Hawks and Eagles

The Cries of an Eagle

Inside of the dark den was a coolness that the sun could not touch, could not squelter. You threw back your hood, raked your hair out of its tangles. You lit a few oil lamps, allowed your eyes to adjust before working with the ingredients the doctor had provided. You would tend to the wound first, clean it of its infection and its festering, redress it with clean linens.

You gathered the mortar and pestle, remembering vaguely the teachings your master had instilled in you. You grounded the herbs into a fine paste then boiled the second vial of herbs in hot water, letting them seep into a darkened green. You searched through drawers and chests for a clean cloth, cutting them into strips to make proper bindings.

Returning to the bedroom, you could see that Altaïr's condition had worsened even more in your absence. His skin was sickly pale, sweat pooling across his body, his hair a matted mess. His body quaked, muscles trembling beneath skin. He groaned non-stop, the mutterings that spouted across his lips were audible but you hardly understood them, events that only he could see, people only he could speak to.

"Father," he pleaded, panting down a gasp. Of course he had a father but you hardly expected him to make a plea for him. You hardly expected the arrogant man before you could ever make a plea at all. But the fever had reduced him down to his truest feeling, shattered every careful wall that he had placed.

You set down the mortar and bandages then turned towards the bloodied cloth tied around his leg. A flick of your wrist, a taut pull of your fingers, and the hidden blade clicked free of its sheath. You carefully cut the tied knot, letting the linens loosen their grip around his thigh, the cold metal slidding back into your sleeve. You turned to work the wound free of its bindings, your hands steady until Altaïr groaned, shifting his weight uncomfortably. You hesitated and took down a steadying breath.

The wound smelled of infection, a sour smell of rotting meat coated with the lingering scent of metallic blood. You tossed the soaked cloth into the corner, turning instead to work the gritty paste into your fingers, ignoring the yellow-green of his open wound. You quickly pressed a large portion of the herbs into the exposed muscle.

Altaïr cried out, his voice strangled by the haze of fever. His body went taut, back arching off of the mat. He groaned through his teeth in agony. His fingers were claws, gripping at anything and everything, clutching fervently onto the pillows. He was in too much pain, his wound tender and swollen, now scorching beneath the searing touch of medicine.

Your whole body trembled, heart rapidly pounding in your chest, hardly ever hearing such a sound come from a man's throat. Assassinating had always been a silent ordeal. You worked through his agonized thrashing, relying on your training to remain calm, hurrying to gather the tea you had left on the counter. You poured the warm liquid into an old clay cup and set it down near Altaïr.

You kneeled down above his head, hoisting his upper torso until you could press his back against your chest, your legs moving to either side of him for support. His arm snagged hold of your leg, strong even in his weakened state, forcing it to bend upwards against him. His fingers dug into the softness of your inner knee, another cry of pain ripping through his chest.

"Drink," you begged, snatching the cup and pressing it to his lips.

His head was thrown back, another grimace, his sweat-drenched hair pressed against the bend of your neck. His hand tightened around your knee until you thought the bone would snap beneath his brutal assault.

"I'm so sorry," you muttered shamefully, "I'm sorry. Drink this, Altaïr, drink it." You pressed the cup more firmly, tipping it until the liquid lapped at his thinned lips. You managed to pour a few swallows into his mouth, throat bobbing as he gulped down the harsh liquid, encouraging him to take a few more drinks before placing the cup onto the ground.