It matters not

[theflyingone]

Who| Altaïr ibn La-Ahad & Jack Sparrow drinkupmehearties
What| Altaïr stumbles upon Jack and kills him
Where| Castle
When| jun 16
Warnings/Notes| Murder!

Altaïr thought it prudent to get the full measure of this castle. He'd already mapped the outside, both before and after it had been damaged by an unknown force, so taking measure of the inside was the next step. If he was caught in a fight here, he wanted to have the advantage of knowing exactly where he was in the maze of rooms. He had accepted the inevitability of a fight. No longer was he avoiding people. Obtaining a sword had completely changed the game for him. He felt more confident than ever in his ability to defend himself, and yet also more paranoid. His fear and anger were coming to a head now, and he could not see that it was the sword's doing.

The large halls were straightforward enough, but soon he found himself in smaller and smaller rooms. He entered a bedroom, found nothing, tugged on the door he'd come through and found it locked. He hadn't heard someone lock him in, so it must have been a mechanism.... He saw keys upon a hook and took the entire ring.

His first key opened the door onto screeching bats that took flight when the light hit them. He slammed the door on them, shooed a few bats away, and picked up the ring of keys where he'd dropped them in surprise. There was nothing for it; there were no other doors in the room. He drew his sword, the one he'd pulled out of the rock in the forest, and shoved what he hoped was the same key in the lock.

The door opened onto a great hall with long feast tables. Tapestries and stained windows in a rainbow of colors decorated the walls. He barely had time to take it in, or wonder why the same door opened on a different room. He saw the man. The sword in Altaïr's hand seemed to quicken with an instinctive urgency, and he did not lower it. The man would see him and raise an alarm. He must kill him.

Comments

[drinkupmehearties]

While Jack had mostly avoided the Castle, he'd decided to heed the advice that the note -- included with his latest Sponsor gifts -- had given him and visit the great hall to eat. He'd tried to ration the food supplies that had been given to him as best that he could, but the temptation of having more food in his belly was too hard to resist at this point.

Once he'd made sure the vast hall was empty of Tributes, Jack had proceeded to pick his way through the humble feast that was set out on the tables. He still smells faintly of strong antiseptic, as the pirate had been making liberal use of the hand-sanitizers that had been sent to him a week or so prior to keep himself clean.

He's busy loading his plate with fresh fruit and meat when the sound of a door closing echoes in the cold air. His head turns, and it takes a second to register that someone else had entered the room before his entire body tenses. The sword in Altair's hand is the first thing Jack notices, eyes lingering on it, and he's quick to yank one of his knives free. His other hand lifts, fingers splayed, a gesture meant to be pacifying.

"Oi. No need for that, mate." The look on the man's face is beyond alarming, but he's not letting that fear reach his face. "Let's be rational about this, aye?"

[theflyingone]

Altaïr wished he had the element of surprise, but it was too late. It was just like in Solomon's Temple, blowing his cover and blustering in. Even a niggling voice in his head (that sounded uncannily like Malik) was trying to get him to stop and think about the Creed. But Altaïr's blood was running hot, and the sword's enchantment meant he conveniently forgot the shame he felt when Al Mualim chastised him. He was that brash young man again, and Jack was holding a knife.

"You have drawn a blade on me. That is not rational."

He darted forward, but even now he remembered that a head-on charge was inadvisable. He leaped onto the nearest table instead and jabbed his sword down in a feint.

[drinkupmehearties]

His brow knits briefly at what Altair says. "Mate, you have a sword -- " Shit. The dishes on the table rattle as the man jumps onto it, and Jack barely has enough time to stumble backwards, raising his knife upwards instinctively. Thankfully, the pirate loses his footing instead of actually connecting the blade with his knife, falling to the ground and scrambling backwards and away with one hand lifted.

Not good. Not good. "I can help you. Think about it, mate, don't be rash. I've food and clothes and we could work together -- " He's speaking fast, climbing to his feet in the meanwhile.

[theflyingone]

Very good. Altaïr's sword missed, but he had his enemy sprawled on the ground anyway. The power of the sword put a swagger in his step and a cockiness in his steely voice. Bravado blotted out all else.

"I have no need for clothes, and food I can get easily. How can I trust a man who bares his blade at me? You know my location, and you are in my way. On your feet. Let us settle this with honor."

He pointed his sword at him for emphasis.

[drinkupmehearties]

Damn it to hell, the man was bent on his blood. His throat has grown dry with anticipation and fear, and Jack is struggling to not let it leak down into his words. "I drew me blade, aye, but only in defense, eh? Can't fault a man for wariness, in particular when someone approaches him with a sword drawn and ready like you have."

He's clambered back to his feet, hand sliding along the length of the table as the pirate takes slow, cautious steps backwards. "And a man with honor would recognize I've no true way to defend meself against a sword with a knife as such. What would assuage your doubt, mate? Me putting down me knife?" His other hand lowers the knife, as if he's willing to let it go. "I will, if it'd make you feel better, mate. I've no qualms with you, an' I'd be willing to part ways and never think on it."

His hand on the table bumps against a plate, and his fingers close over the edge of it. If there wasn't a way to talk his way out of this, maybe a good distraction would help. "Besides which, there's nothin' to gain from this." There is, being that it's the Arena, but Jack hopes that continuing to talk will divert his attention from that point. "And no honor, at all, in killing a man that's rightly done you no harm."

[theflyingone]

"I have taken down many a man with the smallest of blades. I do not underestimate the value of any knife."

All the signs of cornered prey were there. Desperate people were dangerous, but also tiresomely predictable. He could see Jack trying to hide putting his hand on the table. There were plates there. Inventive of him, but not smart. Altaïr's voice grew more chilly.

"You know my location. If you will not kill me yourself, you will tell others who can. You cannot leave here alive. Let me give you the mercy of a quick death," his voice softened slightly, a twisted form of compassion. "Save that plate for someone else to use."

With that revelation, he lunged forward with both hands holding his sword to shield his face from the plate. He could deal with a bruise and a few minor cuts anywhere else, as long as he was able to drive his blade into this man.

[drinkupmehearties]

He opens his mouth to counter, to continue arguing, but in the next instant the man had leapt towards him. Instinct forces his hand to clamp around the plate and fling it with desperation at Altair's face -- but the man's hand is in the way and it uselessly bounces away, flipping to the side and shattering as it makes contact with the ground.

Blade bit into flesh, the sword sliding neatly between his ribs. A moment passes before the pain actually registers, before it unfurls from where the sword had been buried; it explodes like hot fire through his veins, draining the color from his face and twisting his mouth into a grimace. Unthinkingly both his hands grasp onto the exposed part of the sword, so hard that he cuts his hands as well, and Jack hisses a sharp curse.

[theflyingone]

Altaïr angled his sword for the lethal blow and drove it in with a practiced hand, without regard for Jack's fingers. Another yank and he pulled his blade free, blood spattering the ground. Instead of making his escape, he knelt by Jack's dying body. He always did this with his targets, if he had time.

"I know you felt you must kill everyone in this arena to stay alive. It did not have to be this way. You should not have drawn a blade on me."

In the far recesses of his mind, something felt off. This did not go the way it should have, but he could not see how or where he went wrong. Living by the sword in his hand seemed the only logical thing to do.