#ac1 week

Admittedly, Altaïr found most of his Assassin lessons as a child boring. It was a curious thing for the wise, old Assassin to reflect on given his love for knowledge, but it was true. He loathed cloudy mornings inside of Al Mualim’s study, eyelids fluttering shut while Al Mualim spoke of strategy, philosophy, language, history, and mathematics. What eleven-year-old boy would not? No, Altaïr much preferred to flick pieces of parchment from his notes at Abbas, giggling until scolded by the practically ancient Master of the Assassins. Altaïr chuckled in his seat. Ancient, he repeated with a sly smile. Al Mualim had been 56 years old when Altaïr became the Master (or Mentor, as he preferred) of the Assassins. Sitting in his chair in the room he once listened to these lectures in, Altaïr was 36 years Al Mualim’s senior. What a cruel twist of fate, he chuckled.

There was one lesson that always captivated him, however: religion. Religion both confused and fascinated the boyish Altaïr. Of course, it made perfect sense why he was so intrigued by it - religion felt relevant to the young boy. Two crusades had already ravaged the Holy Land in a gruesome battle over Christianity and Islam. It was the defining aspect of life in the Levant. Yet, Altaïr always felt confused by both wars.

“I don’t understand!” He had told Al Mualim one bright and sunny morning as snow melted away in Masyaf. The lesson was already finished, Abbas skipping down the steps to the courtyard to watch the older Assassins spar. “Why do they keep fighting? Don’t they worship the same god?”

Al Mualim had stood in front of the ornate window and stared into the courtyard. ”Perhaps,” he had answered. ”But do you get along with every boy you train with, simply because you fight for a common purpose?” It was a gross oversimplification, ignoring the complexities that made each religion separate and the geopolitical contexts of each crusade, but it was enough to stir Altaïr’s young mind.

“No,” he had answered.

“Why? Do you not serve the same order? Fight for the same cause?”

“Some of them are dumb,” Altaïr muttered, crossing his arms and staring out beside Al Mualim into the courtyard. 

“Not dumb, Altaïr. They simply think differently from you. They have different ideas, different thoughts, different dreams. They could easily say the same of you, child. That you are the foolish one.”

“But I’m not!”

Al Mualim had laughed and clasped Altaïr’s shoulder. “You have discovered, then, the reason behind these crusades - differences of thoughts, of values, of ideas, and of perspectives. When you are old enough to fight for our cause, you must remember these things. Every man believes what he is doing is right. Every man believes he is not the ‘dumb’ one. Every man believes his religion, his thoughts, and his ideas are correct. You must look onward and know the truth.”

“Nothing is true,” Altaïr had remembered.

“Everything is permitted,” Al Mualim had finished.

When Altaïr became an Assassin, Al Mualim’s lessons grew few and far between, usually arising as punishment for misdeeds or lessons following an assassination. Each one grew more cryptic with every year. Illusions, temptations, and hypocrisy became common themes for every lesson, no matter the subject. These themes all came to fruition with the Templar treasure. A treasure, Altaïr reflected, that he still held in his hand after nearly six decades. 

“It is temptation,” Al Mualim had described the Templar treasure. Warned? Threatened?

“It’s just a piece of silver,” Altaïr had replied. The old man nearly barked a laugh at the memory. If only.

“Get rid of that thing!” Maria had screamed. Altaïr blinked. No. No she had not. He had not met the fierce former Templar yet. Or had he? Was she still in England at the time? No, wasn’t she at Masyaf by then?

The aged Assassin glanced down at the Apple of Eden within his hand, fingers rubbing his temple. It grew harder each day to separate the past, present, and future as the Apple whispered its secrets like hushed prayers in his mind.

Maria. He missed her. How long had it been since he had stepped away from the Apple to see her? Hours? Days?

Years, Altaïr’s vicious mind reminded him. She was dead. She had been dead for almost thirty years. So were Malik and Sef. Then why did he hear their voices so clearly? Why could he feel a tender touch against his shoulder that only Maria or Malik could offer?

The old man shivered and blinked hard. There was no one with him. The castle was all but abandoned. Frigid winds from the snowstorm outside the castle’s walls slipped through broken cracks in the windows. He was alone, the last man standing. 

“He who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” How right those words had been. And Altaïr had known they were. One only needed to look at the book of Genesis. Adam and Eve had taken a bite of the famed apple, gaining knowledge at the expense of paradise in the Garden of Eden. The very Apple of Eden he held. The very orb in his hand that glowed with golden rays of light and whispered secrets of the past and present and future in his mind.

They had begged him to stop, Maria and Malik and Al Mualim. Sometimes, he heard their whispers radiating from the Apple, taunting and begging and pleading with him.

“Destroy it! Destroy it, as you said you would!” Al Mualim taunted.

“You are addicted to it, Altaïr. Leave it!” Malik begged.

“What happens to us, Altaïr? To our family? What does the Apple say?!” Maria pleaded. 

“Listen, and learn what we could not,” another voice chimed. Juno, Altaïr recalled.

Perhaps the Apple should have stayed in Eden. Man would not be forced to labor and wallow in his own grief and pain. Man’s existence would be confined to the walls of the Garden of Eden, lounging about in fruitful lands. But like Eve, Altaïr was tempted by its whispers and promises in the slithering shadows.

Maria once asked him why he kept the Apple. Altaïr often pondered the question himself. It had cost him everything in his life. His wife, his friends, his son, his family, his Brotherhood… yet, even in the darkest pits of his depression, when his hidden blade seemed so enticing against his throat, Altaïr grabbed the golden orb and opened his ears to its soft whispers.

“Curiosity,” he answered. Maria had scoffed at that, muttering something about reading a book or scroll instead if he was so curious. But it was the truth. Each whisper and tidbit of knowledge left him more intrigued than before, reeling him closer to the Apple and tempting him with more. To learn more from these goddesses - no, beings, mortals like him. He wanted to know what they knew, hear what they heard, see what they saw. But even when he drew away, content with the knowledge he had learned, both beings whispered secrets he could not resist, whispering of prophecies to foretell and men to play God with. 

Perhaps that was man’s fate - to be tempted with whispers of what they desired most, even if it meant their ruin, and be used as pawns in a greater game beyond their measly understanding. For Altaïr, it was knowledge. But in his quest for knowledge, he had seen visions of men - no, Assassins - who would take his place as toys for these jaded beings. Young Assassins, just as young as he had once been, seeking vengeance, love, hope, and peace. Young Assassins who would fight through Heaven and Hell and gain nothing from their plights. It ached Altaïr’s heart to see, but it was not his place to argue. He was a prophet, nothing more and nothing less. 

Altaïr chuckled to himself. Only his mind could wander so far from remembering boring childhood lectures to contemplating man’s existence and place in this world. Then again, what else did he have to do? He was a tired, lonely old man in an abandoned castle with nothing but a golden orb in his hand buzzing with knowledge.