Spilled Memories (Altaïr Ibn-La' Ahad x Amnesiac!Reader)

...Prologue...

Story made for @T3chyArt15t

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"Who are you?" You ask with the tilt of your head, staring at the brown headed boy in front of you.

Tears gathered in his golden colored eyes as all he could do was sniffle at you like a baby. His hands, riddled with scratches and bruises from tripping over, curl up to his chest like he was afraid of you. He was only afraid of what you might say at him crying like this. It wasn't often he would break down in tears in front of people. The scrapes all over his trembling hands weren't even the reason he was crying right in front of you. It was the fact that you were so nice as to help him up with an award winning smile. Most people would pass him by without a glance, but this nice girl, who he has never once met, ran over to help him up. You even dropped the stuff in your arms to help him up.

Kindness. He particularly wasn't used to it.

"I'm sorry if I scare you in any way! Are you okay?" You hold out your hand, requesting permission to look at how badly he has harmed himself when tripping.

Instead of letting you inspect his minor wounds that would heal overnight, he wipes his hands on his clothes and pushes past you. Your lips crease into a wince but you soon realize he was trying to return the kindness by picking up the scrolls and papers you had dropped. After he picks up all the things you were once holding, he nods his head towards you with soft eyes.

"My name is Altaïr," his voice comes out as a small whisper, his cheeks pooling with the color of embarrassed pink.

"Well, Altaïr, my name is (Y/n)! Don't forget the name. We'll be seeing each other a lot more now that we are friends." You sling an arm around his shoulders and he stumbles around with the stuff fulling up his arms.

"F-friends?" He stutters out, his crisp eyes shot open wide.

"What? Aren't we friends?" You unhook your arm from around his shoulder, a bit hurt.

"N-no! We are..." He trails off while his feet shuffle around awkwardly.

"Come on. Carrying all of that looks uncomfortable. My house isn't too far. Thank you, by the way." You send him a wink and continue on down the Masyaf dirt path to your house.

Behind the shy, stuttering exterior, the little boy was quite tough when needed. Not once did he cry when doing light training with his mentor, Al Mualim, who treated him like he was his own son. But he meets a nice, ten year old girl, a girl the same age he is, and he goes to crying. Al Mualim told him to tough and control feelings, not let them free.

"You don't talk much. But that's okay!" You speak up, catching Altaïr's attention.

"Sorry," is all he replies, his eyes fixated on the path in front of him.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing. That means you're a good listener. I need someone to listen from time to time." You skip, arms crossed behind your back.

When looking back to see what expression his face held, all you see is a slight smile and his eyes staring up at you.

***

"(Y/n), Altaïr is coming over later today!" Your mother steps in the door, her basket filled with goods from the market place.