#Garnier de Naplouse

[altairz]

Day 3 - Garnier de Naplouse

was a doctor and the 10th Grand Master of the Knights Hospitalier in Acre. He was also a secret member of the Levantine Templars, and one of the targets assigned to the Assassin Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad as part of the mission given to him by his master Al Mualim.

Garnier was the tenth Grand Master of the Knights Hospitalier, a monastic order founded after the First Crusade, who established its first infirmary near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. At first, the order cared for pilgrims, but soon made sure armed guards prevented the pilgrims from being harmed. This escorting force was built up dramatically, and became a dominant Christian group along with the Knights Templar.Garnier began his service with the order in 1177, as a commander of the hospital in Jerusalem, and was promoted a decade later.

[dreamconsumer]

Garnier de Naplouse. He was the 10th Superior of L'Hospital of the Order of St John of Jerusalem from 1190 to 1192. It was under his magistracy that the head house of the Order was transferred from Tyre to Saint-Jean-d'Acre.

[heycolorwind]

Emo City | Colorwind Beats Assassin’s Creed [5]

Memory Block 3 begins with a glitchy trek through the Kingdom to Acre, the home of our next target, and the first half of our investigation.

[teecupangel]

Proposal: instead of Desmond sets up a bakery, he sets up a new bar. But specifically manages to pull off such weird drinks from the future that everyone is fully 100% convinced that he’s really a witch.

Baker Desmond AU in Third Crusades Levant, Renaissance Italy and Colonial America

“This is witchcraft! Sorcery! The work of the devil!”

Desmond wondered if he should just book it.

Sure, it had taken time to create this bar. So many long hours finding the cheapest most okay building in a busy street. So many times talking to people to get them to open up to him and finally give his drinks a shot.

Well… more than a shot.

He knew cocktails would prove to be his selling point.

He even made mocktails for those who do not partake but he made sure they were more expensive than the usual because… well… profit.

Could Desmond be doing something else in his new lease of life?

Absolutely.

Was he going to?

No.

This was Altaïr’s territory… sorta.

Desmond had complete faith that Altaïr do as history demanded.

So Desmond could retire.

But, in all honesty…

He wished Altaïr could just assassinate Garnier de Naplouse already so he wouldn’t have to deal with this crap.

He should have just opened his bar away from Levant.

Maybe he should?

“Desmond, if you can just prove to the Grand Master’s representative that you don’t make concoction of the devil-”

The knight was one of his regulars. He was just trying to help (and keep his favorite bar alive).

But Naplouse’s representative.

He could see the greed in the man’s eyes as he continued to hurl garbage at him.

Desmond was pretty sure Naplouse didn’t even order this.

Desmond made sure he was kept busy with not being able to have enough ‘patients’ after all.

(Just because he’s not actively assassinating Altaïr’s targets doesn’t mean he would just a turn a blind eye to the atrocities he knew was happening)

No.

This man wanted to learn his secrets.

He wanted to encroach on Desmond’s hard-earned monopoly.

Desmond’s lips curved into the smile he had perfected after years of having to deal with the lowest trashes as a bartender.

“I understand.”

The greed in that man’s eyes shone brighter.

… as Desmond’s smile grew colder.

“I will pack up and leave then.”

“WHAT?!”

The exclamation of surprise came not only from the man harassing him and the knight who was trying to help him but from the three other guards who were just standing behind them.

An intimidation tactics if Desmond ever saw one.

He was sure they would trash his place if they were ordered to.

Reluctantly, of course.

But trashing one’s place was better than being called insubordinate and punished for it.

If things go to shit, Desmond could just kick all their asses and book it.

Desmond clasped his hands together as he said lightly, “Actually, someone came before and offered me a job in Ḥalab. I refused, of course.”

Which was true.

“But considering how-” Desmond stressed the word, “… unappreciated I am here.”

Desmond continued to smile as he said, “I believe it’s time for me to leave this place. Ḥalab is filled with many merchants with different ingredients I can use for my…”

Desmond glared at the greedy man as he continued to politely smile, “… concoctions.”

“Tha-that’s-” The man spluttered before shouting, “That is an admission of guilt! By not showing how you make them, you are admitting to being a devil worshiper.”

Desmond could see that none of his guards were buying that crap.

But they were powerless as well.

Desmond’s smile fell as he said, “If you’re not going to let me leave in peace, then I’ll just have to take you all down and keep you silent until I have to leave.”

“I promise not to give any of you lasting damage except you…” Desmond stared at the greedy man who flinched, “I’ll hurt you in a way that will make you remember your stupidity every single day.”

Desmond stepped towards him, making the knights take a step towards the man to protect him, the nearest one whispering, “Desmond, wai-”

“I won’t kill you.” Desmond smiled once more, making everybody freeze as a cold shudder went up their spine, “But you will waste the rest of your life wishing I had.”

.

.

That afternoon, Desmond the bartender left Acre. When the people checked his bar later that night, they saw men unconscious on the floor with one of Naplouse’s men tied to a chair, conscious but barely coherent.

Carved on his forehead was the words “1 Timothy 6:9”.

.

Desmond did not, in fact, go to Ḥalab.

But he did start his next bar in one of the cities that is part of the Silk Road.

[tardigradetheking]

I feel like some people would argue that in assassin's creed garnier de naplouse is coming at things with good intent or at least his medicine is akin to early asylums not very effective but better then the alternative.

I'd argue that it's not the case. He thinks that with his death everything he built would crumble but if he really cared about these people and the advancement of medicine he would have taken steps to share the knowledge or at least written it down and trained an assistant or two

[ilovestrawberry1]

Little fun facts about Lucien:

- He often helps raise money for the unfortunate in Poor District of Acre.

- He loves flowers and gardening because it reminds him of his late mother before he was draft for war.

- Although he works for the Templars, he never likes the way they treat poor people in Acre, especially Garnier de Naplouse (for obvious reasons 😒).

- He has somewhat complicated feelings for Selena. He likes her ideology and the way of thinking (very straightforward), but he doesn't like her actions, the way she tortured one of her prisoners (and one of his brothers-in-arms). Tho, he's still willing to understand and forgive her after hearing about her past. (A̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶s̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶)

[cath-with-a-c]

My fav target in AC1 is Garnier de Naplouse, for just the sheer level of quiet intelligence. 

[allsoundsasscreed]

Altaïr: Let go your burden.

Garnier: Ah... I'll rest now, yes? The endless dream calls to me. But before I close my eyes, I must know - what will become of my children?

Altaïr: You mean the people made to suffer your cruel experiments? They'll be free now to return to their homes.

Garnier: Homes? What homes? The sewers? The brothels? The prisons that we dragged them from?

Altaïr: You took these people against their will.

Garnier: Yes. What little will there was for them to have. Are you really so naive? Do you appease a crying child simply because he wails?

'But I want to play with fire, Father.' What would you say? 'As you wish'? Ah... but then you'd answer for his burns.

Altaïr: These are not children, but men and women full grown.

Garnier: In body, perhaps, but not in mind. Which is the very damage I sought to repair. I admit, without the Piece of Eden - which you stole from us - my progress was slowed. But there are herbs. Mixtures and extracts. My guards are proof of this! They were madmen before I found and freed them from the prisons of their own minds. And, with my death, madmen they will be again.

Altaïr: You truly believe you were helping them?

Garnier: It's not what I believe. It's what I know.

[arcadian-asgardian]

Rescue from Jerusalem

A very late gift from the Christmas Winter Whumperland exchange 2017 (😅) for the gracious and ever-patient @collapse-and-comfort​!

Also available on Ao3

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed I

Tags: Gen, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Altaïr/Maria, Malik, OC Villain, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Fever, + 1 x bonus fanart

Summary: After Altaïr mysteriously vanishes whilst on a mission in Jerusalem, Maria Thorpe sets out for the city, determined to find him and bring him home. But it seems the hand of an old enemy is still at play, and Maria is horrified by what has become of Altaïr when she finally discovers him.

Words: 5,997

___

It had been more than a week since Altaïr was last heard from.

Maria Thorpe crouched on the sandy rooftop, her blades ready at her wrists and fingers itching with worry and anticipation. Below her, a group of Crusader guardsmen were dragging several figures through the shaded alleyway towards the building she had come to infiltrate. It was too dark to see the victims’ properly, but Maria could hear frightened whimpers and sniffling from underneath the bags that covered their faces. As they reached the building, the doorway was unlocked from the inside by two more guards, and the prisoners were ushered roughly inside. Straining closer, Maria thought she heard a voice with an unusual accent - something European, but unfamiliar - but then the door was slammed shut. Even from the rooftop, the clank of the key in the lock and thump as the door was barred from the inside were clear to hear. She would not get in this way.

Cursing, Maria retreated from the edge of the rooftop. What now? Perhaps she should return to the Bureau and seek Malik’s advice. Two days had passed since they had arrived in Jerusalem from Masyaf, having ridden as quickly as their horses could manage, fear for Altaïr’s safety spurring them on. That made it a total of nine days since Altaïr had vanished. The first morning in the city, they hastened straight to the Bureau to question the new rafiq. He knew little of Altaïr’s mission - only that it was in some way connected with the Knights Hospitalier, and with one of Altaïr’s previous Templar targets - Garnier de Naplouse. Altaïr had rested at the Bureau when not out investigating, and then one day had not returned. That gave the rafiq little cause for alarm, but when several days had passed and Altaïr neither appeared nor was there any talk in the city of the hooded man or any suspicious deaths, he had become worried and sent word to Maria and Malik at Masyaf. The following two days were spent scouring the city for clues to Altaïr’s whereabouts.

Maria crept over to her bags and reached inside for the map Malik had found in the Bureau’s archives. Mingling with the people, she had soon learned that something - though it was not clear precisely what - was going on in this fairly innocuous-seeming compound. Disappearances, they had said. Those who went in never seen again. And occasionally, some swore, screams. She shuddered.

The map detailed the layout of the building and the surrounding streets. With frustration, she marked a cross against the entrance in the alleyway below her. Access from the ground would not be possible. She could enter via the roof, but archers patrolled it at all hours of the day - to take them out without alerting the guards inside would be difficult.

She frowned. There was no simple option. This would need cunning, resourcefulness, and all of her skills as an assassin. She placed the map back into her bag and shouldered it, and then began to quietly clamber back down the side of the building to the deserted city streets. As she climbed, a plan began to form in the back of her mind.

*             *             *

“Assassin! Heretic!”

Maria almost laughed as she sprinted ahead of the Saracen guards, dodging and weaving expertly through the crowds in the direction of the compound. These men were faster than many she’d encountered - not quite the typical middle-aged ex-soliders, invalided back from war and just looking for an easy living, that she was used to - but they weren’t as fast as her. Her feet pounded the dirt as she began to approach her target. The guards, a small group, were about twenty paces behind her, though she was widening the distance with every second. She had to be careful not to lose them until the exact correct moment.

She rounded the corner with the agility of a wild gazelle, and the main entrance to the compound suddenly loomed in front of her. There were four guards on the gate, wearing unmarked armour yet still unmistakably Crusaders. She hoped the men pursuing her would be an even match for them.

She dashed past the door guards before they properly had a chance to register her, though a faint cry of “Another assassin!” reached her ears as she darted off down a side alley. She heard the metallic slice of swords being drawn, but then- just as she’d hoped: cries of alarm and Saracen shouts, followed by the clashing of blades and the sound of a struggle. She didn’t stop, fearing that one or two of the group wouldn’t have taken the distraction and could still be chasing her. Instead, she sprung sideways, leaping nimbly up a pile of crates that had been left against the outer wall, grabbing the closest window ledge and beginning to haul herself rapidly upwards. She heard more yells coming from above as she ascended - the archers on the roof running to join the fight. This was her chance.

As she reached the rooftop, she paused, trying to figure out exactly where each man was from the sound alone. There were curses and the panicked sound of arrows being knocked to bows, all coming from her right side. Dangling from the roof edge, she carefully shimmied her way around a corner in the building, the ground far below her, and then peeked her head over the parapet. They were all distracted, facing away from her. Good.

Close to silently, she lifted herself up and then quickly slunk her way over to the centre of the roof where the access hatch was, watching the archers warily the whole way. They were too preoccupied with the fight - which seemed to be going badly for the poor Saracen soldiers - to notice as she lifted the hatch and dropped noiselessly inside.

Inside the building was considerably darker than the sunny streets had been, and far quieter too. Maria paused as her eyes adjusted, relying on her other senses to assess the situation. The air was heavy and smelt… well, frankly, foul, not unlike the scent from the slaughterhouses behind the butcher’s market, but mixed with all manner of strange herbal and spiced aromas. There was little detectable movement in the air, so the building had to be well and truly sealed off from the outside. As the darkness ebbed away, she realised she was standing in a storeroom, surrounded by shelves of bottles, jars and odd-looking equipment. Altaïr wasn’t here. In the distance, the sound of the fight she’d started seemed to be petering out. She couldn’t hear anyone in the rest of the building, but it was still best to be cautious.

As she crept through the maze of rooms, her heart began to pound and her stomach grew more and more anxious as the buildings’ secrets were revealed. The place wasn’t as unoccupied as she’d assumed. Everywhere there were beds and raised tables, and on these lay the sorriest forms of humanity she’d ever encountered. Most were drenched in filthy bandages, many stained with blood, and their skin as grey and loose as the tatters of cloth. A few looked up as she passed, their sunken eyes pleading, but Maria regretfully had to push on past them. Occasional cries of anguish echoed out from hidden corners.

She needed to find Altaïr. Her worry for him had tripled now that she saw what horrors had been occurring here.

She went to round another corner but stopped sharply as a tall figure passed immediately in front of her. Pressing herself flat against the wall, she held her breath as the man walked unknowingly past, and then stopped at the end of the corridor. He turned to inspect the contents of a cabinet, and Maria got a first decent look at his face.

She knew this man from her Templar days. His name was Baldwin de Carreo. He was an associate of Garnier de Naplouse, and also a member of the Knights Hospitalier, though not, she believed, a Templar himself. She had never personally interacted with the man, but from what she had overheard, he was devoted student of de Naplouse’s, and tended to the doctor’s work with a zeal and eagerness that was known to put even the other Templars on edge. The doctor’s death at the hands of the Assassin Order - at the hands of her beloved, in fact - probably only pushed him further in that evil, twisted fanaticism. She could well understand why Altaïr would have considered even rumours of the man’s presence in the Holy Land to be an urgent concern worth dealing with personally. Now, it seemed, it was up to her to deal with him.

De Carreo turned and continued along the corridor, still unaware of Maria’s presence. Slowly, Maria peeled away from the wall and began to stalk him through the space, crouching low, like a leopard fixed on its prey. Suddenly he stopped. She froze. He didn’t turn around, but his head cocked slightly to the side. Had he heard her? Should she attack now, while there was still perhaps a chance to catch him unawares? He outweighed her, and was taller, broader, and likely at least a decently skilled fighter. A scuffle between them might alert the other guards, or he could call for help. Maria had only seconds to make a decision.

She sensed de Carreo begin to turn towards her, and seized her chance. She leapt forward, swiftly grabbing his nearest arm and twisting it high against his back, then used the leverage to drag him closer, forcing him to bend his knees. He tried to struggle but her hidden blade flashed quickly to his throat. That stilled him. He seemed surprised at first but the shock on his face was quickly replaced with a sinister confidence.

“Where is the assassin?” Maria growled at his ear.

“Assassin?” he began to chuckle, but the noise became strangled as Maria squeezed her blade tighter against his throat. “I don’t know what you mean. None of my patients is a killer.”

“A man in a hood,” she pressed. “With a blade, just like this. Altaïr.”

“And if I tell you, you will let me live?” de Carreo asked.

“I don’t see that you deserve to.”

“How so?” he said.

Maria scoffed. “What you’re doing here is unholy. You are torturing innocents!”

“I am trying to help mankind!” responded de Carreo, his voice suddenly full of anger. “To advance the understanding of healing, to save countless lives in the future! That a few lives should be sacrificed for the good of the world is surely something you Assassins understand.”

Maria paused, her blade still held against his throat.

“Your ‘brother’ was equally ignorant,” de Carreo added, with a twisted smile.

Fury filled Maria. She tightened her grip on his arm. “Where. Is. He?” she repeated.

“If I may not bargain for my life, I do not see why I should help you,” he said casually.

“Very well,” replied Maria darkly, and then she dug her blade into the flesh of his throat and drew it sharply to the side, ripping through the tissue and sending a cascade of red hot blood spilling to the ground. De Carreo made a strangled cry and clutched at the wound, sinking to his knees as she let him go, but his hands could do nothing to stem the flow and he soon folded to the ground into the puddle of his own blood, the light quickly fading from his wide eyes. He twitched a few times, and then was still.

Maria regarded his body coldly, with nothing but stern conviction in her heart. Then she shook herself and returned to the search. She peered into every room as she passed, hoping, pleading, to find her beloved in one of them. Panic was beginning to set in. She had to find Altaïr soon, before the guards discovered either her or de Carreo’s body, or this would all have been for nothing. Where was he? She entered an alcove, and was suddenly greeted with a sight that both filled her with relief and horror.

Altaïr lay limply on top of the table. His wrists and ankles were bound with coarse strips of leather, so tight that she could see sharp cuts in the red, raw skin around each restraint. His eyes were closed but as she stepped closer she could make out the shaky rise and fall of his chest, and breathed a sigh of relief. Alive. She gently swept the hair from his sweaty forehead and cupped his face. “Altaïr? Can you hear me?” His eyelids fluttered in response but remained closed. At his side, however, his fist clenched and he began to pull against the restraints. Quickly, Maria cut each of the bonds with her hidden blade and laced her fingers in his, squeezing his hand tenderly. “I’m here. It’s me, it’s Maria. Oh, my love,” her voice cracked. “What have they done to you?”

From outside there came a muffled voice. Maria froze. One of the guards from the gate was walking towards the room, calling back to someone else in the building. She could hear each heavy footstep thudding closer and closer. Altaïr mumbled something faintly. She squeezed his hand again, silently begging him not to rouse now, not when they were at their most vulnerable. The guard was getting closer. If she killed him, the others would soon wonder where he had gone and she could not move Altaïr in time to avoid a confrontation. But suddenly there was a cry of pain from another part of the building, and then the sound of the guard’s footsteps fading away as he went to investigate that instead. Maria exhaled shakily. They needed to leave, now.

Turning back to Altaïr, she saw that his eyes were open, but clouded with pain and unfocused, gazing blankly at the ceiling. “Altaïr?” she whispered again, leaning close over him. His eyes moved hazily towards the sound of her voice, but his gaze was blank and soon drifted away. What was wrong with him? Looking round in confusion, Maria now noticed several bottles and jars of dried leaves next to his bedside. She didn’t recognise the concoctions but there was a strong smell, like hemp or maybe poppy. Combined with the general odour of death and blood, it was nearly enough to make her gag.

She shook her head to clear it and then leant over Altaïr’s body and slid her hands underneath his shoulders and heaved. He cried out in pain as she hauled him off the table and his legs buckled, dragging them both to their knees. Maria’s hands shot to his sides to steady him, but she was shocked to feel something hot and wet beneath her fingers. She pulled them away with a sickening feeling and glanced slowly down. Her fingers were stained with crimson blood. It was starting to seep from beneath Altaïr’s robes, from some wound in his side. She swore violently. Altaïr slumped forwards against her, his breath laboured at her ear. For a moment she just knelt there, holding him closely in her arms and trying to think what to do. There was no time to try to stop the bleeding; another guard was bound to come through at any minute. If they could make it back to the Bureau they could treat Altaïr’s wounds and everything would be alright.

Decided, she pushed Altaïr away and wrapped his arm around her neck, trying to ignore his wince as she gripped the band of damaged skin around his wrist. Taking his weight on her, she staggered to her feet. His blood had begun to trail down his leg and drip onto the floor. With her free hand she tried to clasp at the wound, causing him to groan in pain and flinch away from her. No time for comfort - she began to stumble towards the exit, half-dragging Altaïr whose head still hung limply. His breathing was ragged as he limped along beside her, but he seemed to be conscious enough now to understand the need for silence, each groan he made muffled through gritted teeth.

The other patients seemed to understand as well, many of them staring pleadingly at Maria as they passed their beds, but remaining silent. Maria only wished there was time to rescue them as well. But Altaïr could not wait - when he was healed they could return and liberate all of de Carreo’s prisoners, but not now as blood continued to drip from his side.

They reached the door, unlocked it, and awkwardly negotiated their way through. Outside, Altaïr recoiled at the blinding sunlight, almost trying to push Maria away in his attempt to shield his eyes. She gripped his arms tightly. “Come on,” she whispered, and firmly but gently guided him out into the street.

Navigating their way back to the Bureau was challenging. Where possible, Maria kept them to the back alleys, away from prying eyes. Altaïr soon struggled to stay on his feet, trailing his free hand along each wall as they passed to support himself. Between his moans of pain, he had begun to murmur something, but Maria couldn’t make out what. On several occasions, Maria had to carefully set him down in the shadows, hating herself for it as he grimaced with pain, and eliminate a number of guardsmen who were blocking their path. By the time they arrived at the Bureau they had garnered far too much attention and she was exhausted.

“Altaïr!” Malik shouted. He ran forward to help as Altaïr finally slipped from Maria’s grasp and sunk to his knees. “What has happened?” Malik said breathlessly, alarmed to see the red staining Altaïr’s robes. Altaïr looked up at him as he firmly clasped his shoulder. His eyes were brighter now but still hazy and uncomprehending.

“Inside,” was all Maria replied. Malik nodded. Together they lifted Altaïr back to his feet and carried him inside the Bureau’s sanctuary.

“Lay him on the counter,” Malik instructed as he swept the books and quills hastily to the floor. Altaïr grunted and clawed at his side as Maria did so. His forehead shone with sweat.

“Water,” Malik gestured to the rafiq, who darted off.

“Who did this to you, brother?” Malik asked softly, his hand back on Altaïr’s shoulder. Altaïr was too weak to reply.

“Later,” snapped Maria. She drew her hidden blade and used it to slice open the sodden, bloody fabric around Altaïr’s wound. Malik nodded and helped her as they peeled away the robes to reveal Altaïr’s chest.

“By God…” Malik whispered. Criss-crossing Altaïr’s torso were at least five deep cuts, all quite fresh and unbandaged. A few had crude stitches holding them shut, including that at his side, where the threads had been broken by the movement of the last few hours. Several looked badly inflamed. Each was at a different stage of healing, and there was an awful precision to the sharpness of their edges. This had been deliberate.

The rafiq returned with a large jug of water. As Maria stepped back, stroking her hand across Altaïr’s forehead, Malik carefully poured the water onto the wounds. Altaïr started at the sensation, and Maria had to press his shoulders firmly back to the table. Again he mumbled something, his head rolling from side to side, but she couldn’t make out what it was. As the blood caked around his side washed, away the worst injury became clear. Malik examined it closely.

“This will require stitches. But first we must stop the bleeding.”

He motioned Maria to pass him a clean section of fabric. Folding it, he placed it carefully over Altaïr’s side and then positioned his hand on top and leant down with all of his weight.

Altaïr’s reaction was immediate. He cried out - in fear as well as pain - and his bleary eyes shot open and darted around wildly. “No no no. Not again. Stop this. Not again!” he gasped. His hands were gripping the edges of the table, knuckles shining and muscles shaking. Startled, Malik and Maria leapt back. As the pressure relented, Altaïr relaxed and fell back, his chest heaving.

“Altaïr?” Maria said uncertainly, taking his hand. “It’s us. We’re trying to help you. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

Altaïr made no reply, once again turning towards the sound of her voice but not seeming to be able to focus on anything around him. She squeezed his hand but got no reply.

Dismayed, Malik picked up the material and hesitantly pressed it back against Altaïr’s side. Altaïr cried out again and his legs kicked out, knocking the jug of water off the edge of the table top.

“Hold him down!” instructed Malik. The rafiq scurried to Altaïr’s legs and gripped both of his ankles where the restraints had cut into them, pressing them down hard. Altaïr writhed and fought even harder. Maria gripped his shoulders and leant over him, forcing him flat. She could feel his whole body trembling under her palms. He continued to moan “No no no no…” over and over.

“It’s alright, my love,” she whispered soothingly down at him. He didn’t seem to hear her.

Malik pressed down on the cloth again and Altaïr let out a strangled cry. His breath was coming in short, panicky gasps, and his body jerked as he tried to fight off whatever foes he was seeing through his clouded eyes. His cries and murmurs grew gradually louder as the others stood around anxiously and waited for the pressure to stop the bleeding. It seemed that whatever potions de Carreo had inflicted on him were beginning to wear off.

The fabric slowly stained red as it soaked up Altaïr’s blood. Eventually, the bleeding appeared to slow enough for Malik to cease the pressure and remove the cloth. He began to prepare a needle and thread for the stitches. Altaïr quietened and relaxed a little, giving Maria a chance to stretch her arms. They were already aching with the exertion of holding him down. And the worst was yet to come.

Malik managed to thread the needle and turned apprehensively to Altaïr. He steadied himself, and then reached down towards the edge of the wound.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. Then he pierced the needle point into the flesh.

Altaïr screamed. A raw, guttural howl of agony and horror, tearing out of him as his body bucked and thrashed against their grip. Tears pricked in Maria’s eyes. This was awful. What had de Carreo done to him to make him so frantic to escape?  If it wasn’t taking all of her strength to hold him down against the table, she longed to cup his face, to do whatever it would take to make him realise that he was safe and with friends, and that - whatever horrible things had been done to him - it was all over now. They weren’t trying to hurt him. A teardrop dripped from her eye and fell down onto Altaïr’s chest.

Malik continued with the stitches, staring intently and grim-faced at his work and obviously trying to block out all the other distractions. Maria wondered how he could manage it. At least the quicker the wound was stitched, the sooner Altaïr’s pain would be over. A broken whimper escaped from Altaïr’s mouth amidst the roars and gasps of pain. His struggles were growing weaker, though it still needed both Maria and the rafiq to hold him still enough for Malik to work. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and every inch of his face was contorted with agony, his eyes screwed tight.

“Stop. Please stop,” he managed to plead, his voice beginning to break. Maria’s heart twisted at the desperation in his voice. She’d never seen him like this before. He was always so strong. Seeing him like this… it hurt more than she could bear.

“Nearly done,” Malik muttered. He pulled the last of the stitches through Altaïr’s blood-stained side - eliciting another gurgled cry - and snapped the thread off at the end. Altaïr’s body slowly slackened as the pain ceased, and he collapsed exhausted against the table, eyes still closed and panting heavily. Maria removed her shaking hands from his arms and went to stroke his face again. He flinched weakly away from her touch at first, but seemed too weary to keep fighting. His skin was as hot as ash underneath her hand.

“It’s finished, my love. Rest now,” she whispered.

“I will prepare somewhere for him to rest,” said the rafiq, and vanished into the courtyard.

Malik fetched clean bandages and began to carefully wrap them around Altaïr’s chest, concealing the horrible wounds. Maria breathed a small sigh of relief as she lifted Altaïr’s now-limp form up so that the cloth could be passed underneath. His head lolled weakly against her, eyelid fluttering, but he remained silent as they worked, and only let out a faint moan as she set him down again.

Once the bandages were done, Malik warily reached for Altaïr’s wrist and inspected the damage. The skin there had been rubbed raw to the point of bleeding, and cut into by the edges of the restraints. Altaïr flinched ever so slightly away. Saying nothing, but with a grave expression, Malik poured out two bowls of water, and clean pieces of cloth to go with them. He handed one to Maria, and then, taking a wrist each, they began to slowly wash away the blood from Altaïr’s skin. The depth of the cuts and bruised skin around them was gradually revealed, but it still looked better, cleaner, without days’ worth of crusted redness. Altaïr lay still, exhausted.

“How could we have allowed this to happen?” Malik murmured quietly, not looking up.

Maria shook her head. They could never have foreseen something like this.

“I take it the one responsible is-”

“-Dealt with,” Maria finished, her voice cold. Dead by her blade. As he goddamn deserved. “He will never lay hands on an innocent again,” she said.

Malik nodded, seeming satisfied.

They cleaned, dried and bandaged both of Altaïr’s wrists and then his ankles. Altaïr barely stirred as they worked, though Maria could tell by the heavy rhythm of his breaths that he was still conscious. Then the rafiq returned and together he and Maria lifted Altaïr’s listless form off of the table and carried him out to the courtyard, where the rafiq had arranged rugs and cushions for him to rest on. Bowing respectfully, the rafiq returned indoors, and after offering a consoling hand on her shoulder, Malik followed him, leaving Maria and Altaïr alone.

Maria sighed deeply and gazed at Altaïr with sorrow as she stroked his forehead. His brow furrowed slightly into a frown and she watched intently as his eyes slid blearily open. They were glazed with pain and confusion, but not as worryingly blank as they had been before.

“…Maria?” he whispered weakly.

“It’s me, my love. I’m here,” she squeezed his hand.

His gaze flickered around the empty courtyard. “…W-Where…?” he croaked.

“You’re safe, you’re back at the Bureau.” She ran a hand through his tangled hair and smiled softly. “It’s all over.”

Seeming relieved to hear it, Altaïr slumped back into the cushions and his eyes fluttered slowly closed again. She gazed down tenderly at him as his breathing settled and the last of the tension drained out of his body. His forehead was still very hot and clammy to the touch, which aroused a wave of concern in her, but seeing him almost peaceful and back with them, safe, was enough to dampen the worry for now. She leant over and placed a quiet kiss on his forehead, and then left him to his rest.

*             *             *

Altaïr’s fever broke on the third day.

It had been a horrific ordeal for Maria to watch as he suffered and burnt up from the inside out, and there were dark moments in the dead of night when she honestly didn’t know if he was going to pull through. She had barely slept since they had brought him back. Though she and Malik took it in shifts to stay by Altaïr’s side, she found that not even the bone-deep exhaustion was enough to steal her away from fear for him when she tried to get some rest.

Malik, likewise, seemed grey with tiredness, bitten with worry, and constantly uneasy. When it had become apparent that the fever ravaging Altaïr’s body wasn’t abating, he’d sent the rafiq out to seemingly every apothecary in the city for any poultices and tinctures that might help calm the infection. Maria got the sense that he didn’t really know what to do for Altaïr much better than she did.

They applied fresh poultices to Altaïr’s wounds often. At first, it needed both of them, as Altaïr continued to try to fight them off, but as he grew weaker and more delirious in the grip of the fever, Maria found she could manage alone. She still couldn’t stand to look directly at the cruel incisions as she carefully peeled away the old bandages and replaced them with fresh cloth. Altaïr would still stir whenever anyone touched him. He was too feverish to be fully conscious - when his eyes were open, they were dull and distant, and never managed to stay open for long. During the worst of the waves, he began to writhe underneath his blankets. His head would toss from side to side, his face twisted with anguish, and his hands clutched emptily at the air or sometimes at his bandages. Maria had to gently pry his clawing hands away, and often sat for many hours holding them at the wrists and trying to soothe him back into sleep.

He also shied away when she tried to help him drink the potions they’d acquired. Whether that was because of the foul taste, or because of associations with whatever had happened to him during his captivity, she didn’t know. It broke her heart, but she still patiently cradled his head and poured each dose down his unwilling throat.

What distressed her the most, however, were the quiet cries that constantly slipped from his lips. He would call out through the delirium with muffled curses or pleas as he tried to fight against whatever invisible demons he was imagining around him, or sometimes mumble strange things she didn’t understand, about mankind or science or morality, apparently arguing with people who weren’t there.

On one occasion he seemed to ask after her, and for a moment her heart was lifted, thinking he had finally returned to them, but when she leant close over him and whispered “I’m here”, he just continued to repeat the same breathless murmurs - “Maria… w-where are… where are you…” - eyes unseeing. Eventually she tried to harden her heart to his cries, and just stayed for hours by his side, tending to his injuries and wiping gently at his clammy forehead with a damp cloth.

On the third day, she was almost dozing off with Altaïr’s head cradled in her lap, when suddenly she heard him speak. “Maria?” His voice was croaky, but sounded more his own than it had since he first descended into the haze of the fever. Hope leapt in her heart and she looked down at him. His eyes were fully open, bright and alive and gazing up at her. He moved to sit up, and though he grimaced and pressed a hand to his chest, with Maria’s help he managed to get upright. He looked around the courtyard and then turned back to her.

“How long have I been out?”

Her face broke into a smile as relief flooded her. “Three days, my love. I thought- …I worried you would not return to us.”

She rubbed at the back of his hand. He squeezed back hers back.

“I dreamt… ” - he frowned - “…strange things.” A dark look crossed his face like a cloud eclipsing the sun. Maria held his hand tighter.

“De Carreo is dead,” she announced. “And the rest of his patients have been liberated.”

Altaïr nodded, but Maria could see in his eyes that his mind was still elsewhere, doubtless dwelling on the last clear memories he had. He shuddered ever so slightly, but then he blinked and turned to smile at her, this time consciously.

“Did you come alone?” he asked, surprised.

Maria shook her head quickly, suddenly remembering. “Malik!” she called out loudly.

There was the sound of movement from inside the Bureau, followed by a loud thump and muffled cursing, and then Malik appeared in the doorway. His hair was dishevelled and he looked dazed, but his eyes shone as he noticed Altaïr.

“Brother, you’re awake!” he cried, smiling widely.

He rushed to kneel beside them, and grasped Altaïr’s shoulder firmly.

“It is good to have back with us,” he said. His voice was warm with sincerity and relief.

Altaïr bowed his head and lifted a hand weakly to his chest in acknowledgement. The shift in position made him wince and Maria felt his weight suddenly pressing back on her again as he faltered. “Easy, my love,” Maria calmed him. Malik quickly caught Altaïr by his other shoulder and they lowered him back against the cushions. A few beads of sweat had reappeared on his forehead and his eyes were outlined with frown-lines as his face twisted with pain.

Maria picked up the wet cloth and dabbed gently at his face. He leant subtly into the cool of the cloth as Malik unfastened his robes and began to unbandage his chest. “Just breathe,” Maria whispered. Removing the bandages, Malik examined the injuries underneath.

“Argh! Son of a jackal…” Altaïr flinched and cursed beneath his breath as Malik pressed carefully at the edges of the cuts.

“Apologies, brother,” Malik responded, but with a wry smile. He finished his examination and straightened up. “Your wounds are healing well,” he declared happily. “In a few days, we should be able to return to Masyaf. It will be better for you to finish healing there.”

*             *             *

Two days later, the three assassins sat aside their heavily-burdened horses, the road ahead winding into the parched mountains and Jerusalem slowly disappearing into the sand-haze behind them. Maria rode behind Altaïr, keeping a watchful eye on him. His injuries were not yet fully healed and she knew the jostling of riding had to be paining him, but he seemed to handle his steed confidently on the rocky path. The strength of this man she called her beloved never ceased to amaze her.

She paused and turned to look back at the city. She hoped it would be a long time before they ever had to return to Jerusalem. She felt no doubt that they would both be plagued by the memories of what had happened there for some time to come. But for now at least, they could put it behind them and focus on returning Altaïr to his full strength.

“What is it, my love?” Altaïr’s voice cut across her senses. She turned back around. He and Malik had halted their steeds, and were waiting for her. Altaïr’s face was lined with concern as he gazed at her. Another pang of love for him blossomed in her heart. She drew her horse alongside his, and leant over to him.

“Nothing, my love,” she smiled, and kissed him deeply, feeling his lips soften beneath hers as he ardently returned the kiss.

Malik sighed with feigned impatience ahead of them. Altaïr’s mouth rose into a smirk as he and Maria slowly parted and settled back into their saddles. Then, spurring their horses on, they continued together along the path towards home.

[willkill4pudding]

Insomnia and boredom have led me to make a list of the actual years of death of the targets in the first Assassin's Creed game

Names in parentheses are in game names of historical figures the character is based off of in cases that it’s a character inspired by a person but not directly them.

1191 Tamir* 1192 Garnier de Naplouse 1191 Talal* 1191 Abu'l Nuqoud* 1191 William de Montferrat 1210 Majd al-Din Mubārak (Majd Addin) 1217 Ibn Jubayr (Jubayr Al-Hakim) ???? Sibrand (was in the Middle East around 1190) 1193 Robert de Sablé

*non historical figure

I know someone has probably already made this list but, again, I'm very bored right now

This is connected to a whole personal rant about how the writers decided to change the dates of the first game to say it all happened over the course of a few weeks and the Templars changed the narrative for Reasons when IMO Altair’s redemption arc especially in relation to Malik would make alot more sense and feel more natural if it occurred over the course of the three years the actual people would have died in rather than a couple of weeks (not counting the two who are heavily inspired by, but not actually the historical person themselves)

But ending on a lighter note; Fun fact, William de Montferrat's son Conrad de Montferrat was originally supposed to be the target since he was actually killed by the Order of the Assassins in 1192 but since it was a year after they set the game they decided to change it

[altairz]

Day 4 - Talal

was a slaver and a member of the Levantine Templars. He was one of nine men killed by the Assassin Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad on his quest for redemption, upon the order of Al Mualim, the Mentor of the Levantine Assassins during the Third Crusade. He was located in the rich district of Jerusalem where he had based his slave trading business..

A former member of the Saracen army, Talal returned to the holy city of Jerusalem, where he established a bandit gang made up of men whose loyalty to him was unquestioned. Operating out of an old warehouse, they soon became known for kidnapping men, women and children of all social stations and shipping them off to distant lands to be sold as slaves, many of them sent to Garnier de Naplouse in Acre for his experiments. Although the city guard was well aware of Talal's actions, they turned a blind eye in return for regular bribes from the bandits.

[masterpaulo242]

Que hace que assassins creed sea una de las mejores sagas de videojuegos que hay

assassins creed una de las mejores sagas de videojuegos que hay aunque a ido decayendo estos últimos años con las ultimas entregas que han salido juegos como assassins creed, assassins cred 2, 3 o black flag son juegos que han hecho que assassins creed se coloque como unas de las mejores sagas en la industria de los videojuegos. pero que hace que este juego sea tan bueno ya sea por sus grandes personajes, sus épicos escenarios o sus envolventes historias, (al hacer el resumen de los juegos se uso el orden cronológico de como salieron los juegos) . esto empieza en el año 2012 con un tipo llamado desmond miles que de niño escapo de su casa por que sus padres eran muy estrictos con el por un tiempo estuvo viviendo de mochilero hasta conseguir trabajo en un bar hasta que la compañía la abstergo lo secuestra por que resulta que desmond es el ultimo descendiente de un extenso linaje perteneciente a la milenaria Hermandad de los hashshashin o asesinos. para meterlo en una maquina llamada el animus que hace que pueda ver la memoria de sus antepasados asesinos para conseguir un antiguo artefacto llamado los fragmentos del edén los cuales les otorgarían un poder ilimitado con el que dominar el mundo y cambiar su destino. primero nos ponen en los zapatos de  Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad  un asesino de tierra santa en el territorio de masyaf en la época de las cruzadas del siglo XII su Gran Maestro era un sabio anciano llamado Al-Mualim. Este grupo trabajaba inicialmente haciendo asesinatos políticos calculados para mantener la paz en la región de forma discreta, o con un gran espectáculo público (cuando el mensaje debía ser masivo). Para ellos, mantener la paz implicaba hacer algunos "sacrificios", pero se regían bajo tres leyes estrictas: Aparta tu hoja de la carne del inocente: Un Asesino tiene totalmente prohibido matar a gente inocente por simple diversión, solo puede matar a quien es culpable pero siempre como último recurso.

Camúflate entre la gente y confúndete con la multitud: Nunca debes enfrentarte al enemigo cara a cara, debes ser sigiloso y no ser visto por nadie.

Nunca comprometas a la Hermandad: Ninguno de tus actos deben tener consecuencias directas ni indirectas a la Hermandad.

y de otro lado están los templarios, que en apariencia son una de las muchas órdenes que luchan junto a los cristianos en la Cruzada, pero su objetivo es conseguir el llamado Fruto del Edén, un artefacto antiguo con el cual pretenden apoderarse de las mentes de todas las personas y obtener una sociedad civilizada, que viva en paz, pero sin voluntades. Su maestro era Roberto de Sable, antes de que lo asesinaran. Altaïr deberá asesinar a nueve objetivos históricos para recuperar su rango en la orden y recuperar su honor, dichos objetivos se presentan como malvados Templarios y Hospitalarios: Tamir Bin Musa, Garnier de Naplouse, Talal, Abu'l Nuqoud, Guillermo de Montferrato, Majd Addin, Sibrand, Jubair Al Hakim y Robert de Sablé.

Con el transcurso delprimeros juego, se muestra cómo el objetivo de la Hermandad se refina pasando de "mantener la paz a cualquier coste", a "proteger el libre albedrío de los hombres, enseñar en vez de dominar, y con paciencia esperar una evolución en la sociedad" e indirectamente "Evita que los Templarios logren todos sus objetivos".

como esto se va a alargar mucho si resumo todos los juegos en un solo post lo voy a hacer en varias partes para no hacerlos tan largos y en el próximo resumire la saga de ezio que consta de tres juegos y la historia de konnor 

[hellman55]

"Assassin's Creed 1", HD walkthrough (100% + Subtitles), Memory Block 3 - Garnier De Naplouse (Acre)

[teecupangel]

I'm almost sorry to add another story idea to your backlog pile, BUT:

Elijah finds out what his dad went through, manages to break into a parallel universe, time travels to the 3 eras of the main ancestors, and tries to change things enough to save Desmond. Altair, Ezio, and Ratonhnhake:ton ask this tiny, angry, sarcastic, cactus of a child why he's doing what he's doing, and he eventually explains it over time.

Desmond, on the other hand, is watching all of this through the animus: a son he didn't know existed was trying to save him. An infant who he had never met, and who had never met him, was fighting time and reality itself to save him from a fate that still hasn't been explained, was showing more care and love and compassion for him than anyone Desmond had ever known before. And it hurts, because Desmond just grows to love him more and more, but thinks he'll never truly meet him outside of a Bleed.

Elijah never seems to age, even though he spends like forty years picking on Ezio. There's a statue of him in the Monterrigioni sanctuary, and he hates it with a passion.

Just... Elijah trying to fuck up time enough to save his dad, and Desmond watching all of it both touched and heartbroken, because if he's going through all of this anyways, it was all for nothing.

Then Elijah comes out of nowhere in the Grand Temple and sucker punches Juno with a data virus he had hardcoded into their lineage's DNA over nine centuries lmao

Please never be sorry for sending me an ask. Pile as much as you want as long as you guys understand that it would take a while for me to answer them (a month or so at this point XD)

Okay, but can you just imagine if Elijah was just a teenager in this one? That would give more of a sucker punch vibe to Desmond once he learns who Elijah is.

He has the ability to time travel but he can’t control where he gets sent. His goal had been to save Desmond Miles but he made the mistake of tying his time to Desmond Miles and not to someone more stable like Rebecca Crane or Shaun Hastings.

Hell, William Miles would be a better choice.

Because…

Desmond Miles’ ‘time’ is connected to the memories he watch in the Animus, making Elijah slip in and out of certain ‘times’, following the memories Desmond watches.

Desmond assumed Elijah was one of the informants in Altaïr’s memories. It’s only when Altaïr began to see him as an annoying child who always got in the way of Altaïr’s missions that Elijah told the truth.

Why?

Because Elijah has nothing to lose from telling Altaïr the truth. He was a prisoner of time itself, being yanked time and time again. He has a theory that he was being yanked to the time in Altaïr’s life where Desmond was watching him so he figured he could give Desmond information as well using Altaïr.

It would be funny, after all.

The Isus have chosen Ezio Auditore to be their prophet.

Why couldn’t Elijah make Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad his prophet then?

And he’ll take Ezio Auditore from the Isus as well.

Maybe it was Aita’s selfishness and desire for power.

Maybe it was his very own selfish desire to have something that was truly his.

“Shall we make a deal, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?”

“A deal?” Those golden eyes seemed to pierce his very soul.

But it didn’t matter what he saw.

He cannot begin to fathom the truth.

Not yet, anyway.

Right now, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was a man lost in a vicious snowstorm threatening to swallow him whole and pull him to his frozen grave.

He still haven’t found the warmth he was meant to have, given to him by the Calculations.

“My name is Elijah.” He said, “I am a child of Time itself.”

“What nonsen-”

“I will correctly tell you what will happen when you confront Garnier de Naplouse.” Elijah stated, making Altaïr stop from walking away from him. Altaïr turned just enough to stare at him with one of his golden eyes as Elijah continued, “And I will tell you the future you are meant to have.”

“And what do you want in exchange?”

“From you? Nothing.” Elijah admitted, “All I want is a bit of your time.”

“My time?”

“To talk to Desmond Miles.”

Altaïr frowned as he said, “I do not know anyone by that name.”

“I know.” Elijah answered with a nod, “But he’s watching you. The Templars are forcing him to watch you right now and it is because he is forced to watch you that he comes to care for you so…”

“I will help you save yourself, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.” Elijah said, “To change your fate to whatever you desire, instead of what has been laid out in front of you. In exchange…”

“All I ask is you listen to me so I can take to my father.” Elijah’s lips curved into a small smirk that felt more Aita than him, “And to commemorate my first message to my father, I believe I should tell him an important truth.”

“Lucy Stillman is a Templar who betrayed the Assassins.”

(I feel like in this case, Elijah would provide more information and let Altaïr do what he wants. He only starts to actually have a more active roll once the memory seals from ACR starts and he grows close to Altaïr’s children. By the time he gets to Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton, he’s more ‘fuck the backseat, I’m driving’ and actively helps. This ends up with Elijah finally ‘returning’ to Desmond Miles’ time just as Minerva and Juno told him what will happen if he lets the world burn and, by that point, Elijah had already completed a device that would force Juno’s consciousness to operate the device in Desmond’s stead).

[justwhumpythings]

Here’s my Winter Whumperland fic for @rocanono ! Once again, very sorry it’s incomplete at the moment but once I get over this darn stomach bug I will be sure to do the rest, especially the scene that fulfils the prompt you gave me. Atm it also cuts off in the middle of a scene oops :/

A quick summary of what’s ‘happened’ up to this point:

Altair has been missing for about a week, and Maria and Malik have come to Jerusalem from Masyaf to try and find him. After investigating, Maria learns that many people have been disappearing the in city recently, and tracks them down to a non-descript but heavily guarded building. Infiltrating the building, she discovers that a follower of Garnier de Naplouse has been continuing his cruel experiments on kidnapped patients. She soon locates Altair among them…

Altaïr lay limply on top of the table. His wrists and ankles were bound with coarse strips of leather, so tight that she could see sharp cuts in the red, raw skin around each restraint. His eyes were closed but as she stepped closer she could make out the shaky rise and fall of his chest, and breathed a sigh of relief. Alive. She gently swept the hair from him sweaty forehead and cupped his face. “Altaïr? Can you hear me?” His eyelids fluttered in response but remained closed. At his side, however, his fist clenched and he began to pull against the restraints. Quickly, Maria cut each of the bonds with her hidden blade and laced her fingers in his, squeezing his hand tenderly. “I’m here. It’s me, it’s Maria. Oh, my love,” her voice cracked. “What have they done to you?”

From outside there came a muffled voice. Maria froze. One of the guards was walking towards the room, calling back to someone else in the building. She could hear each heavy footstep thudding closer and closer. Altaïr mumbled something faintly. She squeezed his hand again, silently begging him not to rouse now, not when they were at their most vulnerable. The guard was getting closer. If she killed him, the others would soon wonder where he had gone and she could not move Altaïr in time to avoid a confrontation. But suddenly there was a cry of pain from another part of the building, and then the sound of the guard’s footsteps fading away as he went to investigate that instead. Maria exhaled shakily. They needed to leave, now.

Turning back to Altaïr, she saw that his eyes were open, but clouded with pain and unfocused, gazing blankly at the ceiling. “Altaïr?” she whispered again, leaning close over him. His eyes moved hazily towards the sound of her voice, but his gaze was blank and soon drifted away. What was wrong with him? Looking round in confusion, Maria now noticed several bottles and jars of dried leaves next to his bedside. She didn’t recognise the concoctions but there was a strong smell, like hemp or maybe poppy. Combined with the general odour of death and blood, it was nearly enough to make her gag.

She shook her head to clear it and then leant over Altaïr’s body and slid her hands underneath his shoulders and heaved. He cried out in pain as she hauled him off the table and his legs buckled, dragging them both to their knees. Maria’s hands shot to his sides to steady him, but she was shocked to feel something hot and wet beneath her fingers. She pulled them away with a sickening feeling and glanced slowly down. Her fingers were stained with crimson blood. It was starting to seep from beneath Altaïr’s robes, from some wound in his side. She swore violently. Altaïr slumped forwards against her, his breath laboured at her ear. For a moment she just knelt there, holding him closely in her arms and trying to think what to do. There was no time to try to stop the bleeding; another guard was bound to come through at any minute. If they could make it back to the Bureau they could treat Altaïr’s wounds and everything would be alright.

Decided, she pushed Altaïr away and wrapped his arm around her neck, trying to ignore his wince as she gripped the band of damaged skin around his wrist. Taking his weight on her, she staggered to her feet. His blood had begun to trail down his leg and drip onto the floor. With her free hand she tried to clasp at the wound, causing him to groan in pain and flinch away from her. No time for comfort - she began to stumble towards the exit, half-dragging Altaïr whose head still hung limply. His breathing was ragged as he limped along beside her, but he seemed to be conscious enough now to understand the need for silence, each groan he made muffled through gritted teeth.

The other patients seemed to understand as well, many of them staring pleadingly at Maria as they passed their beds, but remaining silent. Maria only wished there was time to rescue them as well. But Altaïr could not wait - when he was healed they could return and liberate all of de Carreo’s prisoners, but not now as blood continued to drip from his side.

They reached the door and awkwardly negotiated their way through. Outside, Altaïr recoiled at the blinding sunlight, almost trying to push Maria away in his attempt to shield his eyes. She gripped his arms tightly. “Come on,” she whispered, and firmly but gently guided him out into the street.

Navigating their way back to the Bureau was challenging. Where possible, Maria kept them to the back alleys, away from prying eyes. Altaïr soon struggled to stay on his feet, trailing his free hand along each wall as they passed to support himself. Between his moans of pain, he had begun to murmur something, but Maria couldn’t make out what. On several occasions, Maria had to carefully set him down in the shadows, hating herself for it as he grimaced with pain, and eliminate a number of guardsmen who were blocking their path. By the time they arrived at the Bureau they had garnered far too much attention and she was exhausted.

“Altaïr!” Malik shouted. He ran forward to help as Altaïr finally slipped from Maria’s grasp and sunk to his knees. “What has happened?” Malik said breathlessly, alarmed to see the red staining Altaïr’s robes. Altaïr looked up at him as he firmly clasped his shoulder. His eyes were brighter now but still hazy and uncomprehending.

“Inside,” was all Maria replied. Malik nodded. Together they lifted Altaïr back to his feet and carried him inside the Bureau’s sanctuary.

“Lay him on the counter,” Malik instructed as he swept the books and quills hastily to the floor. Altaïr grunted and clawed at his side as Maria did so. His forehead shone with sweat.

“Water,” Malik gestured to the rafiq, who darted off.

“Who did this to you, brother?” Malik asked softly, his hand back on Altaïr’s shoulder. Altaïr was too weak to reply.

[historybehindassassinscreed]

In Game:

Richard I, commonly known as Richard the Lionheart, was the King of England from 1189 until his death in 1199. He was the second monarch of the House of Plantagenet. He was also the commander of the Crusader army during the Third Crusade and was considered a great military leader and warrior.

Prompted by Saladin's recapture of Jerusalem, Richard vowed to go on crusade. He was crowned king in September 1189 and, after remaining in England for only six months, set off for the Holy Land. During his journey, Richard scored a series of successes, notably conquering Sicily and retaking Acre.

In 1191, Richard departed from Acre with his army to move south, and left William of Montferrat as Regent Lord of Acre, unaware that William was secretly a member of the Templar conspiracy who intended to betray him. Fortunately for the oblivious Richard, William was killed by the Assassin Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad soon after Richard had left Acre.

Under Richard, the Crusaders eventually reached Arsuf, where they engaged Saladin's army. Here they were approached by Altaïr, the Assassin responsible for killing not only William of Montferrat, but also the leaders of the Knights Hospitalier, Garnier de Naplouse, and of the Knights Teutonic, Sibrand.

Altaïr then claimed that Robert de Sablé, Grand Master of the Knights Templar and one of the generals working alongside Richard, intended to betray the king. However, Robert insisted that Altaïr's story was merely a ruse to keep Richard from interfering in the Assassin's mission.

Unsure on who to believe, Richard left the decision in the hands of God, declaring that Robert and his Templars were to fight Altaïr in a trial by combat. Altaïr proved the victor, and so Richard accepted the Assassin's version of events. Richard and Altaïr then discussed the philosophies of war and peace, with Richard admitting that he was not yet ready for peace with Saladin. As Altaïr left, saying that he needed to confront the faults of his Master, Richard reminded him that Al Mualim was merely human, just as he was.

The revelation that his conflict with the Saracens had been exploited by the Templars eventually led Richard to make peace with Saladin. He would then head back home in 1192.

In Real Life:

Richard I of England was born on September 6th, 1157 in Oxford, England to King Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was a younger brother of Count William IX of Poitiers, Henry the Young King and Duchess Matilda of Saxony. As the third legitimate son of King Henry II, he was not expected to ascend the throne.

In 1169, King Henry and King Louis VII of France agreed that Richard should be wed to Louis's daughter Alice. This engagement was to last for some time, although Richard never showed any interest in her; Alice was sent from her home to live with the court in England, while Richard stayed with his holdings in France.

Brought up among the people he was to govern, Richard soon learned how to deal with the aristocracy. But his relationship with his father had some serious problems. He possessed considerable political and military ability. However, like his brothers, he fought with his family, joining them in the great rebellion against their father in 1173. He displayed considerable military skill and earned a reputation for courage (the quality that led to his nickname of Richard the Lionheart), but he dealt so harshly with the rebels that they called on his brothers to help drive him from Aquitaine. Now his father interceded on his behalf, fearing the fragmentation of the empire he had built (the "Angevin" Empire, after Henry's lands of Anjou). However, no sooner had King Henry gathered his continental armies together than the younger Henry unexpectedly died, and the rebellion crumpled. In 1183 his brother Henry died, leaving Richard heir to the throne. Henry II wanted to give Aquitaine to his youngest son, John. Richard refused and, in 1189, joined forces with Philip II of France against his father, hounding him to a premature death in July 1189.

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As the oldest surviving son, Richard the Lionheart was now heir to England, Normandy, and Anjou. In light of his extensive holdings, his father wanted him to cede Aquitaine to his brother John, who had never had any territory to govern and was known as "Lackland." But Richard had a deep attachment to the duchy. Rather than give it up, he turned to the king of France, Louis's son Philip II, with whom Richard had developed a firm political and personal friendship. In November of 1188 Richard paid homage to Philip for all his holdings in France, then joined forces with him to drive his father into submission.

They forced Henry -- who had indicated a willingness to name John his heir -- to acknowledge Richard as heir to the English throne before hounding him to his death in July, 1189.

Ever since Saladin had captured Jerusalem in 1187, Richard's greatest ambition was to go to the Holy Land and take it back. His father had agreed to engage in Crusade along with Philip, and a "Saladin Tithe" had been levied in England and France to raise funds for the endeavor. Now Richard took full advantage of the Saladin Tithe and the military apparatus that had been formed; he drew heavily from the royal treasury and sold anything that might bring him funds -- offices, castles, lands, towns, lordships.

In less than a year after his accession to the throne, Richard the Lionheart raised a substantial fleet and an impressive army to take on Crusade.

Philip and Richard agreed to go to the Holy Land together, but not all was well between them. The French king wanted some of the lands that Henry had held, and that were now in Richard's hands, which he believed rightfully belonged to France. Richard was not about to relinquish any of his holdings; in fact, he shored up the defenses of these lands and prepared for conflict. But neither king really wanted war with each other, especially with a Crusade awaiting their attention.

In fact, the Crusading spirit was strong in Europe at this time. Although there were always nobles who wouldn't put up a farthing for the effort, the vast majority of the European nobility were devout believers of the virtue and necessity of Crusade. Most of those who didn't take up arms themselves still supported the Crusading movement any way that they could. And right now, both Richard and Philip were being shown up by the septuagenarian German emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, who had already pulled together an army and set off for the Holy Land.

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In July of 1190 the Crusaders set off. They stopped at Messina, Sicily, in part because it served as an excellent point of departure from Europe to the Holy Land, but also because Richard had business with King Tancred. The new monarch had refused to hand over the bequest the late king had left to Richard's father, and was witholding the dower owed to his predecessor's widow and keeping her in close confinement.

This was of special concern to Richard the Lionheart, because the widow was his favorite sister, Joan. To complicate matters, the Crusaders were clashing with the citizens of Messina.

Richard resolved these problems in a matter of days. He demanded (and got) Joan's release, but when her dower was not forthcoming he began taking control of strategic fortifications. When the unrest between the Crusaders and the townfolk flared into a riot, he personally quelled it with his own troops.

Three days out of Messina, Richard the Lionheart and his fleet ran into a terrible storm. When it was over, about 25 ships were missing. In fact the missing ships had been blown further on, and three of them (though not the one Richard's family were on) had been driven aground in Cyprus. Some of the crews and passengers had drowned; the ships had been plundered and the survivors were imprisoned. All of this had occurred under the governance of Isaac Ducas Comnenus, the Greek "tyrant" of Cyprus, who had at one point entered into an agreement with Saladin to protect the government he'd set up in opposition to the ruling Angelus family of Constantinople.

Richard the Lionheart successfully invaded the island, then attacked against the odds, and won. The Cypriots surrendered, Isaac submitted, and Richard took possession of Cyprus for England. This was of great strategic value, since Cyprus would prove to be an important part of the supply line of goods and troops from Europe to the Holy Land. Before Richard the Lionheart left Cyprus, he married Berengaria of Navarre on May 12th, 1191.

Richard's first success in the Holy Land, after having sunk an enormous supply ship encountered on the way, was the capture of Acre. The city had been under siege by Crusaders for two years, and the work Philip had done upon his arrival to mine and sap the walls contributed to its fall.

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However, Richard not only brought an overwhelming force, he spent considerable time examining the situation and planning his attack before he even got there. It was almost inevitable that Acre should fall to Richard the Lionheart, and indeed, the city surrendered mere weeks after the king arrived. Shortly afterward, Philip returned to France.

Although Richard the Lionheart scored a surprising and masterful victory at Arsuf, he was unable to press his advantage. Saladin had decided to destroy Ascalon, a logical fortification for Richard to capture. Taking and rebuilding Ascalon in order to more securely establish a supply line made good strategic sense, but few of his followers were interested in anything but moving on to Jerusalem. And fewer still were willing to stay on once, theroretically, Jerusalem was captured.

Matters were complicated by quarrels among the various contingents and Richard's own high-handed style of diplomacy. After considerable political wrangling, Richard came to the unavoidable conclusion that the conquest of Jerusalem would be far too difficult with the lack of military strategy he'd encountered from his allies; furthermore, it would be virtually impossible to keep the Holy City should by some miracle he manage to take it. He negotiated a truce with Saladin that allowed the Crusaders to keep Acre and a strip of coast that gave Christian pilgrims access to sites of sacred significance, then headed back to Europe.

Bad weather forced Richard's ship to put in at Corfu, in the lands of the Byzantine Emperor Isaac II Angelos, who objected to Richard's annexation of Cyprus, formerly Byzantine territory. Disguised as a Knight Templar, Richard sailed from Corfu with four attendants, but his ship was wrecked near Aquileia, forcing Richard and his party into a dangerous land route through central Europe. On his way to the territory of his brother-in-law Henry the Lion, Richard was captured shortly before Christmas 1192 near Vienna by Leopold V, Duke of Austria, who accused Richard of arranging the murder of his cousin Conrad of Montferrat. Moreover, Richard had personally offended Leopold by casting down his standard from the walls of Acre.

Duke Leopold kept him prisoner at Dürnstein Castle under the care of Leopold's ministerialis Hadmar of Kuenring. His mishap was soon known to England, but the regents were for some weeks uncertain of his whereabouts. While in prison, Richard wrote Ja nus hons pris or Ja nuls om pres ("No man who is imprisoned"), which is addressed to his half-sister Marie de Champagne.

The detention of a crusader was contrary to public law, and on these grounds Pope Celestine III excommunicated Duke Leopold.

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The emperor demanded that 150,000 marks (100,000 pounds of silver) be delivered to him before he would release the king, the same amount raised by the Saladin tithe only a few years earlier, and 2–3 times the annual income for the English Crown under Richard. Eleanor of Aquitaine worked to raise the ransom. Both clergy and laymen were taxed for a quarter of the value of their property, the gold and silver treasures of the churches were confiscated, and money was raised from the scutage and the carucage taxes. At the same time, John, Richard's brother, and King Philip of France offered 80,000 marks for the Emperor to hold Richard prisoner until Michaelmas 1194. The emperor turned down the offer. The money to rescue the King was transferred to Germany by the emperor's ambassadors, but "at the king's peril" (had it been lost along the way, Richard would have been held responsible), and finally, on February 4th, 1194 Richard was released.

In Richard's absence, his brother John revolted with the aid of Philip; amongst Philip's conquests in the period of Richard's imprisonment was Normandy. Richard forgave John when they met again and named him as his heir in place of their nephew, Arthur.

Richard began his reconquest of Normandy. The fall of the Château de Gisors to the French in 1196 opened a gap in the Norman defences. The search began for a fresh site for a new castle to defend the duchy of Normandy and act as a base from which Richard could launch his campaign to take back the Vexin from French control.

In the early evening of March 25th, 1199, Richard was walking around the castle perimeter without his chain mail, investigating the progress of sappers on the castle walls. Missiles were occasionally shot from the castle walls, but these were given little attention. One defender in particular amused the king greatly—a man standing on the walls, crossbow in one hand, the other clutching a frying pan he had been using all day as a shield to beat off missiles. He deliberately aimed at the king, which the king applauded; however, another crossbowman then struck the king in the left shoulder near the neck. He tried to pull this out in the privacy of his tent but failed; a surgeon, called a "butcher" by Howden, removed it, "carelessly mangling" the King's arm in the process.

The wound swiftly became gangrenous. Richard asked to have the crossbowman brought before him; called alternatively Pierre (or Peter) Basile, John Sabroz, Dudo, and Bertrand de Gourdon (from the town of Gourdon) by chroniclers, the man turned out (according to some sources, but not all) to be a boy. He said Richard had killed his father and two brothers, and that he had killed Richard in revenge. He expected to be executed, but as a final act of mercy Richard forgave him, saying "Live on, and by my bounty behold the light of day", before he ordered the boy to be freed and sent away with 100 shillings. It is unclear whether the King's pardon was upheld following his death. Richard then set his affairs in order, bequeathing all his territory to his brother John and his jewels to his nephew Otto.

Richard died on April 6th, 1199. Richard's heart was buried at Rouen in Normandy, his entrails in Châlus (where he died), and the rest of his body at the feet of his father at Fontevraud Abbey in Anjou. In 2012, scientists analyzed the remains of Richard's heart and found that it had been embalmed with various substances, including frankincense, a symbolically important substance because it had been present both at the birth and embalming of the Christ.

In the historiography of the second half of the 20th century much interest was shown in Richard's sexuality, in particular whether there was cogent evidence of homosexuality. The topic had not been raised by Victorian or Edwardian historians, a fact which was itself denounced as a "conspiracy of silence" by John Harvey (1948). The argument primarily drew on accounts of Richard's behavior, as well as of his confessions and penitences, and of his childless marriage. Richard did have at least one illegitimate child (Philip of Cognac), and there are reports on his sexual relations with local women during his campaigns. Historians remain divided on the question of Richard's sexuality, although many have concluded that he was, in fact, bisexual.

Sources:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_I_of_England

http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/historic_figures/richard_i_king.shtml

https://www.thoughtco.com/richard-the-lionheart-1789371

http://themiddleages.net/people/richard_lionheart.html