Sort of AU, Maria and her family are living in Acre; her father is a Templar who is returning home briefly after a mission. He has been injured in battle, and is sent home to recover. In battle, he was able to capture an Assassin, and decided to further humiliate him after learning who he was– Altaïr. Instead of just killing him, he decided to take him home as a slave. He gives Altaïr to Maria after there is a break in at their house, and decides to put his Assassin skills to work. Altaïr cannot speak very well in English, but can understand a lot more.

Father- Edward Thorpe, high ranking Templar who is injured and returning home from battle to recuperate. Is held in high esteem by other Templars, and is a strict master.

Anne (née Thompson)Thorpe– Mother to Maria, a homemaker and mistress of the household. She is less educated than Maria, and appeals to traditional ideals about a woman's duties, etc. Has 6 servants under her authority, mainly for cooking and cleaning, and for tough labour when her husband is absent. Is a loving woman, but never lets Maria forget that she is still unwed.

Maria Thorpe– Daughter of a prominent Templar, and an intelligent, sharp- witted woman. She is 18 years old, quite old to not already be married. Her stubbornness and independence have driven away several of her mother's best efforts.

Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad– 23 year old high ranking Assassin, captured after a grave injury in battle, (blood loss from the torso and leg). Taken from Jerusalem to Acre to be a slave for the Thorpe family. Although he is an adept fighter, he acted out of impulse, and ended up getting in over his head.

~ALL EVENTS OCCUR BEFORE ASSASSIN'S CREED ~

All characters belong to Ubisoft, not me.

Read, Review, and Enjoy!

Maria Thorpe sat at her desk, staring blankly out her window. A warm evening breeze ruffled her braided hair; a few stray wisps tickled her neck. She took in Acre's bleak landscape and sighed. Although it was grey like England, the warm air and the exotic scents wafting through it made her homesick.

Her father, Edward, held a high rank in the Templar order, and when Robert de Sable had made plans to claim the Holy Land, her father had left with him. A few months passed, and after much deliberation, her father decided it best for his wife and daughter to join him, and start a new life in Acre. They occupied a reasonably large section of the fortress in Acre, with a number of servants under their ownership. Living around Templars for the last several years had made Maria long for the life of one– wishing she could join her father in his Crusade. However, as she was a woman, she soon realized that thanks to the accepted ideals of men, she would never be able to lend her blade.

Her father had taught her from a young age how to defend herself. In England, she had studied how to use a dagger under her father's watchful eye. She had spent countless afternoons riding through the thick woods on horseback, hunting game with a bow and arrow. Despite these things, she was still unable to help the Templars in any way, other than behaving like a proper lady.

Bloody idiots.

She glanced down at the blank page, her brow furrowed in annoyance. She had taken it upon herself to become educated in anything that might have to do with the Templar's crusade. She studied maps of the different regions, read historical accounts of battles won and lost, trying to better understand her enemy. Yet today, she found herself struggling to keep her concentration on her work.

Maria's head snapped up when she heard the slow plodding of horses hooves. She stood from her desk, carelessly tossing her quill down. She raced down three flights of stairs, and stopped, checking herself before she glided into the kitchen, looking for her mother.

No need for another lecture on the graces a lady should have…

"Now, Maria, look at your hair" her mother stepped towards her, her mouth a thin line. Her thin fingers tried in vain to tuck the strays away before Maria swatted her hand away.

"It's fine, mother. I can look after myself, thank you."

"If that were the case, you'd already have a husband by now."

Maria scowled.

Her mother sighed, and turned to wipe her hands off on a towel. Her weary face was brighter today, her brown eyes sparkling like they used to when Maria was younger. Although she was in her forties, she still retained much of her beauty. Her brown hair was kept in a perpetually flawless bun, and her cheeks were rosy from baking. Although they had more than enough servants, Anne preferred to do most of the cooking herself. Having come from a simple farm before marrying above her station, she had been used to a life of work; she was happiest when her hands were busy.

Edward Thorpe burst in the door, a large grin spreading across his face as he saw his wife and daughter were there to greet him.

" 'Ere's my little flower!" He exclaimed, spreading his arms to accommodate her embrace.

Maria wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his robes, "I've missed you so much– with you gone, all I've been doing is studying and doing chores."

"Maria…" Anne warned.

Edward chuckled, "Now, ladies, I'm sure you have much more to tell me about what I've missed– like your birthday. Isn't that right dear?"

Anne smiled, "Well, yes, actually. Fairly uneventful, although I was hoping you might have brought something back…"

Edward smiled, "Certainly. I'm sure you will be anxious to take a look at some of the fabric and spices we acquired on one of our sieges."

"That reminds me, why have you returned father– in your last message you said that everything was moving ahead of schedule, and that you'd be there for –"

"I was injured." He smiled sadly, "Nothing too serious, but as a captain, I need to be in fighting form at all times. So, here I am."

"How long will you be staying with us?"

"Only as long as is necessary, unfortunately– a few weeks, a month at the longest. "

Anne's smile fell slightly.

"But," Edward clapped his hands together, "now is time for celebration!"

Altaïr had spent the past two days on the back of a horse, bound, gagged, and neglected. His wounds were still raw and open– occasionally sending spasms up his chest and leg. The entirety of his journey had been spent berating himself, cursing his arrogance and overconfidence. He had disobeyed another Assassin's warning, and instead of retreating, Altaïr stayed, ready to take on another wave of fresh Templars. He had managed to take out several of the remaining few, before an entire platoon crested the hill. Altaïr steeled himself, ready for his biggest challenge yet. In the heat of the battle, he had felt steel slash through his upper leg, bringing him to his knees, and another deep slice across his chest. Hot blood drained from his wounds, rapidly soaking his white robes. He found himself on his back, brow furrowed in agony as he felt the gush of blood leaving his body with each pump of his heart. He looked up to see the light blocked out by a circle of soldiers glaring down at him, swords and spears at the ready. The captain parted through the crowd, and looked down at the fallen Assassin. He ordered he brought to stand, condescension and smugness over his features. He told his men that the Assassin before him was none other than Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad, one of the order's finest. Out of what some might consider pity, the captain decided to spare his life. Those who understood the circumstances realized that death would be much more welcome to an Assassin or Templar alike, than being taken prisoner. Now he had been taken to be a slave for the Templar's family , something truly degrading for anyone, let alone an Assassin.

The journey, had been rough on his body, each bump or dip in the road had jarred his injuries, many times causing them to bleed anew. His robes were crusted stiff with his blood, and caked with mud from when he had fallen from the horse into the mud. As he had lost so much blood, he found himself sliding off of his mount frequently. After three or four falls, the captain had decided to sling the Assassin over the horse on his stomach, so he need not sit up. This would have worked better, if it weren't for the fact that he was now placing most of the pressure on his deep wounds. When they had finally reached the Templar's home, Altaïr couldn't even keep himself upright, slumping to the ground in fatigue. He ached from top to bottom, hardly daring to breathe as each inhalation strained the muscles torn from battle.

Two guards and two servants rushed to collect him, hurrying off to the bathhouse in the servant's quarters. Altaïr heard the word "bath" several times, and closed his eyes, grateful for one thing.

"So… where's my gift?" Maria inquired, hands behind her back in a childlike gesture.

Edward chuckled, "Soon enough my flower. Why don't you help your mother in the kitchen while I get out of my armour, hmm?"

Maria sighed, "I suppose."

"There's a good girl." He turned, and walked up the stairs to the second floor.

Maria sighed, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. She heard her mother's laughter and cringed. She turned instead to the door, slipping out quietly to tend to the horses. She walked towards the hitching posts when she saw several servants and armed guards leading a man away to the servant's quarters.

Another one? Really father, this is becoming excessive.

She pursued them from a safe distance, curiosity peaked, as they had to stop several times, and wait for him to stop groaning.

What happened to him?

Maria looked down to the ground, concern lining her face when she saw a trail of dark drips in the dirt behind him.

They stumbled into the bathhouse, trying to keep the door open and keep the man upright at the same time. Maria grumbled to herself as the doors obstructed her view. As much as she wanted to investigate further, she knew that she would be called for dinner as soon as she discovered anything interesting.

As she turned, she heard a pained moan, and cringed, Perhaps I should just ignore whatever is going on in there…

Over the course of dinner, Edward had retold fantastic tales of the Templar's exploits while in Jerusalem and Damascus, striking wonder into Maria's eyes.

"It's not fair that you get to have all the fun father, why can't I come along when you return?!"

Edward exchanged a glance with Anne, "Now, darling, you know why. It's not safe for a woman to be doing those things." Maria's expression fell. "I need you here with your mother– how would I sleep at night if you were ever hurt?"

Maria slouched slightly, "But you've trained me yourself, I'm just a good of a fighter as any boy– if not better!"

"That's enough of that young lady," Anne interrupted, "Why don't you go ask the cook what's for desert, hm?"

Maria stood indignantly, "Fine."

"What are we going to do about that one Eddie?" Anne sighed.

"Give her time, she'll come around."

"Alright, close your eyes, and hold out your hands Maria." Edward stood, his arms behind his back to conceal her gift. As Maria closed her eyes, her mind ran wild, trying to imagine what it could be before she found out.

Has to be something small, something that could be hidden behind his back. God, I hope it's not another horrid necklace.

She opened her eyes when she felt something cold placed in them. Her face lit up as she examined an ornamental dagger, it's tang decorated lavishly with Byzantine metalwork, and a sheath to match. She pulled it out, marvelling at the craftsmanship of the gleaming steel. She fished the blade through the air in a figure-eight pattern, mimicking an attack pattern.

"Father, it's beautiful! Where d–"

"I took this one from a Saracen captain, it's yours to use now, but be careful my flower, it is extremely sharp."

Maria frowned, "Of course. I know how to handle a blade, father."

"I didn't mean it as an insult Maria, but you must be careful when you use any weapon. I'm sure you know that, but I feel obligated as your father to say so."

Maria smiled, "Sorry, I… well I guess that lately I've been feeling particularly smothered."

"One day you'll have your fight Maria, just be patient."

Altaïr sputtered as he felt cold water slide down his body and into his wounds. He struggled to get out of the tub, but hands pushed him down again.

"Look, I know it 'urts Assassin, but stay still."

Altaïr let a growl slip though his teeth as he felt another pitcher of frigid water spill over his head. They threw a bar of lye soap to him.

"Getch'ya self cleaned, den we've godda show you to the masta." They turned and left him to bathe.

Altaïr sat for a moment, shell-shocked. He looked down at his wounds, wondering how they'd ever heal if it appeared that no one was going to give him anything for them. He grimaced as he set about cleaning his aching body. After several painful minutes, he doused himself with another pitcher of water, hissing as the soap trickled into the cuts. He rose from the tub, and looked around for his clothes. Although he had seen where they had left them, they weren't there anymore. He could only hope that they took them to be cleaned, and then promptly returned to him. However, he knew that would not be case. He looked around for anything to dry himself off with, and only came up with a thin, moth-eaten linen towel.

As he walked to the door, the servants returned, holding clothes in their arms.

" 'ere, put these on. They're not quite what you're used to, but they'll do for Acre."

Altaïr looked at the clothes, examining each piece before he put them on. The rough wool stockings felt strange against his legs, much too restrictive to be comfortable. He slipped an inner tunic over him, scowling against the itchy flax.

Leave it to the Templars to create clothing as uncomfortable as it is disfunctional.

After he was properly outfitted, the guards grabbed him roughly, dragging him out to where the Templar's family stood waiting.

Altaïr stared back at them, shame filling him as he saw how they gaped at him. The youngest– his daughter, Altaïr presumed, had a particularly marked expression. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, something between contempt and fascination.

"So this is that famous Assassin, father?" Maria quipped, her voice laced with scorn.

"Yes, my flower, his name, I believe was Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"His family name means, 'Son of None'".

Maria scoffed, "So he's a bastard?"

"Maria!" Her mother gasped, astonished at her language.

Altaïr struggled against the grip the guards had on his arms, only feeling it tighten as a result.

Edward chuckled softly as Anne reprimanded Maria.

"No, dear. It doesn't quite mean that. His first name means 'the flying one'–"

"Why do these people have such strange names?"

"Well, I suppose to him, Maria Thorpe must be a strange name too."

She snorted, "At least my name doesn't imply I'm a ba– uh… of illegitimate birth."

Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"Alright father, that's rather well and good, but do we really need another servant?

Her father turned, facing towards his family, "It's not about whether we need another servant or not- it's more than that. He is an Assassin, and we are Templars. To him, this is the worst fate that could possibly be bestowed upon him. He and his kind are unfeeling, immoral killers. Cowards who hide in the shadows, waiting until men turn their backs to them to strike."

Maria's scowl deepened as she looked at Altaïr with contempt. He tried to remember what the Templar had said, struggling to understand why she was staring at him with such hatred.

"So, being made to heel at the feet of a Templar is one of the most humiliating actions possible. He will serve our family well– for him to have to serve the Templars is the definition of betrayal to his Creed."

Altaïr's heart sank as he heard the last sentence, understanding all that was said.

So, he spared me to make a mockery of my life. How generous. Once my wounds have healed, we'll see how long they can keep me here.