Bloody Feathers

Altair's first kill was supposed to be a goat.

A goat. 

Al Mualim had called for him and explaining that if he wanted to be an assassin, if he wanted to pierce his hidden blade through a man's throat he first had to learn how to take a life. He had been young back then, only thirteen years old and still, he had found the courage to speak up against his master.



He had asked him if the goat was ill and Al Mualim told him no.



He had asked him then if the goat was supposed to feed the hungry stomachs of his Brothers and Al Mualim told him no, the animal would be burnt after its death.



He had asked him if there was anything wrong at all with it and Al Mualim told him no, it was only a year old and in perfect health and Altair had refused to kill it. The master asked him why he would disobey his orders and he had told him he couldn't follow a man's orders wich stood against their creed. 



Do not kill the innocent.



Al Mualim had reached out for him and for a split second Altair had prepared for the blow he was certain was about to come – but all which happened was that the old man clapped him on his shoulder, smiling and praising him. 



Altair had made the right decision when he was tested for the first time and now as he thought back to it he realized that even if he really would have killed the goat it wouldn't have been enough to prepare him for this. Nothing could have prepared him for how it felt to feel a man's warm blood running over his fingers when he pulled his hidden blade free from his flesh. 



The swordsmith looked with wide eyes at him, panic flashing through them like a thunderbolt tearing through the sky in the middle of a storm. No thunder followed – he didn't even made a sound as Altair had cut through his vocal chords. He sagged against Altair as life was slowly leaving his body and the blood running over his hand was reminding Altair of sand running through his fingers. The man couldn't be saved now and as he stepped back he fell down, wheezing as he tried to draw his last breaths. 



He watched his body twitching, his fingers trembling before he finally stayed still.



No.



Nothing could have prepared him for this. 



He had killed. He had just killed for the first time and he knew at that moment if he would try to find sleep tonight the man's eyes would hunt him in his dreams. 



He felt cold now and looked down on his hand, blood dripping from the tips of his fingers and staining his boots. They were shaking and he stumbled back until his back hit the wall and he slowly slumped down until he was on his knees, leaning forward and one palm pressed flat against the ground to keep his balance as he emptied his stomach next to the corpse.



It was the swordsmith's fault. 



If he wouldn't have sold the Order swords which haven't been forged properly and didn't cause the death of two brothers as they broke during training and the blades splinters bore through their bodies killing them, none of this would have happened. 



If the swordsmith wouldn't have been so eager for quick money his life would have been spared. 



If he would have forged them correctly, his heart would still be beating.



If he-



It was of no use. The man caused the death of two Brothers because of his foolishness. He was no innocent anymore. 



Altair wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he stood slowly up, his knees still shaking and still feeling sick. He swallowed thickly and doubted he would ever get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. Probably not as it would always remind him of how death tasted. 



He wondered if everybody felt like this when they killed for the first time. That was a question he would never get an answer for – nobody would ever admit such thing, he was sure about that.



When he stumbled outside the small blacksmith's shop the world was spinning and he leaned heavily against the wall, taking deep calming breaths. But in the end he couldn't hold back anymore, his face buried in his hands as the tears run hotly over his cheeks and he risked to choke underneath silent sobs. It was the first and last time he would ever cry in his life and he was glad that the small street was empty and no one could witness his shame.



This was not how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to track down the man, to kill him and then leave. The man shouldn't hold any meaning to him, his death shouldn't bother him at all but it did. He wiped the tears from his eyes and stood up straight, head tilted back and staring up and into the dark night's sky. A few more minutes passed and he finally pushed himself off the wall, making his way back to deliver his bloody feather to the rafiq.



In that night he hardly slept, the man's eyes hunting him like he predicted. 



As the years passed he did what he was supposed to do. He tracked down his target, killed it and left. They were hardly men or women anymore, no. They didn't have a face for Altair and he forgot their names as soon as he successfully finished a mission – but their blood stayed on his hands and no matter how long he washed afterwards, it still clung to his skin and he would never get rid of it as well as he would always taste death after he took a life.