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Description
Weapons flashing, angry voices. "Assassin! Assassin!"

The assassin- Altaïr Ibn La Ahad- scaled the wall, desperate to escape the guards. He let out a cry when an arrow struck his back. Fire ran up and down his spine.

In his pause during the climb, an archer took advantage and shot another arrow at Altaïr. It hit his right arm, making him lose his grip on the wall. Altaïr dangled from the ledge with his left hand, pain shooting up his arms and back as he tried to swing his legs up to get back. The first time didn't work, the second he barely made it on.

By this time one of the guards had attempted to go after Altaïr. A sword in his hand, he scrambled up the wall. With his terribly injured state Altaïr had trouble reaching the top. The guard approached him, taking a jab with his sword and missing. But he had slipped on something; the guard glanced down to see wet blood. Glancing up he saw Altaïr's blood dripping on him. It gave him courage that the assassin was weakening and started to give chase again.

Fear rushed through Altaïr. It gave him a rush of speed and he grabbed onto another part of the wall to hoist himself up. Another archer took aim with his bow- the arrow flew through the air and stabbed into his upper back. Blood sprayed from him and drenched his back. Stifling back his curses Altaïr started to climb again.

The guard with the sword was closer now, the weapon glinting in the sun as it swiped towards Altaïr with a deadly hiss. The blade sliced open a gash in Altaïr's side, blood spurting from his flesh. A pained cry came from him.

Altaïr could not find the strength to keep going, from his exhaustion and blood loss. His wounds had him; when he reached the roof he collapsed in a bloody mess. There was no hope for him now, death stalked his final rasping breaths. The dark red pooled around his torn body, soaking the then-white clothes. He closed his dull eyes as the guards approached from behind.

"He is dead!" shouted one of the guards. The others smiled darkly; the cause of much of their troubles was gone. Many friends and fellow guards were avenged in the death of this assassin.

Suddenly one of them approached Altaïr and kicked him off the roof. Altaïr, on the dark border of life and death, barely felt himself falling... falling into the streets below...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Desmond Miles woke up from the trance of the Animus with a shudder. Replaying the events in his mind quickly, his heartbeat slowed as the fear, pain and hopelessness he had experienced from his ancestor fell away from his mind.
Was that what really happened to Altaïr? Was that when he was killed? His thoughts swirled in a mysterious line... until he realized that the Animus was burning hot under his body.

"Ow. Shit. Shit." Desmond slid off the side, eager to cool his ass. It never was heated like this before; was there a problem with the Animus? The burning started to ease on his backside... but then he slipped in something and landed on his butt with a thud. "Crap. Does this always happen?"

He slowly realized that what he had slipped in was blood... where did that come from? Turning onto his side he came face to face with Altaïr. "Oh my God."

Altaïr's face was pained and bloodied. Streaks of blood ran down his neck and face... Desmond followed the trail and found himself lying in the blood. "Oh my God."

What was he doing here? The Animus definitely glitched. His Assassin's robes were torn and Altaïr's weapons lay scattered... more blood... more blood... was he dead? From what Desmond saw, he probably was, but he checked anyways.

Desmond bent over Altaïr. He had no fear that he would wake up and attack him; who could in this state? Days of learning CPR started to come back. He checked his breathing by holding his hand in front of his mouth. No breathing. Two fingers under his jaw for his pulse... nothing. Or was there? Pressing harder Desmond concentrated.

Maybe... maybe. A faint touch met his fingertips. Maybe. He didn't know. Where was Lucy, by the way? She was supposed to be here while Desmond used the Animus. She might have gone out to do something quickly.

"Oh my God. Where is that woman when I need her?!"

Description
Weapons flashing, angry voices. "Assassin! Assassin!"

The assassin- Altaïr Ibn La Ahad- scaled the wall, desperate to escape the guards. He let out a cry when an arrow struck his back. Fire ran up and down his spine.

In his pause during the climb, an archer took advantage and shot another arrow at Altaïr. It hit his right arm, making him lose his grip on the wall. Altaïr dangled from the ledge with his left hand, pain shooting up his arms and back as he tried to swing his legs up to get back. The first time didn't work, the second he barely made it on.

By this time one of the guards had attempted to go after Altaïr. A sword in his hand, he scrambled up the wall. With his terribly injured state Altaïr had trouble reaching the top. The guard approached him, taking a jab with his sword and missing. But he had slipped on something; the guard glanced down to see wet blood. Glancing up he saw Altaïr's blood dripping on him. It gave him courage that the assassin was weakening and started to give chase again.

Fear rushed through Altaïr. It gave him a rush of speed and he grabbed onto another part of the wall to hoist himself up. Another archer took aim with his bow- the arrow flew through the air and stabbed into his upper back. Blood sprayed from him and drenched his back. Stifling back his curses Altaïr started to climb again.

The guard with the sword was closer now, the weapon glinting in the sun as it swiped towards Altaïr with a deadly hiss. The blade sliced open a gash in Altaïr's side, blood spurting from his flesh. A pained cry came from him.

Altaïr could not find the strength to keep going, from his exhaustion and blood loss. His wounds had him; when he reached the roof he collapsed in a bloody mess. There was no hope for him now, death stalked his final rasping breaths. The dark red pooled around his torn body, soaking the then-white clothes. He closed his dull eyes as the guards approached from behind.

"He is dead!" shouted one of the guards. The others smiled darkly; the cause of much of their troubles was gone. Many friends and fellow guards were avenged in the death of this assassin.

Suddenly one of them approached Altaïr and kicked him off the roof. Altaïr, on the dark border of life and death, barely felt himself falling... falling into the streets below...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Desmond Miles woke up from the trance of the Animus with a shudder. Replaying the events in his mind quickly, his heartbeat slowed as the fear, pain and hopelessness he had experienced from his ancestor fell away from his mind.
Was that what really happened to Altaïr? Was that when he was killed? His thoughts swirled in a mysterious line... until he realized that the Animus was burning hot under his body.

"Ow. Shit. Shit." Desmond slid off the side, eager to cool his ass. It never was heated like this before; was there a problem with the Animus? The burning started to ease on his backside... but then he slipped in something and landed on his butt with a thud. "Crap. Does this always happen?"

He slowly realized that what he had slipped in was blood... where did that come from? Turning onto his side he came face to face with Altaïr. "Oh my God."

Altaïr's face was pained and bloodied. Streaks of blood ran down his neck and face... Desmond followed the trail and found himself lying in the blood. "Oh my God."

What was he doing here? The Animus definitely glitched. His Assassin's robes were torn and Altaïr's weapons lay scattered... more blood... more blood... was he dead? From what Desmond saw, he probably was, but he checked anyways.

Desmond bent over Altaïr. He had no fear that he would wake up and attack him; who could in this state? Days of learning CPR started to come back. He checked his breathing by holding his hand in front of his mouth. No breathing. Two fingers under his jaw for his pulse... nothing. Or was there? Pressing harder Desmond concentrated.

Maybe... maybe. A faint touch met his fingertips. Maybe. He didn't know. Where was Lucy, by the way? She was supposed to be here while Desmond used the Animus. She might have gone out to do something quickly.

"Oh my God. Where is that woman when I need her?!"