AC -Ketoret-

A young Assassin's training was as gratifying as it was severe, and even those who were not familiar with the regime could easily see its testament in the apprentices' bruises and fractured bones. These were well justified, however. The living blades of the Master could never be allowed to waver, and it seemed that he thought it best that the weak be broken and discarded before they were ever set to a task.

Altair thought back on this even as he ran the sun-beaten streets, kicking up dust that steadily began to line his lungs and sweaty robes. How many times had he seen his Brothers train beside him until they bled, until their swords fell from nerveless fingers? He had been one of the chosen, he reminded himself tersely. Neither death nor capture were permitted to him.

Though he spoke this to himself, the reminder could not drown the accusing toll of the alarm bell, or the shouts of Jerusalem's guards in close pursuit behind him. The Assassin's hands and blade were still thick with stolen life, and the stench of it choked him, even more so than the exhaustion.

This was not the first body he had felled, but they were still few enough to count, few enough for him to remember the pallor of each of their faces. He had long been taught to steel himself, and no emotion could be read in his eagle-sharp eyes, but the whisper of unease weighed more on him than he dared admit.

He chanced a look over his shoulder, and was relieved to see that he had won a sizeable lead after a detour over a thin canal. The chasing enemies had been reduced to distant voices and clattered weapons, slow as they were; but even blundering beasts could catch their prey, had they the numbers and teeth.

At the distraction, he misjudged a sharp turn around a sandstone wall, snarling quietly as he caught its edge and stained a brand of scarlet across its surface. He paused, his blooded fingers still upon the mar, as he realized with some shock exactly how messily he had felled his target. He had thought nothing of the act – his very being was his Master's to command, he had long accepted that – but for once, the kill had not been as simple as stalk and strike.

No, this day, he had been careless of his surroundings, and had underestimated the attentiveness of the civilians. He had slipped through the press of bodies and shifting cloth as silently as he had been taught, but had completely disregarded the presence of a slight figure beside him when he swept a blade into his target's neck.

The child had cried out at the flash of the knife, and the Assassin had faltered in surprise, almost in disbelief that he had been noticed. His extraction of the knife had not been clean, and he tore clear through the carotid artery, spattering the road with blood. The difference of the wound had been slight, but it had condemned him, and the guards had leapt to the scent of death as eager hounds.

A nearby shout roused him from his memories, and he shook his head impatiently, swiftly drawing his sleeve across the mark before continuing his flight.

He was nimble enough to dodge through the tumult of the noontime crowd, never so much as upsetting a merchant stand, or a lady precariously bearing a jar of well water. But still the guards persisted, seeming to keep on him by the mere scent of salt and iron tainting his sleeves. The spilled blood told his secrets as clearly as a spoken word.

One of the faster guards finally drew close enough for a strike, but the Assassin needed only to feel the brush of a presence at his back, hear the sing of the blade, before he reacted, spinning to a halt and ducking the sabre. His momentum slid him a good distance backwards across the dust, but he kept his stance, leaning forward as he slashed twice into the man still charging into him.

The corpse fell heavily, but Altair spared it not a glance as he met the second two soldiers, tearing out throats and lives with deft movements. He was running again even before the weapons had fallen from the hands of the dead.

He pushed himself onward, but his breath was beginning to rasp in his throat, parched from the hellfire of the streets and the duration of the run. Had he not been careless, he would have lost his pursuers long ago, would have slipped into the recesses of the local safe house until the guards concluded he had vanished into the ether. An Assassin was meant to be a ghost, a vanishing blade foremost.

Though he only held precious seconds of a lead, a sudden change in the air halted him, and he looked up into the deep shadow cast by one of the city's mighty domes, tilting his head slightly. The cold scent of spice drifted to him again, and he moved toward it without thought. It was unusual, but the sharp aroma calmed him somewhat.

He slipped through the archway into the temple, his breath gentling significantly as he felt the thin smoke whisper against his skin. The inner quiet he felt was odd; an Assassin was taught to be ever alert, always in motion, knowing and reacting to the danger or swords that came for him. Even here, instinct warned him not to lower his blade.

There were a few people within the wide room, prostrate in quiet prayer, and he was careful to lift his steps and avoid disturbing them. The smell that had drawn him in was all around now, as if the high-ceilinged chamber was filled with sweet, burnt wood.

The Assassin shifted his fingers and felt the congealed blood on his hand, slightly shamed to taint the perfumed air with the scent of death. But the wisps of ketoret only seemed to swell in welcome around him, shrouding him without prejudice, without question. The smoke coiled his limbs, and almost involuntarily, he slid slowly into a sit against the chilled stone of the temple wall. He lifted his eyes and breathed the incense, the homage to a god he did not speak for.

Clattering steps just outside tensed him, and he pressed back closer to the wall, his knife hilt gripped tight, and his eyes narrowed as he peered around the edge of the entrance. The guards had halted in the temple courtyard, numbering nearly a score, and fanning out in broken formation in search of him.

However, those that came too close paused at the archway, as if held by an unspoken threat of heresy, should they dare enter while bearing thoughts of violence. The faint traces of cinnamon held them back as effectively as any wall.

Altair frowned minutely as the retreat was called, and the soldiers withdrew from the condemning shadow of the structure. He quietly touched the now dried blood on his sleeve and leather bracer, wondering if he should feel guilty of using such an ideal as a shield.

It took mere minutes for quiet to fall again, and for him to receive an opportunity to escape. However, he did not move, his eyes still fixed upon the curved tiles and pillars sheltering him, and upon the phantom-like smoke that settled about them in clouds. The very air pressed upon him like the beckoning of sleep.

He had never done anything like it before, but for once, he chose to remain still, his thoughts blank and his blade arm finally relaxed. A deep ache he had not even realized he clutched seemed to ease, the many tensions from the kill and the flight quieting.

He shut his eyes and was silent, granting a moment to this space, perhaps not out of penance, but from respect.

Ending.