Post by crmsndragonwngs on Feb 18, 2013 1:34:25 GMT -5
The little boy with the golden eyes. That is what most of the village called him. He had no name. He had no family, no friends. He was simply the little boy with the golden eyes.
He'd never known his parents. His father had been drafted into Saladin's service before he was born. His mother had died of a fever when he was four, and he'd long forgotten what name she had called him. He'd learned to steal from the older boys, urchins themselves though not nearly as misfortunate. They hadn't been robbed of their parents like he had. They'd at least known them. But the little boy was all alone in this world. The older boys had only taken pity on him. They did not claim him as brother nor friend.
He'd earned a reputation among the men and women of the village. It was nothing he'd done to make them look down on him so. It was, perhaps, what he hadn't done. He lacked compassion, but made up for it in clarity. So he acted with disregard for anyone but himself, more so than the other urchins he sometimes ran with. He saw the world differently than all the others, and he'd quickly learned to hold his tongue against questions of his opinion. So he supposed that he'd earned his reputation by not saying much, and acting silently and without remorse.
His reputation grew as he did with time, and soon he was a tall, robust boy of seven with rumors as thick as blood surrounding him. Some said he'd killed his own parents. Other's said he was a curse from Hell. Still others said he may not be a spawn of Hell, but he was certainly damned in the eyes of God.
"Just look at his golden eyes. How he stares with them. Such a sharp gaze, he must be of the devil!" They'd say when they thought he was out of earshot. But he had excellent hearing, and he heard everything. And so he began to shun religion, though he remembered his mother being devoutly Christian. Began to shun anything that had to do with the people of the village.
He'd grown to resent them, he realized one day. He ceased to run with the other urchins, began stealing more than he needed simply because he believed those he stole from did not deserve what they had. And he didn't necessarily believe he deserved it more. What food he stole that he did not eat, he'd feed to the eagles that nested in a tree just outside of the village. The eagles became his friends, or at least the closest he'd ever had to friends, and they became accustomed to him bringing them bits of meat and bread.
He discovered that he had more in common with these birds than he ever did with people. They flew alone, sentinel figures that swooped and soared as they pleased. They cared for little other than themselves.
The boy found one day while he was watching the eagles that he wanted to fly. Not being a foolish or distrait boy, he was able to make the steep distinction between what they could do and what he could do. He could never fly. But he could make himself feel as though he were flying. So he climbed the tallest building in the village, just to see what it felt like to touch the sky. There was a moment of wonder as he looked out over the place he'd called home for seven long, hard years. Never before had he seen the world from such a high vantage, and he realized with a jolt that there was more to the world than his small village. In the distance, he could see towers of what he supposed was a city. He'd heard merchants talk of Jerusalem and Damascus. Some had been as far as Acre, which he understood from the way the other merchants reacted, was quite far away.
He twisted around to look behind him, and saw what he supposed was a mountain. He'd heard from the villagers that there was a Clan there, sitting atop the summit. An Order that went by the name Hashashin. He'd heard stories about them, that they were heartless killers with little regard for humanity or morality. They feared them, but the boy thought they were like him in a way. He turned back to the city ahead of him, and vowed to travel there, and to the mountain behind him, when he was older and could survive the desert.
He looked down, and suddenly was afraid. He didn't know how to get back down. As he looked down at the ground below him he thought about how terribly high up he was. About how terribly far away the people looked. But then, he saw just below him a hay cart. He pursed his lips, thinking himself mad for entertaining such an idea, but he saw no other way.
So he leapt. His arms instinctively spread like wings, and for a moment he flew. The wind tore at his hair and clothes. It tore the breath from his lungs. He heard an eagle screech. He turned in the air, his body acting without his command. Instinct. So he trusted in that. He trusted in that and closed his eyes. If he'd ever had a moment of faith, this had been it. The pure, unwavering faith that his body knew what to do even if he did not.
And then he was in the hay, unscathed. He tumbled out of the cart, sneezing and shaking himself, utterly amazed. Such exhilaration! He'd never felt so alive in his entire life. He realized that tears were streaming down his face. He turned and looked back up at the tower he'd just leapt from.
"He's lucky to be alive!" A woman hissed nearby. The boy didn't flinch at her words. Instead, an eagle caught his attention. He followed its progress through the sky, turning as it soared overhead. And then his eyes fell from the eagle to the face of a man he'd never seen before. Behind him, a horse snorted. To both sides, men in white and grey uniforms stood, tall and powerful in comparison to the villagers the boy had grown up with.
"No. Not lucky." The man said, and the boy thought his voice sounded different than any he'd ever heard. Later he would learn that it was wisdom that touched it, making it a candle in the darkness. "Fearless." The man knelt down before the boy, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized the young face before him. "What are you called, boy?" He asked.
"I do not have a name." The boy replied, lifting his chin in defiance to this stranger. The man chuckled softly.
"Then, for the sake of an old man's need to name the things around him, I will call you…" He trailed off thoughtfully as he gazed into the young boy's golden eyes. "I will call you Altair. Do you know what that name means?"
"No." The boy said shortly.
"It means Flying One." The man replied in a whisper, like it had been the greatest secret ever told.
"Altair…" The boy said thoughtfully, looking at the old man's face with a certain degree of disdain. "And who are you to name me?" He challenged. This time the old man did not chuckle, but laughed outright.
"Ah, my boy! Such sharp wit!" He laughed. "I am called Al Mualim." He leaned forward as though to share another secret. "You've heard of the Hashashin?" The newly named Altair did not react, but simply remained silent. "I am its Grand Master, young Altair." He said, his voice becoming rather grave.
"I have heard of the Hashashin. But what you do is a mystery to me." Altair said carefully. "Perhaps, since you have taken it upon yourself to name me, you would take me to learn of such things?" Al Mualim laughed again.
"It would be my honor." He replied, grasping the boy's shoulder. "Now come, Altair Ibn La'Ahad. Accompany me to my home, and perhaps it can be yours as well."
