes or remain in the church.”

He didn’t respond but pulled his master’s doll down and made him and himself and the two gypsies all hold hands.

“Will we ever live in peace?”

“We had before, Desmond. Before they attacked our guards.”

Desmond leaned into his master’s embrace, staring at the four of them. He stared at them for a long time, feeling a hand brush over what little hair he had on his head, and eventually, he moved away, looking at his master.

“Can we have dinner?”

His master smiled. “Of course, my son.”

He ate all of his meal that night, saving just the snacks his master brought for the gypsy. As his master walked away to go take care of some unruly prisoners, Desmond stopped him for a big hug, muttering a thank you and telling him he loved him.

He had never been so happy to have those words returned.

He limped back to the room and called out to the gypsy, walking over to the window and waiting. Altair appeared like magic, staring at him as if to be gauged. Desmond smiled, no real warm feeling behind it, but he loved the gypsy, and his master had always told him to be a better person than the rest of the world. He would give the man his freedom, then forget him. He could heal from this, just like he healed from the burns. He turned around.

“Okay. Hop on my back and I’ll get you down from here.”

He waiting until he felt him settle on his back, then climbed onto the railing and dropped. He swung from gargoyles and scaled the walls quickly, landing on the same pad that he had landed on to go to the Feast. It hid them well, and he let Altair down.

“Okay. You’re free.”

Altair was studying him with a frown, and Desmond could feel his own smile waver.

“Yes?”

He watched him pull off a necklace and press it into his hand before leaning in close. “If you ever need to find us, this necklace will tell you how.”

His eyes widened as the gypsy kissed him on the lips, then vanished into the night. The gypsy had kissed him, and not just kissed him, but kissed him on the lips. He had no idea why the gypsy would do that. But perhaps the gypsy must have missed his cheek, and that was all. It was awfully dark out. He shook his head, dismissing the thought that the gypsy actually cared for him. He didn’t let himself acknowledge the flutter of his heart or the warmth in his blood as he climbed back to his bell tower and put on the necklace. It had been a mistake. Simple as that.

William could only wish things where simple. At this point, he didn’t even know the definition of the word as he paced back and forth in front of his fire. Maria had been searching for the nest of gypsies. He had been searching for the nest of gypsies. The guards had been searching for the nest of gypsies. Their theft and petty crimes could not be overlooked anymore. He had even captured some and had them interrogated. It hadn’t worked. He could almost see the images of the gypsies swirling in the fire, dancing, laughing, mocking.

He paced for hours, thinking, praying. He knew the Lord answered the calls of the righteous. The Lord had saved him from the streets, blessed him with love, and even helped his brother with his alcohol addiction. The Lord would help him now in his time of need.

And then it struck him, as beautiful and brilliant as the Lord’s creation of the world. It was beautiful, wonderful, and his son wouldn’t get dragged into the mess. He allowed himself a lazy smile as the images of the two in the fire dissolved with a screech.

Those gypsies would be his.

But, Desmond’s gypsies were already there to keep him company. He had finished the two brothers and was playing around with them before he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He looked, and he could feel terror growing. His master’s new captain was brazenly walking in, as if she owned the place. He had no idea what she was doing here, but she was probably going to humiliate him more. He frowned at the idea of having his tower, his only safe spot, taken away from him. With a low growl, he rose, feeling anger spread lazily throughout his body. This was his place. She could stay in the sanctuary. He wasn’t going to be kicked out of his own bed. He snarled, causing the lady to jump, and he limped over.

“Go away!” he yelled as he pushed her, causing her to stagger.

She said something, but he couldn’t understand her as he swung his hands, pushing her out of his tower and into the stairwell. She was speaking too fast. She must be here to torment him some more. He wasn’t going to stand for it in his tower—even if he had to push her out the side to her untimely death. He snarled, pushing her again when she held out her hands, and when she drew her sword, they were already in the stairwell to go down. He snarled as she kept talking. He couldn’t understand her at all. He could understand only slow speak.

Finally, she caught on, her sword still at the ready to attack.

“I’m here for Altair.”

He snarled and lunged, knocking the sword away and pushing her again.

“No! Go away! No soldiers up here! This is my spot!” he screamed.

She managed to right herself as he followed her down a few more stairs, but he didn’t make any more moves to attack. She was invading unwantedly. He was getting sick of being tormented everywhere he was. He could see her chuckle, then sheathe her sword and cross her arms.

“Very well. I have a message for him.”

His eyes narrowed as she backed off a bit.

“Archdeacon Miles is about to go crazy trying to catch the gypsies. If he’s still up there, he needs to be extra careful. Tell him that.”

He followed her to the door to the sanctuary before she turned around and gave him a judging look.

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

He jerked back, his old friend Fear settling in his stomach as anger left. He swallowed, trying to figure out what she was doing. He could see her laugh.

“Of course, I guess gypsies specialize in dealing with people. Goodbye, Desmond.”

He watched her leave before fleeing back to his tower and playing with the dolls until he went to bed.

Meanwhile, William was pacing up the stairs to the tower. He knew when Desmond slept. He knew the boy’s patterns well. If this plan was going to work, he was going to have to not be caught. He didn’t want Desmond suffering for anything else. The boy deserved to be left out, but now this was war, and he’d have to be careful if he wasn’t going to have him be drug in. When Maria told him she thought that the gypsy had escaped using Desmond, William knew it to be true. Still, his son held no blame. He was probably just trying to be a nice person.

He knew the gypsy had seen him comfort his son and eat dinner with him. He had felt him watching from the shadows. He wasn’t surprised that Desmond had been duped into helping him. Maria had confirmed his suspicions. He paced over to his son’s bed, watching the boy breath.

Bingo.

He could see a necklace around his neck that had never been there before. He had a sneaking suspicion that the gypsy had tried to lure him away from his bell tower with the promise of the Court, and had probably given him a map when he decided not to follow. He pulled out a small sheet of parchment and a stick of coal, and set about drawing the giant charm around his son’s neck. The game was on, and William didn’t intend to lose it.

His captain could play traitor; his son could play innocently too, but ultimately, William would emerge victorious. And just because he loved him, he would even make sure his son had a good time in the game as well.

So the next morning, after Desmond had risen and washed up, rung the bells and sat down with his dolls, he was unbelievably happy to see his master come up with a small package with their breakfast.

And the breakfast smelled hot, too.

He set the table quickly and sat down as Master Miles unpacked the basket, and he squirmed and wiggled. His master laughed and promised him the package hidden in the bottom after they ate, so Desmond was all too eager for prayer as he started to wolf down the food, but slowed down a bit later to enjoy the hot treat.

“You know, Desmond, I’ve been thinking,” he saw signed, and he tilted his head as his master took a bite.

“About what?” he signed back.

“About what I should do with the gypsies. And as I started looking for them, I found out some interesting things.”

He leaned in to watch him sign.

“Apparently, in the Court of Miracles, the lame can walk; the blind can see… and the deaf can hear.”

He straightened up, setting his fork down at that idea. He would like to be able to hear again.

“And I was thinking that I could pardon the gypsies if they would let us use this so-called Court.”

He perked up. “Really?”

“But I don’t know where it is.”

He slouched back down, his mind wandering briefly to the necklace Altair gave him.

“And I’d love to send someone out after it, but all the gypsies hide from the guards.”

“I could look for it!” he shouted, feeling almost delirious with happiness.

“I couldn’t have you look for it, not after the way the people treated you before,” his master signed.

“You could have a guard dress down and come with me!” he said, beaming and proud of his thoughts and cleverness.

He would actually get to see the Court of Miracles. He would get to be on a mission for his master, to show him just how much he loved him in return for everything he had done. He could take his dolls, show them their replicas, and see Altair again. He was bouncing in his seat, hoping his master would let him attempt such a quest. He could see Master Miles watching him momentarily before he pursed his lips.

“If I let you go, you must take Captain Thorpe with you.”

He pulled back, frowning. He didn’t want that woman with him. She was stupid and mean. But, if he went with her, he could go visit Altair. And that would be fun. He could show off his dolls. He nodded.

“Yeah! I’ll do it. I want to go,” he signed, and he smiled at the flash of pride in his master’s eyes.

“Very well. You will set off tonight. I will have Maria wait for you outside the church.”

He nodded vigorously as he finished his meal before it got cold, chattering ceaselessly about his plants and how well they were growing. He took the package when offered, tearing it open and nearly bouncing at the seed packets that he saw for his little garden. Once his master left, he picked up a few scraps of cloth and made himself a tiny pouch. He put in the dolls of Altair, the lady, and the two brothers, eager to show them off. He also tucked in the nuts that his master had left him for a snack and made sure he had his necklace.

He was so excited: he was going show his master how much he loved him.

He blinked when the lady from last night appear in the doorway of his tower. She looked so much different without all her armor he almost didn’t recognize her. Still, he swallowed when she approached him and said something rapidly. He blinked, not understanding a word she said. Finally, she caught on and slowed her speaking.

“Are you ready? We’ve got quite a task in front of us.”

Maria couldn’t believe Archdeacon Miles had sentenced her to work with this beast to find the Court of Miracles. No gypsy in his right mind would give a map to someone as malformed as this person. Of course, it was also arguable that no gypsy was in his right mind. Now, she had to crawl along the belly of this foul city with a creature that looked like the perfect representation of how she viewed the place. Of course, from what she had heard from Archdeacon Miles, this poor creature didn’t deserve to live here, too kind for its own good.

Still, wrapped up in her cloak, she watched the poor thing pull out a necklace, offering it out. She took the offered charm and looked at it, quickly identifying it as a map to the city. She nodded. They’d have to follow it, and it looked like it was going to lead them to a cemetery.

“Can you read it?” she heard him say, and she had to pause.

The creature’s voice was beautiful, almost as beautiful as that gypsy Altair’s voice. She looked up, hearing it for the first time in a non-threatening tone. She could see his golden eyes, a vague reminiscent of the gypsy man. After a few minutes of quiet, the poor thing looked down, wringing his mangled hands, thick with calluses from pulling the bell ropes. She was willing to bet that it was actually startlingly well-built underneath those clothes, and the scars were simply on skin.

If the poor thing hadn’t been burned so badly, it probably would have been married off younger than most couples and already working with kids.

She straightened, chuckling. Listening to herself, she realized she was getting soft. Of course, her first lines of thought clued her in to how desperate she needed a one-night stand with someone. She shook her head and waved a hand at her side to catch the man’s attention.

Slowly, “I can. Don’t worry. Your voice is beautiful.”

The creature jumped, and she laughed at the wide-eyed stare she was given, gesturing the thing over. It limped over to her slowly.

“I won’t bite: I promise.”

It stopped, jerking back, then looked down. “S-sorry.”

She waited before leading him off, through the grimy streets. She hated this city, hated the food, hated the people. Of course, there was this creature, this hardly-human monster, that was, if she were to be quite honest with herself for just a moment, was more human than the rest of the base, disgusting filth that wandered the streets of this God-forsaken city. At least Archdeacon Miles was working to clean it up. She wrapped a hand around the creature’s shoulders, guiding quickly and quietly, purposefully overlooking the tenseness and the fear it gave off. She led it to the cemetery, then over to one of the tombs as the map suggested. She frowned, looking around.

And then it wandered over into an open mausoleum that had been ransacked a few years ago, it seemed, and Maria found herself compelled to follow. She walked down with it, into some catacombs, and frowned. This was not what she was expecting. It grew dark, and she stepped closer. The poor dear seemed completely oblivious to all the death around it. It seemed so happy and excited to be in a catacomb, watching the rats scurry and the water drip.

And then the worst thing possible happened.

Out of nowhere, lights appeared, and she and the beast were surrounded by the gypsies. She could see their weapons, and she could see the malicious looks they had, and she knew they had been trapped. She whirled around just to check that, yes, they were surrounded, and she found herself back-to-back with the thing.

“Hi!” the deformity chirped when a man in orange stepped forward. “We’re looking for the Court of Miracles so that I can hear things again!”

Maria pinched her nose, her shoulder sagging and every ounce of hope she had for getting out of here alive dying. The creature was also stupid. She had to question Archdeacon Miles’s motives for sending him with her. She heard the gypsies laugh, and then a soft, lilting voice started to sing. It was definitely malicious, but it was slow and steady, making it appear kind until she listened to the words.

“So you’ve finally heard of that mythical place called the Court of Miracles—hello, you’re there!”

She could feel the dumb beast take her hand and walk off with them as they pushed her forward. He seemed to be completely unaware of the malicious undertones of the soft song.

“We say that the lame can walk, and the blind can see, but the dead don’t talk, so you won’t be around to reveal what you’ve found. Welcome to the Court of Miracles, where it’s a miracle if you get out here alive!”

She walked alongside the monster, who was smiling and watching all the gypsies as they all danced like gleeful children to the hideous tune she could hear. It was bouncing to an unknown beat, and all Maria wanted to do was run her sword through its chest. The gypsies rolled and tumbled, as if putting on a show for them. They were definitely going to die. She stumbled along as they were pushed onto a large platform in an even larger room full of the damn people, and there was already a crowd gathering. Maria recognized the platform: the gallows.

“Justice is swift in the Court of Miracles—I am the lawyers and judge all in one! We like to get the trial over with quickly because it’s the sentence that’s really the fun!”

So that man had been the one singing. The orange man stepped up, onto the stage, dressed in something akin to a king’s outfit. The man in orange was standing by the lever to pull for the trap doors. The orange man chuckled, trailing a hand along her hand.

“Now, I’m not unfair, and I realize just by watching you that you don’t want to be here, and this poor, demented creature probably got duped into coming, so I’ll cut you a deal, my friend.”

She looked at the deformity, who was watching her. It probably couldn’t read the lips of the speedy talkers. She smiled softly, and it smiled back, content to wait and see what happened next.

“Don’t worry,” she said slowly, and the creature nodded, smiling warmly and looking at all the people, his eyes alight with amazement at the decorations and the people.

“Ah… such innocence. I hope it survives,” the man said, pointing a finger up at the ceiling as if it would help. “So, do we have anybody willing?”

“What do you mean?” she growled.

The orange man laughed. “It’s a tradition. The poor, unfortunate souls who sometimes wander down here are given a chance to be snatched up for marriage—or are left to hang. We can’t have them going out to tattle, now, can we? So they marry a gypsy, and they become one of us.”

Maria scowled. “There’s no one that will marry the beast beside me.”

She looked when she felt a finger tap her shoulder, and she saw the creature looking at her, worried. She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t. Worry.”

It nodded and sat down awkwardly, staring at its lap. As it wrung its hands, she heard it humming quietly to itself.

“Well, that’s not my problem, is it?” the orange man said. “Well?”
She looked out at the crowd of gypsies.

“I’ll take her,” she heard, and the crowd parted to reveal the same damn gypsy that still made her loins stir and her reminder that she hadn’t slept with anyone that damn attractive in a long time.

Their eyes met, and she knew this man would take good care of her. Definitely the care she wanted, and most certainly the care she needed. She also bet that with enough persuasion, she could convince him to follow her into the war, where she could get her position back after explaining why she had been sent to Paris in the first place. Her commander liked her more than that, she knew for certain. This would be covered up and forgotten.

“And the other?”

That made her snap back into reality. She frowned, looking out at the silent crowd. There would be no one who would marry it. No one could want to marry that thing. It was hideous—and it was stupid. She looked at it, sitting and rocking as it hummed to itself.

“No one? No takers? Not one? So he’ll be swinging alone tonight, then. Probably a good thing. He is the Archdeacon’s dog, after all. He’d probably go home and—”

“No,” Maria said before she could stop herself. “No, it wouldn’t. That thing wouldn’t go home and tattle, and if you think that Archdeacon Miles doesn’t already know where you guys are, you’re mistaken. He’s two steps ahead of you, and this… this thing is the least of your worries.”

She didn’t know why she was sticking up for it. She had no idea. It was for the best that it would die.

“Still,” the orange man said as her new “husband” walked forward to pick her up, “we can’t very well let him go out and about now. He’s got too much knowledge.”

“I’m not saying you should let him go. He needs to be dead.”

There was a merciless laugh from the orange man.

“But I am saying that Archdeacon Miles will invade this place if you kill his son. He’ll wipe you all out before you can even blink. He’s got more power than you know. Trust me: you want to let him walk free.”

“I’ll take him,” she heard called.

The creature stood up, looking so utterly gleeful as she watched a blue-eyed boy jog ahead of Altair.

“I’ll take him, and take him home. I’ll stay with him to make sure he doesn’t say anything.”

“Are you sure, Kadar?” the orange man asked.

“I’m positive, Gilberto. Let me have him.”

Maria couldn’t believe someone had willing taken that creature.

And Kadar couldn’t believe that bitch would say that Desmond needed to die. He smiled as he hopped onto the platform. The boy was on his feet, pressing a doll into his hands—two, actually. He looked at them and realized that they were exact replicas of him and his brother. He laughed, kissing the boy on the cheek.

“Do you want to go home?” he signed flawlessly after handing him the dolls back.

“How do you know how to sign?” the man signed in response after hurriedly tucking the dolls into the pouch.

Kadar smiled. “I learned in a foreign country. The sign language that your master taught you is not so different from the kind in Spain that they use.”

He laughed as Desmond’s jaw dropped. Kadar couldn’t deny he was irreversibly attracted to the kid, ever since he first met him in the tent, and he supposed that the scars were supposed to make him ugly, but he had always had a thing for a heroic, strong man with a kind heart. That had been the only thing stopping him from going after Altair, the kind heart. He figured that Desmond would be the best man he could be with, then. He hugged Desmond back, then turned to look at Gilberto.

“His life is mine. I’ll take him back to the church and make sure he doesn’t say anything.”

He noticed the guard’s surprised expression, and he smiled innocently. He didn’t know why Gilberto was so paranoid about traitors outside the ranks. He should be more concerned about traitors within the ranks.

And Kadar had had about enough of Gilberto’s reign.

He linked his arm with Desmond’s as he led the boy off the platform, out of the catacombs and into the streets. The boy was bubbly and merry, talking to him all about his little house and how he had missed him. He had missed him from the first day he saw him, apparently.

That made Kadar happy. He had never been missed as his own person before.

Since, Desmond rambled on and on, pulling out the dolls to show him again and beaming from the praise he gave him. He knew he made the right decision. Here he would be free, with this boy, instead of under Gilberto’s oppressive rule. He was going to be safe, too, from the inevitable death that the others would suffer at the Archdeacon’s hands. He was sick of having to check in and checkout whenever he would leave, of the senseless murder of innocents that Gilberto seemed to favor. He was sick of the starving life—and he knew that Desmond was well fed in the tower. And if he went deaf, too, he would do so gladly—especially after Gilberto had the nerve to tell him he was worthless as a gypsy, when he brought in more money than Altair. He was a better dancer, too. He was finally free.

As they approached the gates of the church, they were met by Archdeacon Miles, who arched an eyebrow.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events, but I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” the man said, and Kadar smiled innocently.

“I know which side will win. You can’t fool me, and I know you won’t slay me—even if I never call sanctuary, because you know that I’ll stay here and keep your son company. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come here in the first place.”

The archdeacon leaned back slightly, smirking. “It seems I underestimated the gypsies’ intelligence.”

Kadar laughed as he felt his brother jog up behind him. Desmond greeted him whole-heartedly as he looked at the archdeacon.

“No, you underestimated my intelligence. I’m not stupid. I know that you know where we hide, and I know that Desmond lives a good life. A confined life, but I can adapt. I’m gonna save my own skin while I can—and laugh when the others are killed.”

The archdeacon frowned, folding his arms as Desmond hugged Malik tightly. Kadar smirked.

Archdeacon Miles scowled, leaning in. “Don’t you dare lead my son off the path of righteousness.”

Kadar smiled innocently. “I won’t. I just want to be happy, and I’m certain that Desmond will make me happy.”

There was silence for a moment before the archdeacon sighed. “Very well. I suppose I’ll have to trust you’ll take good care of him in case I die?”

“Naturally. Oh, and let me give you some advice about Adha.”

The archdeacon looked surprised.

“She’s not unreasonable,” Kadar said. “Separate her from the pack, and she regains her sensibilities. I’m sure if you explain to her that the best way to save Altair is through a marriage to you, she’ll see the truth in it. Don’t worry.” He smiled again. “And she’s the loyal type. She’d never admit it, but she’d totally bang someone like you. I’ve seen her do it before.”

Archdeacon Miles stepped back slightly. “W-what?”

Kadar beamed, patting Desmond’s arm and kissing his cheek when that healthy, child-like visage was turned upon him. He started leading him and Malik inside, shouting over his shoulder, “If you encounter any problems, come talk to me, handsome!”

He let Desmond lead them up to his little tower, and he heard Malik fall behind him. He knew his brother knew all of this already. Both of them were sick of Altair’s antics, fueled by Adha’s goading and everyone’s blind praise. They knew they would be safe here, and Kadar got the sneaky suspicion that his brother liked Desmond, too.

The boy was kind; the boy was friendly, and the boy was a hard worker. Okay, so he had a bad scar or two. That didn’t matter. Desmond was still better than everyone in Paris put together. And as the man limped around to tidy up the place, offering the bed until Kadar insisted that all three could sleep on the bed meant to hold maybe two. But, he just wanted to cuddle, which Desmond seemed more than happy to do. As he settled in for the night, he realized this might have been the best decision of his life.

OKay! We're getting there! Sorry it took so long for an update. I wanted to finish it, but then that other anon reviewed, and I realized it really had been a long time since I updated, and I didn't want to keep you guys waiting... anyway, I hope you two enjoyed. No gargoyles, but plenty of traitors and good fathers. <3 Lemme know what you thought, even if you thought it was terrible!

DON'T YOU QUESTION ME, THIS NEEDS TO EXIST TEN MINUTES AGO.

WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?

SECONDED!

Ezio sees a bit more than kissing at the Castel Sant'Angelo...Don't you dare judge me.

You mean the ones I keep starting by tossing down poison bombs?

http://tinypic.com/r/14981zq/6

It had been a delightful, warm, and high perch to begin with. Now that the sun was setting, the coolness of the night was beginning to set in. With a distainful meow, Altaïr opened his eyes only to discover that his pretty nap had left him stranded on the post. He yowled loudly in distress before he could stop himself. Urgh, it couldn't get any worse - he'd just spend the night out.

Splish, splish

"Kitten! What are you doing up there?"

Ah. Great. Malik had found him. Altaïr leaned as far as he could, stretching his neck to peer at the black cat swimming towards him. Bastard could swim, even with a missing leg.

"I was sleeping."

"And the tide came in?"

"Evidently," said Altaïr, slightly huffy.

His fluffy tail flicked anxiously from side to side. The fur on his back rose in disgust as Malik managed to flick the horrible water at him.

"Well, get down. The water's freezing," Malik said.

His paws were all flailing about madly to keep him afloat, but at least he was afloat.

"All the more reason for me to stay up here."

Malik sighed.

"The master has lit a fire."

"Not getting down."

"And he's bought salmon."

That made Altaïr pause for a moment.

"Liar."

With a flick of his ears, Malik turned around and began to swim back to shore. The water was less than a metre deep, but Malik had no idea how long it took Altaïr to dry! Malik's sleek fur combined with it's midnight hue and a bit of warmth warranted only ten minutes at the most. And once Altaïr was water-free, he looked ridiculous and had to groom the ridiculous fluff down.

"I'll wait for the tide," grumbled Altaïr.

Malik meowed tauntingly.

"Doesn't go down until tomorrow morning. If you hadn't been such a lazybones, this wouldn't have happened."

The white cat hissed and flattened his ears. Okay, he could do this. He could, he could, he could. It was only a short distance. The water wasn't going to hurt him. A wave of water hit his post, spraying his face. He yowled angrily.

No. No, he could not do this. It was horrible. It was cold. It stank of dead things. It stung his eyes and he hated it.

"Get down, you pussy!" Malik called to him from the shore.

He did not.

He did not just-

Oh, that oily prat was going to get a faceful of claws if Altaïr had anything to say about it.

Screwing his eyes shut, he flung himself into the water with an almighty splash. He sank straight to the bottom of the ocean. Water gushed into his lungs and he grabbed at the water as if he could pull himself up like when he climbed a wall. But it was no use, it was a liquid, and he was going to die.

Something clamped onto his neck and he went still, rising to the surface. Malik had grabbed him by the scruff. Sullenly, Altaïr allowed himself to be dragged to the shoreline, and they emerged sopping wet. His companion let go of his scruff, with an insufferable look that Altaïr knew was heralding at least a week's worth of insults.

"You're a stupid kitten."

Altaïr fumed all the way home.

TELL ME MORE XD

Not!OP is PERFECTLY OKAY with reading a second fill! And I bet OP will be, too :-)

I like the sound of that...

Author anon from above!

Go ahead! post it! If there's anything that rocks about these posts, it's that you can see others interpretations and not have just one fill! Post it! :D I'm eager to see what you've written!

Terrible, amazing, fabulous. Meh, either way... HOLY MOTHER OF MERCY!!!! Writer!anon... you deserve a metal. A big ass metal. <3

OP is more than okay with that! :D

Modern AU

Whenever Altair gets overly stressed he cooks.
A LOT.
That means lots of cakes and cookies, soups and pastas, breads and other delicious things. The others don't mind too much. Free food and everything.

But they know there's a problem when there's too much that they can't eat it all. Along with when Altair just doesn't stop to sit down and relax.

Let the plotting begin.

The Crusader regarded Altair with uneasiness, but made no move to break his formation. He’d seen this particular man many times in the last few days- peaked hood and an array of weapons that made him quite the obvious target of suspicion. At the moment, the man had seated himself on a bench between two civilian Saracen, and had bowed his head. As Stephane patrolled past, his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword-

A flash of gold was seen when the man’s eyes flickered up beneath his hood and caught his own for a brief moment. Stephane felt pins and needles scraping over his skin.

“Attendez,” his comrade Pierre called to their patrol sergeant, a Templar Knight, “there is something odd with this man. Il y a quelquechose d’etrange avec cet homme.” He motioned directly to the assassin, who continued to just sit there. The two civilian Saracens sat up ramrod straight and held their hands up in surrender.

“No time to conduct a search,” the Knight said easily in Frankish, not even bothering to look back. “We must make our way to the barracks at once to prepare for Grand Master de Ridefort’s arrival. Let us carry on.”
Altair’s gaze followed them as they continued moving forward.

-x-x-x-

Crusaders were strictly forbidden to engage in sexual activities with Saracen women. This was a rule well budded in theory, but difficult to enforce in reality. It was not uncommon to see Crusader guards harassing Saracen women with no regard to the heinous cultural abuse. Stephane was told by his sergeant that Saracen women prized their virtue and chastity so intensely that to have any man touch them was a direct violation to their rights as dictated by their Holy Scripture, the Koran. Most Crusaders paid no heed to what the Saracens considered sacred, but Stephane was more chivalrous than most.

He had been in the Holy Land for a little more than a year, and by spending much time under the guidance of his Templar sergeant, he’d learned much about Saracen culture. His sergeant, Monsieur de Montliard, even began to teach him the basics of Arabic. Stephane wanted nothing more than to be a Knight of the Temple, like his mentor. One day he might rise above his Crusader rank and become part of the most feared force of Knights to ever ride with lance and shield anywhere in the world.

He saw the man again while patrolling in the heart of Jerusalem- this time the Saracen looked to be defending a young woman from four drunk Franj soldiers. Stephane watched him wield a shortsword not unlike the scimitars he’d seen the Bedu tribes hold, but the man’s stance was strictly defensive. The soldiers swore at him in abrasive Frankish before shielding their swords and backing away, a godsent beam of logic warning them that they were outmatched by the Saracen’s experience. The woman babbled something quick in Arabic and lowered her eyes towards her saviour, and hastily tucked away the strands of her hair that fell out of her jibaab headscarf in the scuffle.

Stephane watched all of this with a calm eye, perfectly in view under a merchant pavilion. The hooded man turned his gaze towards him and again their sights met.

Neither man made any move towards one another, and when the Arab woman began to walk the long road back to her home, Altair followed her to ensure she made the route safely. Stephane trailed the both of them because he was on his break, and wanted to know what the man would do.

The woman found her husband soon enough, and she fell in line with his steps after whispering more quiet words of gratitude to Altair. And all this time, the man said nothing. After the woman and her husband disappeared from their view behind the marketplace crowds, Altair turned sharply into a narrow alley. Stephane followed instinctively though each grain of his body begged him not to. Surely the Saracen now knew he was being tracked, and it wasn’t like the Crusader made any efforts to be secretive.

Once they were mostly alone in the winding alley shadowed by lines of hanging laundry crisscrossing the sky from above, Stephane was the first to speak. “Halt, Saracen.”

Immediately, the hooded figure stopped in his tracks. He made no sound, but his whole form emanated danger. Stephane swallowed nervously despite himself, but his curiosity was too great. “Identify yourself.”

“I am someone you should be afraid of,” said the hooded man in a low growl. “You’d do well to stay away, Crusader. You are no match for me.”

“I know,” Stephane shrugged. “But I’ve seen you many times in the area, and you don’t strike me as a man to kill without discretion.” He was not afraid of this man, for God was guarding him with his sword and shield.

“You know nothing about me,” the man shot back, spinning on his heel and flinging a throwing knife at Stephane with striking speed. The Crusader dodged the flying blade only barely, and it scratched the surface of his plate helmet.

“I know you are assassin,” Stephane called out before the mysterious man could disappear as assassins were known to do, “and I know you are half blood.”

Altair blinked once, then twice. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of, Franj infidel. However, your grasp of the Holy language surprises me.” And then, in two great bounds, the assassin scaled the wall like a jungle cat and was out of view.

For four long seconds, Stephane awaited death from above. Be it a throwing knife or an ambush, he steeled himself for the killing blow. But it never came. On the fifth second, he scoffed and left the alleyway to return to his duties. His break was over now, and he hadn’t even pissed as he’d wanted.

-x-x-x-

It was only a little past noon, and Stephane was falling asleep at his post when a familiar sound zipped past him. A dull thud was heard afterwards as the throwing knife embedded itself into the wooden flagpole behind him.

The Franj man’s eyes shot open and he was face to face with the assassin from an entire moon prior. Stephane instinctively drew his sword, adrenaline coursing through his blood. But the assassin did not move, just kept his odd crouching position on the edge of the tower’s fence. It was a miracle that he wasn’t falling off of it.

“You were asleep,” the man said with a bit of a smile, “you’d do well to stay awake.”

Stephane swallowed deeply, trying to slow down his breath. Still he kept his grasp on his sword very firm in case the Saracen made any move to attack. “You are not supposed to be here,” he tried to be as menacing as possible, but the assassin did not seem fazed in the slightest.

“You’re right.” And with that, the assassin dropped from the edge of the watchtower. Stephane cried out in surprise and looked over the edge where the man once was to see him dangling precariously by the post leading off of it. Two pigeons crooned on said post, not even disturbed by the assassin’s presence. At that moment, the hatch from the tower opened to admit Stephane’s sergeant.

“Monsieur,” he saluted the Knight, steadying himself.

“It’s good to see that you are not asleep,” the sergeant said simply, “I knew the day was long for you and wanted to see that you were… not slacking your duties.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Stephane smiled lopsidedly, shifting from foot to foot and not knowing whether he should be pleased or horrified.

“I should not have doubted you,” Monsieur de Montliard continued with a slight shake of the head. A quiet chuckle was heard behind his plate helm. “I have decided to make you my squire, Stephane. In some years’ time, you could become a knight.”

Stephane fell to his knees and kissed the hem of his sergeant’s cloak, crying tears of joy. He was still heaving with the unbelievable exhilaration when the Knight pulled him to his feet and squeezed him firmly on his shoulder. “You will bear the Lord’s shield as I do, and I would trust no one else with my back.”
When the sergeant was gone, the assassin raised himself from his awkward position and rubbed his arms.
“Thank you,” Stephane said with wonder, “I don’t… why would you do that?”

“Because he would have killed you if he found you sleeping. I heard him speaking of it as he came up.”
Now the Franj was genuinely puzzled. “Why would you care?”

“I don’t know,” Altair replied bluntly as was his custom. “I am… intrigued by you. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had many opportunities to.”

“I am not a savage, assassin,” Stephane looked at his hide boots before looking back up quickly, remembering that it was not smart to take his eyes off the enemy. “My orders are not to kill assassins on sight, and I will follow my orders.”

“You lie,” Altair leapt off the crest of the fence and landed a few inches away from Stephane, so close that the Crusader felt the other man’s breath on his face. “Your fellow soldiers have chased and hunted me. How dare you claim such a thing? Do you truly expect me to believe that your orders are so?” From under the man’s hood, Stephane only saw flared nostrils and a pair of scarred and scowling lips.

“My orders are not to kill you,” he repeated softly, “but I will if you take another step closer.”

Altair’s arm steeled and he flicked out his hidden blade, fully intent on slitting this insolent guard’s throat… But he could not. No, not when the man spoke the tongue of the Faithful. The assassin broke out in a cold sweat, and he blinked rapidly in an attempt to calm his mind… “Why, why are you not afraid of me?”

“Because we are not so different.”

“How dare you…” Altair took another hasty step forward, and Stephane’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword in anticipation.

“I have my Rules of Engagement, and you have your Creed.”

“You know about the Assassin’s Creed?” Altair backed away at once and his mouth opened in surprise. He closed it immediately, and frowned under the darkness of his cover. “Impossible.”

“Intelligence on the enemy never goes to waste.” Stephane’s hand dropped from his sword and settled on his waist. “As you have said, some of my… comrades… break our rules. But you don’t seem like one to break your creed.”

Altair narrowed his eyes before asking the one burning question he’d had since he first caught the other man’s eye. “Who are you?”

They talked deep into the afternoon. Though Altair constantly praised the Franj’s Arabic, the extent to which he knew the language only ran so deep. Sometimes he floundered for words and spoke in fragmented Frankish, but they were able to carry out their conversation nonetheless. Stephane told Altair about his home in the French countryside, how he sang in the church choir for many years before making the long journey to the city to embark on King Louis’ Crusade. He wanted to be a Knight, but as he came from such a family of low standing, he had no chance. No, not when the best knights of the land were fighting for the position- he had absolutely no chance.

“Why did you want to fight?” asked the assassin, taking a swig from his water skin. He’d been listening intently all this time, thoroughly entertained by the white skinned man’s stuttered depiction of his home in a distant land.

Stephane considered his response for a moment. “Partly because my father is ill and my mother is not well herself… There was little work to be done in my village. And also… because to be a Crusader is to be a holy warrior, and by dying here I could be cleansed of all my sins and go to Heaven. That is a prize worth more than all the gold in the world.”

“And who told you this?”

“What?” Stephane turned to look at Altair, who’d lowered his hood and was pouring the rest of the water over his short brown hair. “Who told me what?”

“Who told you that you could be rid of all your sins?”

“The Holy Father in Rome.”

“Is this promise actually in your…” Altair grappled for the word, “…Bible?”

“No, but the Holy Father has said…”

“And you trust him?”

Stephane smiled, “of course!”

Altair pursed his lips. “He is but a man.”

“So is your prophet Mohammed, and you trust what he says.”

The assassin moved quickly, and so did the Crusader. Stephane limped into his barracks that night with a black eye, and Altair returned to Jerusalem's Bureau with an unexplained cut on his shoulder. The Dai there sewed it up without a word.

-x-x-x-

Over weeks and months, they ran into each other many times. Most often they met on the watchtowers, as Altair was capable of climbing them with ease and he always seemed to know where Stephane was. They came to know each other closely despite their differences, for there were many things they shared among themselves. Altair explained upon questioning that the assassins were actually forbidden to possess anything- not their weapons, not money. Stephane was eager to add that the same went for the Templars. Eventually Altair found it fitting to tell Stephane that his mother was Franj and had died giving birth to him, and the story nearly made the Franj man cry.

“I invite you to come dine with me and my sergeant,” Stephane blurted when he was feeling exceptionally brave from the good ale he’d shared with the assassin.

“You don’t even know my name,” Altair reminded him with incredulity, “why would you even consider…”

“Your name is unimportant to me,” Stephane shrugged and tipped the last of his ale away. “I know your face and I know your voice, and most of all, I know you don’t mean me harm. That is all that matters.”

“I respectfully decline,” said Altair nonetheless, “but I will share a meal with you only.”

The Crusader agreed, and that night they met on the tower’s pavilion to share their food. Stephane set down his shield and removed his sword and helmet from his body. Altair stripped himself willingly of his own weapons save for his hidden blade in respect for the Crusader’s customs of never bringing weapons to the table. Coincidentally, Altair mused, the custom was much the same for Saracens.

“I wish you’d wash yourself,” Altair complained, and Stephane had to cringe. They switch positions so that Stephane was sitting downwind from Altair so the Saracen wouldn’t have to smell him. It was European custom to not bathe, which contrasted greatly with the Saracen obsession with cleanliness at all times. Altair brought a baked lamb shank and some flatbreads from the market, and Stephane unlaced a pouch containing fresh oranges, mutton, and some dry white bread from his barracks. He’d told no one why he’d decided to eat apart from his comrades for the night. He also took care to take no pork with him in respect for Altair. The assassin noticed this but pretended he didn’t.

-x-x-x-

When they met again, Altair was running from the guards. He leapt into a rooftop garden and held his breath, begging for them to leave him alone… his assassination had not been as swift as he thought it’d be, and his target shouted for help even while he bled out on the ground. His pained cries alerted the nearby guards, and Altair again landed himself in trouble. While making his escape, he made an amateur mistake in battle and a Crusader sword sank itself deep into the space between his collar and his ribs, causing him to gurgle up blood and his vision to swim back and forth.

Altair had only been so severely injured once in his life, and suddenly he was afraid. He was losing so much blood, and he had no doubt that the trail of it was leading the guards to him at this very moment… Today was the day on which he would die.

At least he was clean shaven for Allah.

“Il a disparu,” a Franj guard yelled to another only a few meters from the rooftop garden, “je ne peux pas le trouver.”

“Il est ici, je suis certain,” said another, “que pense toi, Stephane?”

“Selon moi, il est perdu,” a voice cut in, and Altair recognized it as belonging to the man he’d spoken with on the top of the watchtower all those weeks ago. He was surprised he still recalled the sound of his voice, especially when the Franj was now speaking a string of undecipherable Frankish. Finally, the guards seemed to have come to a conclusion. They scattered and all was quiet for a while before Altair finally decided that it was safe to continue on his way back to the Bureau.

He rolled out of the garden with nothing on his mind but speed, and stumbled straight into Stephane. The collision made him cry out, his head pounding with the loss of blood. His left hand was covered with it as it desperately tried to apply pressure to the wound.

“We meet again,” the Crusader grinned, “hello, my unknown friend and foe.”

“I am Altair,” Altair mumbled quickly, and then regretted it.

Stephane mulled this over before putting on his helmet again. He wore the helmet of the soldat, a simple helm that left his face unshielded from Altair’s scrutiny. “Where are you going now?”

“I cannot tell you that. And if you follow me, I will slay you. I do not joke this time.” The threat was not very effective, since Altair was visibly swaying on his feet.

“I have no doubt.” Stephane closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them again. He reached into a pouch at his waist and drew out some field dressing. He audaciously pried the assassin’s bloodied hand from his wound and forced the wad of bandages into it. Then since Altair was still disorientated, he pushed the dressings to the wound to soak up the blood and help it clot. It would not be much, but hopefully it was enough to save his life until he could find aid. “Our debt is settled, assassin.”

Altair did not understand, so he kept his silence and frowned under his hood. And then, like sunlight spilling across the ground, he understood. “You… owed me nothing, Crusader.”

Stephane smiled sadly, looking onto the busy streets of Jerusalem- this was not a place for bloodshed. “Then be on your way, Altair. I sincerely hope we do not meet again.”

The assassin shakily rose to his feet and was gone before Stephane could bid him farewell.

They did not in fact meet again until three years later, and Salah ad-Din was at Jerusalem’s gates. His army laid siege to Jerusalem in earnest, and the Crusaders had no choice but to ride out to defend the Holy City. With King Richard tied to his diplomatic duties in England, there was no chance of reinforcement. The city was defenseless. Stephane fought valiantly, but he had no choice but to surrender when Salah ad-Din felled the Templar flag.

He was a Knight of the Temple now.

They held him prisoner at their camp. They withheld water from them in retaliation for the Crusader’s cruelty during the siege of Acre, and before long Franj soldiers were swearing loyalty to Allah for nothing more than a sip of water. The Saracen army poured entire potfuls of water down into the dirt right before their eyes but out of their reach, and the Knights suffered long. They refused to give in, however. Their loyalty to God was too strong to be challenged by mundane pains. Knowing that they would not be rescued and therefore had no use as prisoners or barter pieces, the Knights waited to be killed. After three weeks with no news from England, Salah ad-Din gave the order to slaughter all the Knights save for their Grand Master, Gerard de Ridefort.

Stephane was praying with his hands bound above his head when Altair appeared like an angel from the heavens. “I said you owed me nothing, infidel,” the assassin was saying, but Stephane was too dehydrated and weak to hear properly. He barely had the strength to stand up to acknowledge Altair.

“I said you owed me nothing,” Altair continued without preamble, “and I will not leave an act of kindness unpaid for.” The assassin’s nose twitched, no doubt rattled by the fetid stench of the prisoner’s camp. Nonetheless, he cut through Stephane’s bindings and heaved the Knight onto his shoulders, somewhat horrified at how light he was after a few weeks of starvation.

Sometime between being dragged past the sleeping sentries and being attacked by those that were awake, Stephane lost consciousness. When he woke again, he was in a field with tall bushes and waving poplar trees. His lips were parched and his equally dry tongue slithered out to lick them before a sweet trickle of water passed through his lips. He drank with wild abandon, gripping the shoulders of the man who held him.

“My God,” he murmured when he drained the water skin, “thank you.”

“It was not your God that saved you,” Altair replied while the Knight regained his bearings and tried to sit up before nearly heaving the precious water he’d just drank. “It was I, your enemy.”

“No,” said Stephane resolutely, still much dizzied and his voice was hoarse. “No, you are my friend.”

Altair said nothing, just pointed to a direction far off in the distance. He looked at Stephane to ensure that he understood, and then turned to mount a horse the Knight didn’t even notice was there all this time. The assassin galloped away without looking back, a plume of dust rising after him.

In the distance where he’d pointed was the Crusader port of Acre. Stephane could just see the tops of its high towers touching the violet sky.

He was lost but not truly.

He dragged himself to his feet and stood facing the falling sun. From where he was, he heard the dim voices of the Crusaders in Acre, praying to the Lord Jesus Christ and for the Holy Sepulchre. From such a distance, the murmuring voices droned and mixed into one continuous sound of reverent praise. Strangely, it struck Stephane how similar it sounded to the sound of the muezzin calling the Faithful to prayer each morning in the Saracen camp. While his heart floundered and his mind fought to orient itself, Stephane’s feet already began to carry him unsteadily towards Acre, towards the sounds of prayers.

Fleetingly, Stephane mused if God and Allah were one and the same. After all, he knew now that Christendom and Islam came from the same cradle. It would make him and Altair one and the same. Cut out their hearts and they would look the same. They would both hurt the same way and bleed the same.
When he was close enough to see the faces of the men standing guard at Acre’s gates, he came to a startling conclusion.

Perhaps the Saracens were not the infidels.

Maybe neither of them were, not Saracen nor Crusader. Maybe neither of them were infidels, and they were just too weak to understand it.

But as soon as the Franj banners crossed over his head, the Templar Flag waving proudly over the port’s walls, Stephane pushed the thoughts from his mind.

He was a Knight of the Temple.

He was lost but not truly.

He could not afford to doubt.

Such mysteries were not to be challenged by mere human minds, and he was just a small thing in the grand scheme of God’s plan. When they asked him how he’d managed to escape Salah ad-Din’s camp, he told them he was rescued by a friend.

“A man of the Franj?” inquired the Head of the Knights there, already working to re-establish Stephane as a Knight good and proper in his ranks.

“A Franj half so,” Stephane smiled with secret knowledge, receiving the white cloak handed to him and pulling it over his mantle. The Red Cross of the Templars fell across his shoulder, and he was found again.

Allah o Akbhar. God is Great.

/End./

So I forgot that this wasn't livejournal and there was no character limit. As you've noticed, the post lengths got progressively longer as I realized there didn't seem to be a limit! Anyway, this was my first fill on the meme for AC. I know it's not completely what the OP wanted, but hopefully the fill is appreciated nonetheless. I started out with an Arabic guard, but somehow it didn't click for me, so I made him a Crusader instead.

I was particularly interested in the dynamics between why the War was being fought, and indeed the similarities between the opposing forces that made this war such a waste of blood and life. Not sure if the ending is as happy as OP wanted, but the story went its own way.

Please let me know what you think- I'd appreciate feedback of any kind.

Some notes:

The Franj are referring to the 'Franks', or the men from what was then Europe.

Many Crusaders and indeed many Templar Knights had a working understanding of Saracen culture and language. After so many years at war, they came to the realization that they needed to know the language and customs in order to operate in the Holy Land. This is why some guards/Crusaders/Knights would be capable of speaking in Arabic, though most were not very fluent. It is rare but not impossible for a Crusader/Knight to study the Koran.

The Koran/Qu'ran is the Holy Text for Islam.

During the Second and Third Crusade, young men traveled freakishly long distances to join King Louis/King Richard's Crusader army. The prize was not just the money, but the fact that fighting in the Crusades could erase them of all their debts and spiritual sins as dictated by the Pope. This was the motivation behind their battles and their complete dedication to the Crusade.

The Templar Knights had a rank system within their Order. Sergeants were one class lower than the aristocratic knights. Squires were not knights, and were instead hired outsiders. If squires could prove themselves and earn their mettle, they could be trained to become knights.

The Knights did have their own Rules of Engagement, and they prided themselves as being chivalrous and dignified. To the best of their ability they did not kill needlessly as the soldiers and other Crusaders were prone to do. Stephane tried to follow these rules and resist the urge to kill unnecessarily.

One strong cultural difference between the Franj and the Saracens was that the Europeans did not bathe. The Arabs highly prized cleanliness, and bathed themselves several times a day if the situation permitted, especially before meals.

If you've noticed, Altair is always clean shaven. After Malik became a Dai, he stopped shaving and grew a bit of a beard. This is because it is Arabic custom to be as clean as possible before meeting Allah in Paradise, and since Altair's job was so dangerous and he could technically die any day, he always kept himself shaven. Same thing with suicide terrorists in the Middle East- UN Forces identify them by the fact that they are the only shaven men among a sea of bearded men.

Il est disparu, je ne peux pas le trouver. - He is gone, I can't find him.
Il est ici, je suis certain. Que pense toi, Stephane? - He is here, I am sure. What do you think, Stephane?
Selon moi, il est perdu. - In my opinion, he's gone.

When the Crusaders took Acre, they notoriously slaughtered the city's inhabitants and beheaded what prisoners they took of the Saracen army there. When Salah ad-Din heard of this, he was furious, and repaid the cruelty to the prisoners he took of the Franj army. He didn't behead them, but he starved them and deprived them of water. Technically, it is historically recorded that he did so after winning the Battle of Hattin, not the Siege of Jerusalem, but I didn't want to go into all of that.

Templar Knights had a code of honor to never give up. And when Knights were captured by the enemy force, the code also dictated that they were not to be rescued. Since they could not be used for barter, the Saracens had no use of them, so they just killed the Knights. They did keep Gerard de Ridefort though, who was Grand Master of the Templars before Robert de Sable. They used him to take over several Crusader castles after winning the siege of Jerusalem.

You put me to shame, anon! Your story puts mine to shame so much! I kiss the ground you walk on. This was beautiful.

Although I must admit, the first time Stephane followed Altair into the alleyway and then didn't get to use the bathroom, I laughed at the idea that he might have pissed his pants instead. XD

A beautiful story, anon. I'm jealous. You did a great job filling. <3

Thanks OP I'm so glad you enjoyed <3

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Re: Redemption (Corrected)

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