Assassin's Creed 1. Chapter 1

**A/N: AltMal. malexmale! If you don't like it don't read. ****This story spawned from my overwhelming love for the characters. ****I want to dedicate this to two women on deviantart: doubleleaf and hiita-hime. Please check them out from more assassin's creed goodness.**

**Disclaimer: Characters copyright Ubisoft. I make no profit writing this story.**

* * *

"Speech"

_-thoughts-_

"Demotion?!" Altair hissed, hurling his scathing tongue and body true to the wrath of a cobra. The assassin knew he made a mistake the moment the venomous word left his mouth. Such a display had made him guilty of arrogance again, but no instrument, ethereal or wordly, could have composed him from hearing such news.

Al Mualim stayed his steps, his form just shy of skirting the front corner of his desk. The bearded man perfered to stare ahead at his stone fortress rather than at his student. A wrinkled hand snaked down the familiar course over his scared right eye, remembering the countless sacrifices that built such empire. The towers had been growing more swiftly now, reaching ever closer to the heavens as their dreams teetered toward succession.

With another vessel housing templar blood purified, a step is added to the stairway leading them towards the light above, a stairway that yet remains unfinished. The crest-clad, red-white flags tacked along the walls, repeating in their numbers, made visible their sacrifice, their perpetual war. Such a beautiful sight. Surely, no mortal man could have envisioned this spectacle of architecture without the eyes of a Allah to guide him. And it all had come a needle's edge toward destruction because of one man: a prodigy that a Master only finds once in a lifetime.

Al Mualim turned to the said prodigy in question, a sharp undertone of ferocity just barely contained with his worn brown eyes and Altair flinches despite himself. To an innocent, the smart-mouthed assassin's reaction would have been undisclosed, but this was a Master card-shark of death.

"Yes," Came Al Mualim's coarse answer. His throat sounded deprived of water or perhaps swollen from rage. Altair recalled the gourd among his Master's parchments and knew then there was to be no further questions. This was one of the few times Al Mulaim demanded obedience from his problematic child.

Altair's mouth opened out of instinct, not heeding the warning clearly laid out for him, "Master, this is ..." Altair trailed off, searching for words that would not deepen his Master's convictions, "... we have no _time_ for _this_."

"Ah, but we do."

The Master admired the sunlit entrance of their home that testified to Allah's blessing of forgiveness. Al Mualim can see it in every light that floods through the square windows, bringing life to stone as the moon does to the darkness. The old man closes his eyes and bows his head just slightly. He readjusts his hands behind his back. He seemed calmer now and accepting and like the God he alines himself too.

"Until you learn to follow the creed I have no choice but to waste my time training an impudent child. Did you know Altair, Malik seeks divine justice upon you? He came to me after the incident and believes it is only right I take your life for the murder of his brother."

Altair is quiet, his fists clenching and unclenching. "Why didn't you then?"

Now it is Altair who sounds betrayed. The poor boy might even cry, but Al Mualim knows his student better than to believe that. Altair would sooner kill him in a blind fury before he ever shed a tear. The old man sees the boy's fingers flick open. The hidden blade would be bared had he still possessed the weapon. The Master's lips quirk into a smirk and it's gone as quickly as it came.

-He could try, but would never succeed.-

The old man meets his livid student and faintly carries a smile as he speaks, "Do you see now? You do not know everything Altair. I spared you because you are my finest work. And too lose you over a petty feud would earn us both less then what we can accomplish together."

Altair's shaking seems to subside. If anything he's become more smug.

_-That is my fault. I've let you escape with too much, spoiled you.- _

"So be it. Tell me who my next target is," Altair orders.

It seems nothing has changed.

Al Mulaim returns to behind his desk, resting his wrinkled hands down onto it as if his back can not bear the wieght of what he's about to say, "All I can offer you is that there is talk of a traitor."

"That's it?!" Altair spits.

The Master raised a brow, "Displeased? It was Malik who obtained that sort of information for you. I doubt that will be possible now. Do not be so ill-mannered Altair. This is a good opportunity for you to start gathering information on your own. Now, off with you."

Altair snarled, ready to scold his Master for waving him away with his hand. This old man needed him and being the elite and vital assassin Altair was to this organization, he deserved more leeway than what he was given. Altair watched as his Master sorted through the mess of papers on his desk. The old man must have been married to task of finding the page he desired because he would not spare Altair any acknowledgment. It was either that, or, the Master was using his duty as a convienent excuse to avoid further debates with his student.

Altair felt something wrangle within his chest and somehow, the snide remarks were bitten and swallowed. He couldn't put a name to what had stayed his tongue, but he resigned to leave Masyaf while still held a loose sense of control. He leaped from the ivory banister down to the flat below, surprising a few followers. If nothing else, he could start off his quest for redemption with a stalwart attempt at restraining himself from remarking every sentence he disagreed with.

Al Mulaim looked up, just as the white robes of the assassin fluttered completely from view.

"You've already made me proud, my son."

* * *

Altair pushed open the door to his room harder than he needed to and it smacked against the stone wall with a pitiful squeak. It seemed like the only thing that wasn't sitting around growing old in this place was him.

He grabbed one of the lit torches on the wall and threw to the floor in heated anger. It satisfied him to watch the cinders spill onto the stone tile and flare into a thick cloud of fire. Watching the flames seemed to appease his fury, but when the fire began to flicker and die the emotion reawakened with a vengence. Altiar grabbed a second torch from the opposite side of the door and threw it down with the first. It rolled and caught on it's fallen metal sibling, cultivating a bigger flame, but this had no effect on pacifying the brunette as it did before.

Altair growled thickly in his throat at his own incorrigible temper and strode over to the window. His mission had been an utter atrocity. Not even a days worth of running around and gathering information nonsense had past and he was allergic to it. He _owned_the right to have complete juristication over his actions, not report his every move for approval! Thanks to this new method of business, it had taken Altair until sunset before Masun was bound and brought before Al Mualim for trial. By the end, Altair was happy to be rid of the heretic's bothersome stench. It had been enough torture to track his growing infection throughout Maysaf.

Altair thought it would be easy to takeover Malik's job. It seemed as nothing more than annoying detour from his usual routine and once he proved to be superior to his rival's investigation skills as well, he could boast until his tongue bled; all the while reveling in the look on Malik's face. But, Altair didn't expect the needless meticulousness for such a simple task. The whole operation from start to finish had been rocky for the once Master now novice assassin. It was as if every curse imaginable had been sentenced upon him to assure his failure. A commoner women who happened to be far too skiddish that particular day, ran screaming to the guards for protection at the very mistaken impression that Altair was tagging her, thus ruining his chances of a heartfelt talk with the man walking beside a ring of cadavars in the middle of the street wasn't exactly how Altair intended to start off his mission, but he had dealt with worse surprises. That was until, Altair chose the wrong alleyway to conceal himself in. A patrolling templar and his four crusader cohorts had the grave misfortune of unmasking him.

-How does Malik have the patience for this? What golden words does he spin with that mouth of his to be efficacious without dirtying his hands with violence? -

Altair was in no mood for thinking. He couldn't dare sleep either; not with all this aggravation burried deep within his every muscle.

Altair's hands landed on the cold stone window pane, his shoulders rolling forward with the action. His foot levered on the bottom edge of the window, ready to transform him into a messenger of justice with the right kind of push. He could jump and take his frustrations out into the night, permission be damned, but Al Mulaim's words insisted on pulling him back into the concil of his stone bedroom. He was doing the worst thing he could do: hesitate. Just what did his Master hope to accomplish by punishing him like this? Was he trying to make him question himself?

Altair admits that prowling for blood outside of orders isn't the most intellectual plan he's ever concocted. Undoubtedly, the nightly excursion will greet his Master with attention first thing in the morning. A stunt like that would only delay his progress through the ranks and that was not something Altair could stand to part with.

The young assassin climbed down and turned away from his recklessness in one swift motion. He stood for awhile, first looking at the floor and then settling his distant grey eyes on the unused bed. It looked odd in the otherwise barren room. Altair wondered why he even had one. There was always a mission taking him away to the city and Altair soon found himself sleeping in a pile of hay rather than the comfort of a bed. But here he was for the first time able to sleep liesureably and lost as to whether or not he wanted to. The bed could serve a better purpose as kindle or if it was carved into so manner of usefulness. The Master's looked more hunched as of late. He could use another one. Anything to keep the old man to tied to his bed longer.

Altair made his way to his bedside, still eyeing his bed with a piercing glare as if he knew it would have a role in murdering him. After killing so many men in thier sleep, there is little room for an assassin to like beds.

Despite that, Altair unbuckles his gauntlets and his belts and tossed them to the floor. It would be refreshing to leave himself vulnerable for once. Thinking on it, Altair greatly welcomed the challenge of anyone asinine enough to try and murder him in a heavily guarded stronghold of assassins that he called home.

There was always the possibility of the fortress falling under attack, but that was a given whether he was asleep or not. Though, if tonight was the lucky night, there was plenty of ways Altair could hear the enemy coming before any arrows reached him in his bedroom. Satisfied with those resolutions, Altiar rolled onto the wool-stuffed mattress, surprised it doesn't jab him in the back like the pointed straw he's become accustomed to.

It's a surprisingly pleasurable change.

For awhile Altiar lies on the blankets, arms behind his head, and watches the cieling. He listens to the owls and coyotes sing him a song so unlike the nighttime rummaging of the people. It isn't long before he falls asleep.

* * *

It has been so long since Altiar's had a nightmare. Day by day, death by death, Altair felt the cool touch of his own inevitable demise scour away his fears until finally, he became closed to his own mortality. Death's face gazed back at him like a dark-vieled lover in the greyed-blue eyes of his victims. The spirit would visit him in the early hours of the night; trains of robes flowing down over him, bony hands caressing him as naked teeth whispered thanks for the generous endowment of souls. But enough of that. The of a dream is the mystery, not his baseness.

...it is dark...

...so dark Altair can't see.

He can hear familiar screams intimately all around him. More voices have come to distract his concentration and there is no time to put faces to any of them. However there is one man Altiar recognizes: Robert de Sable. The assassin feels himself turn rigged. He reaches for his sword, but nothing of himself moves, nothing can be felt.

It is silent for a time...

There is a sound. It's subtle, barely perceptible over the ringing in his hears, but it's there. Altair continues to listen and the noise approaches obligingly. The sound is distinguished as one of the unknown men from before, screaming. He's being dragged by his shoulders, his knees scrapping along stone. Altiar can't see who or what is going on, but somehow he doesn't have to. The sounds are vivid enough.

_"No! My brother! You must help him! Let me go!"_

_"He's going into shock. Hold him down."_

_"What are you doing?! Why aren't you listening to me?!"_

There's the sound of someone being thrown onto a bed and of feet kicking against sheets. There's a wrenching of fabric as others restrain the screaming man, pinning his back down to the bed.

_"We have to remove it. It's the only way to save his life."_

It's blowing out his eardrums ... the sound of tearing flesh. The cutthroat assassin can't get the noise to end. His head is consumed with it. More gruesome wet sounds of metal teeth gnawing away at someone command his attention. The screams multiply in volume and tenor. Altair feels himself overcome with sickness.

Altair's eyes shoot open. There is a man's weight on his stomach and the sting of a blade pressed against his neck. The blade suddenly trembles and recoils back just an eyelash's length; frightened by it's prey's alertness. Altair opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry. He swallows first and tries again.

"Mal ... ik?" The name comes out as stubbornly as a rusted nail.

"Silence! Say not a word!"

The sword is shoved painfully against Altair's throat, hard enough to draw blood. Altair feels the adrenaline intoxicate his nerves, sending a delightful tingle throughout his body. The young assassin's breath starts to quicken in response, but it's nowhere near as labored as the man above him.

The room is dyed in a thicker coat of black then what Altair remembers. Even with the torchlight creeping through the cracks of his bedroom door, the master assassin can barely trace the navy blue against black outline of the man threatening him.

Absently, Altair makes himself aware of the cold drops rhythmically beating against his chest. The liquid is starting to pool, soaking through his robes to dampen his skin. It's then that Altair realizes he smells blood.

"Betrayed me, betrayed us all! You're no different then that filth Masun!"

This accusation piques Altiars interest.

"How did you ..." Altiar trails off. His legs are going numb and he shifts them slightly to get the blood flowing. Altiar's hands carefully rest on Malik's hips for lack of a better place to put them. Al Saytr is hot to the touch and Altair swears it's not just from hatred.

"Teh! So arrogant! After all these years of investigating _your_targets, do you think I would be ignorant to what's going on in my own home? There's no way I couldn't have known!" Malik roars in a fierce whisper.

Malik knows exactly what Altair thinks of his asset to the brotherhood and he will not have Al bin Lahad mock him, not now. Malik parts his lips to educate his partner on his significance, but his throat constricts and forces him to take in a curt breath. Malik's whole body shudders as he's thrown into a series of ragged coughs, which he conceals into his clothed shoulder. Altair feels his rival's violent shaking travel through him and knows their is no contest in this fight. With Malik's life so compromised by death, Altair could easily put an end to their engagement with a few calculated movements. Still, Altair could not fathom the reasoning for taking such a blind risk.

-Why didn't you wait until you were healed? You could have lured me into an enemy's trap anytime you wanted. Why this brashness?-

"Malik why--"

"Enough!" The word comes out gnarled and thick with blood. It's clear that Malik's body hasn't finished assualting him yet. The older assassin swallows and tries to catch his breath before attempting to speak again. Altair patiently waits.

"Are you ... are you still waiting for your role as favorite to save you?!"

"No. But ... this is a new side of you. For a man who fights with his tongue and not his sword you seem to be doing a lot of cutting."

Altair hisses as the blade presses deeper into him. His vision is starting to go blurry; not that he can see. He shuts his eyes. With sight gone, Altair's other senses amplify. Malik's sweat burns the young assassin's nose, but is the touch of the older man's warm blood against his chest that erects terror for his friend's life.

"Silence Altair! Do you spare me no pride?!"

Altair bucks his hips into his rival, clearly describing the dead-end his thoughts have taken. No one has ever dominated him like this before, and it doesn't help that Malik keeps involuntarily grinding his hips against him. The dark haired genious is the only man who would dare challenge him in such a fragile condition and still manage to ignite excitement in him. Altair decides now is a good as time as any to start exercising his passport to the harem. His work never fails to distracted him from such trysts, but it seems his body will take no more abuse.

Altair grimaces, his own anger coming into play,"Then spare me the wait and take your revenge. I welcome death. You, yourself, trained me for that, remember?"

The hands on Malik's hips clench hard as Altair is silenced with a slash to his lips. Altair's tongue reaches out to lick his new wound, whincing when the contact begins to sting. Malik sees this and wishes nothing more than to slice that unruly part of his friend as well.

"Damn you! Do you feel no remorse for what you have done to me and my brother!?" Malik's acidic word's tickle Altair's jaw pleasantly. The brunette wets his lips and breathes more heavily, his body becoming almost too hot for him to control. He strains against Malik for more gratification and when he can find none Altair groans in frustration.

"Dammit, Malik stop this. You're bleeding. Let me help you," the assassin breathes out huskily.

"Do not play with me Altair! I've seen the of concern you've shown me and our brothers!"

Again, Malik's torments him with the past. Just how long can hang onto the righteous conviction in his voice? How can he cling onto a forgotten memory so rebelliously?

_-Why won't you succumb to the body's desire to move forward? Isn't it our duty to drown our sorrow with lust?-_

"It wasn't supposed to happen the way it did! I was supposed to kill Robert and ... and bring us closer to ... revo ... lution!" With each passing word the blade made a new mark on his neck. Altair is becoming increasingly annoyed with his partner's indescion.

_-Kill me or fuck me, but don't tease me with both and give me niether!- _

"Why should I believe you? You've done nothing, but turn a deaf ear to me and the creed!"

Even if Malik intended for his words to ensure no chance of venialness for his friend, Altiar knew there was. He could hear it in the slight whimper of his partner's voice, that underlying signature of a plead. Malik still wanted to trust him, still believed in him. If Altair would show the faintest penitence and simply ask for forgiveness he could sew his friend back together and put him at peace. But Altair refused to give such a luxury.

"Understand that, I won't make excuses for my mistakes. I will live with them. I won't to grieve for you or Kadar! We are not children any longer! I will not allow you make me look weak in the faces of our enemies nor to our brothers!" came the explosion of passionate fire from scared lips. Altair doesn't come back to himself until after the words are released and realizes they were said out of too many ill-begotten things that had no business being Malik's fault. Altair knows there's no hope of amending the damage he's done.

Malik is quiet. Even his panting breaths seem to grow fainter. There's a rustle of fabric and Altair feels the older man sit back, no longer bent forward and pressed forehead to forhead to him. The sword against his throat retreats with it's Master, and Altair gasps in sweet relief.

Malik laughs, cryptic and not so full of amusement as it is grief.

"Is that so?" Malik responds solemnly, "How very foolish of me to think you capable of a heart. I see now, not even I will change you. It grieves me to think no one ever will."

The room is silent for a few seconds too long and Altair grows restless.

"Malik?" The master assassin calls.

A sword clatters to the floor beside the bed and Altair chases after the sound with his eyes even though he can't see it. Altair feels the weight of his friend wavering off to the right and quickly turns his attention back to the injured man.

"Malik!"

Altair catches him just before he capsizes off the bed. No breath escapes Altair lips. He can't seem to breathe or remember the last time he felt his body iced over like this.

Altair tightens his hold on Malik. A shaky breath escapes the brunette as he lifts each of his fingers, one at a time in a sequenced wave in a test against his friend's robes. His grey eyes are shocked to their limits, disbelief filling his entire being as the cool, steeped blood of his rival drips through the slits between his fingers. In a frantic moment, Altair removes one of his hands from under his friend to look at the crimson painting it. Altair knows there's blood on his hand, he can feel it, smell it, taste it, but he can't see anything in this damn darkness! Malik is laid gently onto his back and Altair runs to the door and throws it open to attain more light. Deciding that that alone won't be enough, Altiar turned to his left and grabbed a torch adorning one of the many pillars in the hall. Altair spun back toward his room, freezing in the doorway with the torchlight at his back.

There was Malik, cold, silent and dying; and Altair's shadow reigned across the broken man laying in his bed like that of an eagle standing over it's trophy kill.

_-No, I ... this isn't what I wanted.-_

Altair stumbles over to the bedside, falling to his knees once he gets there. He raises his torch, alighting all of Malik's ruined clothes darkened by the touch of his own blood. Altair feels himself sink down further into his knees. He'll do it, he'll bow his head to the floor and grovel to every damn God he knows if it will save Malik's life. The beginnings of tears threaten to spill over Altair's eyes; fifteen years of training to be a killer amounting to the deplorable man before you.

Then he sees it: the sagged left sleeve of his friend's robe. It isn't as full as it should be, as if there's nothing there at all. Altair sets the torch into one of the grooves alongside his door and takes a knife from his belt. Leaning over Malik, he cuts the seams attaching sleeve to shoulder and tears the rest of the fabric off. He flinches back. Shadowed beneath the clothing is a mess of blood-stale bandages letting lose ripe muscle and ripped stitches.

_- That's not right. Hours ago I saw him and he didn't look like this! What happened to him?! -_

Altair rubs the sweat from the corner of his eyes gruffly. Enough of this moping! He'll have three days to dedicate to mourning once his friend his wrapped in a kafan and an imam starts the prayers. Malik isn't lost to him yet, but his chances of surviving the night drop with each moment Altair spends being rueful.

Altair throws open Malik's robe, determined to find the extent of hisfriend's idoicy. Malik's bare chest is awash with smears of crimson and below that are bandages hugging his torso, but those too are sullied.

Altair looks back to Malik's face. It's calm like a dolls painted-on face when it should be contorted in pain. A hand is placed just shy of Malik's nose and Altair waits for air to blow against the back of his hand. None comes. Altair lowers his ear to his friend's lips, listening for any signs of breath. Two fingers are pressed against Malik's throat. There are hints of warmth on his skin, but no kick of a heartbeat against his fingers.

A swift backhand is delivered to Malik's face and his rival merely lies there like the abused doll he's become.

"Malik! say something! Do you want to die as foolhearted as your brother?!" Altair bellows. The words are entirely fiction and Altair grits his teeth already feeling the wrath of an enraged older brother's punch. There is nothing. Malik is still; not even a twitch or the flutter of eyelids.

Altair despises the ever-rising sickness in his stomach. The young assassin's eyes darted around the room, trying to find something that will tell him what to do. Altair finds the glowing halo of the torch he left sheathed in the wall bracket. Without a second thought, Altair took up the torch, peeled back what's left of Malik's sleeve and uncoiled the bandages before he jammed the mouth of the torch into his rival's amputated arm.

"YYYAAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!"

Malik's body raised from the bed along with his scream.

"Malik! Malik, thank Allah! Stay with me. Can you breathe?" The master assassin encouraged jubilantly. Altair smiled, almost laughing at how good it was to hear Malik's voice again regardless of the means.

"Al ... Al...ta--ir ... I .. h--ha....te ...you ..." The man croaked out, squirming and shivering irritably.

Altair laughed, "Good, good. Now stay alive so you can irritate me about it everyday."

Using another knife, Altair strikes a vertical incision, severing the bandages around his friend's abdomen.

Malik watches Altair with half-lidded, half-glazed eyes. The older assassin wheezes, unable to regain his breath or any articulate form of speech. He groans out his suffering between his teeth, gripping the blankets weakly. He shuts his sweaty, fevered eyes and swings his head from side to side when the pain builds; each blossom exceeding the last and speading over every inch of his body.

"... c ..an--n--t ..h-hate you for ... for ...--r. I ..ov ... ou too ... too m-m ... uch."

Altair's hears Malik sputter out some prattle; probably an insult, but he doesn't have the time to decipher it. He has work to do.

"Malik don't speak. I can't understand you anyway. Just keep breathing okay?"

The older assassin's eyes are too focused on ordering his stiff fingers do as their told to look at his friend. With these hands, he's stolen Malik back from the placid, white-laced seas of unconsciousness and yet, Altair can't seem to stop tying his fingers into knots. The nervousness is piling in the back of his throat, nearly suffocating him. Exigency pours deadening ice throughout his viens and his mind regurgitates the same tiresome apologies that he wished his mouth would. Al bin Lahad drifts farther away from what's in front of him, until by some inexplicable revelation he finds reality again.

Outlasted it's purpose, Altair tosses the throwing knife aside and pours the still smoldering torch cinders into his hand.

"Scch! Dammit!" Altair cursed as the cinders sheered away at his palms.

Malik blinks open his eyes at the soft touch of something across his lips. His body has finally been wrung out of it's last pain and now simiply shivers irreversibly with the aftershocks of it's cold destruction. He feels lighter; hollow. His head is a burning cauldron of tar and his heart hammers wildly against his chest as if it wants to tear free of it's corporeal prison and ascend to paradise. Breathing has become too difficult; his body permits only shallow intakes of air.

"Bite, your going to need to," he hears Altair's dillerum distorted voice instruct him.

Malik's eyes still haven't adjusted, the room looks like a very obscure persian rug and Malik won't ask his eyes to strain themselves just so he can see Altair's insufferable smirk.

"Wh-hy?..." comes Malik's obstinate retort, "I...w-was..wi...th.. ..th--..er... Ka ... da...rr." Malik turns his head away and shuts his eyes, denying Altair's assistance. His remaining arm lifts to hide his oncoming tears.

"L-let me ... go....It'ss... beau --beautiful ...Altair...please..."

_- So many shadows are waiting for me there, in a field of white jasmine flowers. How can I possibly greet them if I am still alive?-_

Altair stares at his friend in morbid fascination. How can Malik be parlaying with him to die? Al Sayr has never shown defeat in his eyes whether it's a training exercises or a suicide match with Grand Master of the Knight's Templar. This man takes every mission seriously; petty or not. He leaves nothing to chance and holds a strict rule over with novices and master assassins alike when it comes to abiding by the creed. Not because he's a miserable, tightly-wound, jealous prick as Altair would like to think, but to protect every last soldier's life without baised. But Altair's see no fight left in Al Saytr's eyes, just a knowing acceptance that there is nothing left for him in this life and that he belongs with his brother.

"I swear to take that irrefutable logic of yours to the deepest pits of hell one day! But when and how that happens is for me to decide! Until then, put that damned linguistic mouth of yours into good use and shut up! I want us both to live long enough to see the new world we're dying for! You want that Malik, don't tell me you don't! To stand with me and hear the people cheer our names!"

Malik stares at Altair with big bemused eyes for a long while, unsure of what to feel or how to react to his friend's words. Altair made the choice for him by rudly shoving his appendage against his friend's closed lips.

"Hurry the hell up! These coals are hot!" Altair barks.

_-Ever the provacator.-_

Malik used his remaining hand to secure Altair in place in conjunction with the brunette pulling away at the last second and ending up short a tongue. The older assassin chooses to close his eyes, a smile on his lips. He admits to himself that Altair's words have overrun him with misplaced happiness, but Malik doesn't try to disown the emotions.

"As you wish," the consenting words come out incessant and breathless.

Altair chuckles sadistically at the modest impression of teeth into his flesh.

"You might want to bite down harder than that."

Malik was about to quip back, but Altair hindered such from happening by pressing the coals into Malik's abdomen.

"Eeerrrrggghhhhmmmfff!!"

Altair laughed, "I told you to bite harder! And this is exactly what you deserve for making me argue with you. I won't be able to climb anything for a week thanks to these burns."

Malik opened one emerald eye to glare at his comrade, but quickly shut it again tightening his jaw around Altair as the son of none took guiltless pleasure in rubbing the coals good and hard into his friend's body, sparing no flesh from the fire.

"Nnn! NNnrgghh! Ssssshaaatttt!"

"Such a pompous prince," Altair teases with a smirk and a taunting brow. His eyes take on a different light; a look that promises an age-old fondness barely concealed inside an exterior of mischief. "Don't worry, I think your blood is finally clotting. I won't put you through much more of this."

Is that softeness Malik hears in Altair's voice? Al Saytr deemed himself insane to even think it.

The pains is ebbing. As more of it departs, Malik can feel something a lot less excruciating buried under it, drawing invisible paths across his body in careful scrutiny. Malik won't open his eyes because he knows Altair wants him to, baiting him with the novel sensation of kind fingertips across his skin. There's already too much Altair can see even without revealing the secrets laiden in his irises. And Malik still has his pride to consider, though, he was never one to attribute much to it.

Malik starts to concentrate more on the pleasurable feeling instead of the agony. Nimble fingers remove the coals one by one, checking the flesh under each rock to make sure it is thoroughly scorched over. Some areas of flesh are checked once, twice, fingers passing over the burns in succession. Calloused hands start to venture away from the raw wounds and sample over his hips and chest, tracing the many scars of lessons learned throughout his 21 years of life.

"It's done. You can let go now," Altair orders gruffly as if Malik is the crooked puppeteer of his wandering mind and hands.

Malik does so with timid attentiveness, but not without catching Altair's oddly cynical remark. The raven leaves the spiraling statement where it is. For once he doesn't have the mental stamina to persue the adventure it would take him on. His jaw is sore, tingling and hard. He can only imagine what condition Altair's arm is in from the treatment he gave it earlier.

"SSSSss!" Malik hissed.

"Sorry, forgot one," Altair admitted sheepishly, holding up the last coal he overlooked and flicking off his thumb and forefinger.

"NO!" Malik insisted. His back arched, his head was thrown back, and his hand clawed so furiously at his chest that scribbled red shapes appear on his copper skin.

"Can't--Can't! BREATHE!! Al-Alt!"

"Christ, Malik! I am not a physician! They didn't train us for this!" Altair floundered, hoping for a ray of divine assistance to come and enlighten him. When it didn't, his hands began to shake. Altair gripped the side of his head, wishing he could squeeze out a token of useful knowledge from his novice days; a skill Malik was profoundly good at. Altair drew blanks, unable to latch onto the speeding fragments of information in the vast catalogue of his mind. The master assassin frantically turned about himself, expecting a solution to slap him in the face as it did before.

"Air!" Malik dry heaved, desperate for breath, "Air!"

"I know you need air! I don't know how to get it for you! I'll go get someone! Just wait!" Altair reassures as he makes for the door, the panic evident in his voice.

"NO, NOW!" Malik demands, still contorting himself like a infruiated child.

Altair looks back over his shoulder with a grimace.

"What do you want me to do?! Blow into your mouth?!"

"YES!"

Snarling, Altair strides over to the bed; grousing under his breath that for as smart as Malik is he can be incredibly stupid. Before another discerning thought can dissuade him to do otherwise, Altair takes a deep breath and leans down. He misses his target, catching the side of Malik's mouth.

_-How am I supposed to do this if he won't stay still?!-_

Malik's chin is seized in a firm grip and Altair adjusts them accordingly. He releases his held breath, gifting it to his friend in one smooth, drawn-out zephyr. At first it seems to take effect. Malik's convulsions withdraw to a lesser extreme and Altair can alomst feel himself relax along with his rival. A second later and there is chaos. One man is breathing in when he should be breathing out and Al-Saytr jerks back, coughing in retaliation. Frustrated, Altair pulls back as well.

"Dammit, Malik this isn't working! Let me go get help!"

"More!" Malik objects, reaching up to an unsuspecting Altair and pulling him down by his hood. Their lips crash into each other. Altair can taste blood as his teeth pierce the thin layer of skin holding Malik's cracked lips together. Altair dully notes that this looks and _FEELS_more like a misconstrued kiss then anything else and his cheeks grow somewhat warm at the thought. But Al-Saytr intentions are innocent as he gasps at Altair's mouth, needing the life breathed into him.

"All..Altai--r..!"

Malik opens his eyes, twin pools of hazel gaze at Al bin Lahad; red, tearful and begging for mercy. Altair takes a long drag of air and forgets about calculating his actions and about fufilling every petty request this assertive man asks of him. He lets Malik's curt breaths and heavy presence guide him to where he's needed. Their parted lips meet on their mark and Altair gives Malik all he has to offer, not once falling out of cadence. Altair can't explain why, but his hand moves to cradle the nape of his friend's neck, testing the thick hairs against his calloused fingertips and it feels perfectly natural despite it's complexity. It's belying thier hatred for each other, it's violating their friendship, and shattering every rule about their relationship from under their feet, but Altair's doesn't see it that way. To him, it feels like he's been holding Malik like this his whole life.

His other hand searches for Malik's and finds it still entangled in his white robes. He loosens his rival's grip on him with gentle persuading fingers. Malik, lost and destitute for constitution, immediately adheres to the salvation found in Altair's hands. The brunette brings their joined hands to rest alongside them on the bed. The men maintain their trade of air and the winded raven quickly becomes stable.

Altair was the one to do it. He turned their simple exchange into something it wasn't intended to be and he hesitated only a second to mull over the consequence before lips were savoring Al Sayr's. Malik moans into their kiss. His fingers are like talons in their bruising grip, wrenching the life out of Altair's fingers as if it he were a deadly serpent. Malik doesn't say anything, doesn't seem to realize what they're doing, but Altair does; distantly. Malik's mouth is hot on his, but his lips are dry from their recreation and illness so Altair licks his own and rolls his slick mouth over them.

There's a parade of advancing bootsteps and clanking armor outside the door. Altair's tongue bodly ventures past Malik's lips. The guards have reached them. Altair can read their annoying imminence like a sixth sense, his years of eluding their brood makes him uniquely aware of their patterns; but Altair doesn't want to be absorbed back into his work. Even as he forces himself to block out his reflex to, he has already anatomized their numbers, caliber, smell, value. Altair is growing intolerant of their company. All he wants to know right now is Al Sayr: his scent, his face, his sound.

"We heard screams," A soldier alerts the two distracted occupants in the room.

Altair manages to steal a taste of Malik's tongue before the man shies away from the trespassing touch and goes unconcious.

"What's going on in here?" This guard is a higher rank then the first one to speak. He wouldn't be encroaching into the dark room and taking an authoritive tone with a Master Assassin if this were not the case.

Altair removes the parts of himself connected to his rival, mindful of peeling back his hand from under the ridges of his spine. Altair finds himself lingering onto the coarse touch of dark strands on his friend's nape, fingers ghosting over a promiant muscle in the oh so delicate region of his neck. Malik's neck is thin and umarred like a womans, but not enough to disguise the established feature of a mans. Altair has seen many colors and widths in his career, each splattered with a trademark red, but Malik's is perfection in his hands. Altair's fingertips curiously followed up the cliff of Malik's jaw, over the rise of his cheek.

Al bin Lahad forces himself to stand up and surrender his caresses, but he cannot will his eyes to do the same and waver from the copper beauty.

"There's no need for you to be here. I have taken care of it myself," Altair said tersely.

"Oh, then you won't mind explaining it to us."

Altair greets the impudent guard with a glare, irises flicking down to his belt and up again. In terms of superior status, Altair was lacking in comparison and the crime of insubordination fell on him.

"Very well. If you _insist_," Altair flouted, "Malik came to me in a panic. Under a false pretension, he had mistaken me for his brother, Kadar. I can only conclude that he was hallucinating; relieving our battle in Solomons temple and thinking I was Kadar. Malik wanted nothing more than to protect me from Robert de Sable's blade. It's all justified considering his brother died from such. But as you can _see_, I've since calmed him down."

"Calmed him down huh?" The guard crosses his arms and nods his head towards the man on the bed, "Is that why he's throwing himself around like that?"

Altair eyes narrow warily, "Just what are you--Oh God, Malik!"

The raven is flouncing about like a spring bass dragged out of water. Altair's responded by jerking his hands across his friend in a muddled confusion, lost as to how to sadate him.

Altair turns to the guard for understanding, "You seen him! He was fine just a moment ago! I don't know what's happening to him!"

"Are you sure that's what _really_happened?" The guard pressed, leaning towards Altiar with a suspicious eye. There was not a shred of concerned for Malik in this man's voice. The guard was more interested in catching Altair in his lies, convinced the demoted assassin had poisoned the raven (or worse) and made it appear to be an accident. In the guards eyes, Malik was as good as dead so he continued on with his interrogation.

"Because from what I can _see,_ you are not very relieved to have him alive. No wonder you were so quick to have me leave. Perhaps this is all a skillfully crafted ploy?"

Altair aims his predatory eyes at his prosecutor, insulted by this accusation. "Surely, you don't think I--"

"Away from him!"

Everyone's attention diverts to the elderly doctor storming into the room, shoving all others aside to in his white robes. He sets to his work expediately, checking Malik for fever. Altair conviently moves himself out of the way.

"Tell me, has this happened previously?"

It takes a moment for Altair to realize he's the one being asked.

"Y-Yes," Altair sputters briskly.

"When? How many times?" The doctors questions are swift and concise, as if researched and practiced many times.

Altair finds his reserved tone again, "Once, mere minutes ago."

"And?"

"It ... it went away on it's own."

The doctor stares at the brunette, waiting for the parts of the story he knows Altair is leaving out. When Altair refuses to speak, the old man turns back to the raven, a syringe of viscosous liquid pulunged unceremoniously into his chest.

The old man sighs, a heavy burden upon his mind as he watches the raven finally slack into the mattress.

"If these acts continue, we may have to surgically open him."

"No you can't cut him open! I just burned him shut! Don't think he's another dead body for you to experiment with!" Altair objects, crazed at the thought of allowing such an procedure. As far as Altair was concerned, doctors only cared to harvest a new guinea pig to test out their new theories. People were merely experiments.

The old man gives Altair a reproachful gaze. His experienced eyes turn back to the reposed raven. The doctor's dappled hands lightly dust across Malik's wounds; becoming despondent as a thick layer of soot blackens his palms. He rubs his fingertips together and the soot snows into the air.

"So I see. The evidence is clear. Be glad he's young and full of vigor like you. He might survive the surgey. The infection you have laid out for him complicates things. His heart may have already taken on too much stress. Any more and it could burst. Is best not to move him so I suggest you find a different place to stay tonight."

"There was nothing else I could do. I feared a grimer outcome awaited him if I had done nothing."

The doctor awards him no condolences for this.

"I'll stay and watch over him. We are ... friends." Altair offers, placing a hand over his heart.

"Then why don't you go fetch me a wash basin and some rags? Perhaps then I will consider this. I need some convincing after paying witness to the results of placing him in your care."

"Very well." Altair bows at an 85 degree angle; a slight variance from his vertical posture but Altair feels he needs to express his gratitude.

Once out the door, Altair uses the trip to reflect. He vowes to devote every spare minute to Malik's recovery. He'll carry him, he'll feed him, and he'll train his body back into physical prowess even if it takes a lifetime. All the while enduring the punishments Malik sentences him to. Let Malik spit deriding insults of Altair's dishonorable heritage. Let his body be fodder for whatever objects Malik cares to throw at it. Let him forsake him in a foreign tongue so it salts the damage to his pride. Altair won't flinch or a raise hand to stop him because he wants to atone for the infamous wrong he's done. And so help him, if Allah would still spare his pity, Malik won't remember his foolish kiss. Altair has a sinking feeling that none of this will Malik happy.

Before he knows it, Altair's feet have carried him back to his bedroom. To his distaste, two guards stand on either side of the door. One of them bodly meets Altair's hooded eyes and before the Master Assassin could promptly release every pent up grievance on the man, the doctor spotted him far too readily in the doorway, as if he had been biding his time until the brunette appeared with the perscribed items.

"Ah! Good, you have returned!"

The grey man stands from his seat and sets down the stone medicine bowl on a side table.

"Now then, I'll leave the task of cleaning him up to you. I've mixed some herbs while you were out. Apply it once you have finished cleaning out the wounds. And remember to wrap him up when your all done," he said in with a cheerful smile.

Altair inertly stands there with his mouth agape very against the prospect of old men with effeminate faces. The doctor gives him an affable smack on the shoulder, making Altair tense and sending a wave of water to spill over the side of the pan. Altair grinds his teeth and snarls.

The old man's eyes belie his consoling appearance, dangerous in their askance.

"You did claim to watch over him didn't you? This is your apportunity to prove it. I will send in an aid to check up on the both of you. If he has another convulsion, come get me immediately. I'll be close by, reading up a few things."

The doctor pats the young assassin a few times in good faith, his advanced years shining through with the gesture. Altair watches the old man leave until he's completely out of eyeshot and then lays down the wash basin next to the bowl the doctor left behind. It's brighter in the room from the newly added torches and candles.

Altair sat down on the stool and took the cloth from his arm and dipped it in the water. He wrung it out, the rain of water very loud in the room. Gingerly, he washed the edges of the wounds. Altair takes his time in removing every spot of black, diligent to not to dig too deep or else risk Malik sitting up in bed, clocking him a good one over the head and no later whining about how rough the brunette has always been. Stupid really; asleep he can't feel pain. Although, Malik has never been this quiet. It's amazing out how soiled the water becomes after just one cleaning. Altair leaves the room only to change the water and arrives back shortly after. Each time he ignores his vicarious artwork: the massive stretch of mutilated skin that Malik frames with his flesh, an abstract scar brandishing Altair's signature.

The task finally done, Altair moved onto inspecting the lumpy brown mixture the doctor concocted. The brunette whipped his face away when his nose got too close.

"Echgh! Sweet mother of the great prophet Mohammad! Do you remember this stuff Malik? They used to use it on us when we were kids to teach us to tolerate pain. This stuff is more wicked than the damn wound! Works though."

Altair takes another sniff of it. "Too bad for you they haven't improved the smell."

The brunette scoops out a greedy amount and takes exceeding amounts of pleasure from smothering it across Malik's abdomen. The brunette starts to cough from the pungent odor but it escalates into a laugh at the thought of Malik's amusing reaction to waking up covered in the vile substance and the number one suspect who could have done it to him clutching his side in unabashed mirth.

"Really, I am surprised you haven't woken up yet. Probably good that you don't. I am in enough pain as it !"

Altair breaks out into another pitch of hysterics.

Altair hisses as the medicine peforms it's infamous wonders on his burned hands.

"Ahhh... it stings..."

Tunnel vision and overall lack of interest nearly lead Altair to stick his unsavory fingers into his mouth, as par his chronic tendancy to stick anything sore into his mouth, but his exceptionally picky nose saved him from such tragedy.

Altair rinsed his hands off in the water and dried them the most he could with the damp towel before a similair incident could occur. Now that Malik was liberally covered in the mixture, as par his instructions, he uncoiled the bandages and pressed one end down on the lower right of Malik's torso, the medicine's sticky consistancy doing well as an third hand.

For the sake of making the process easier, Altair sits Malik up in the bed and placed pillows under his shoulders. This gave Altair some room to work the bandages around his friend's abdomen without numerous folds and errors in each wrap. If the assassin fails to wrap him properly, it would be detrimental to Malik and that was something Altair wanted to avoid at this point. The task seems to take hours to complete. The stretching of the bandages and aggitated slopping of medicine uncomforting to his ears. The sounds take Altair on a journey through all the times he's shorted Malik in terms of credit and the infinite number of exploits to his friendship.

Altair sits Malik back up, inspecting his work and accepting it as something he would wear on his body. Altair removes the pillows and positions them at the head of the bed and lays Malik back down. Altair trailed his hand over the bandages, marvaling at the white that once was overshadowed by red. Altair gently rests his aching head onto Malik's good shoulder in a silent request to for forgiveness. The brunette's right hand lifts to caress the side of his friends face, the skin no longer boiling hot. The assassin's eyes quickly shut as tears threaten to come.

"I am so sorry Malik," he whispered, "Please ... don't you ever forgive me for this."

Altair sobs mutely to himself, weary of the guards outside and yet goes on unrestrained.

"Al...tair."

Altair's eyes blink open in shock. Did he hear right? His head snaps up to see if phenomenon is real.

Malik eyes rest peacefully closed with no signs of wakfulness.

"Malik?!" Altair whispered, begging for his friends voice to speak to him again.

"Don't cry," Malik said, eyebrows knotting.

Malik's arm raises toward Altair and the master assassin jerks away at the mere absurdity of it.

"I am sorry. I was too harsh on you before. The Master favors you as a son and demands more from you like no other, right? Then, you can cheat off me. I won't let you fail the test. There wasn't any time for you to study."

Altair laughs bitterly, nostaglia washing over him in a wave. If only the boy knew that it wasn't fatigue that kept him from his books but the allure of sneaking into the harem that he was yet too young too enjoy. If caught, severe punishment was taken. Altair would be beaten and starved to assure absolute submission to the rules.

Altair's takes up Malik's dangling fingers and warms them up in his grip. He tilted his head up from it's spot on Malik's shoulder. His nose and lips brushed the bone right below Malik's his ear, smelling and tasting him.

"Don't worry. I am going to stay up and study with you all night."

"Don't be derisive." Malik asserts, hurt by his friend's jest.

"No, no I am not. I am all yours. I promise."

Altair's scared lips press agaisnt the raven's knuckles, sealing his promise with a kiss.

* * *

Thank you for reading.

Comments and Questions welcome

Chapter Completed: January 10, 2010 11:02 pm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Ubisoft owns the rights to Assassin's Creed. This is a work of fiction and is strictly fan-made with no intentions of profit.

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Chapter 2

Altiar doesn't remember shutting his eyes. He remembers being draped over on Malik's bedside with his head nestled between his crossed arms and his friend's hand in his. Any memories of what happened after that are foggy and Altair is too tired to wade through the grey.

The master assassin blinks open his pale eyes and is happy to see the world is the same as when he left it. In half-baked consciousness, Altiar upturns his hand, smiling to himself as he feels Malik's fingers still intertwined with his own.

Altair would have bet any amount of gold on their hands separating from each other while he was asleep, but tonight it seemed the two men found something to agree on. Altair smirks and tightens his grip on his friend's hand. The novice makes a soundless vow to lock them together in an everlasting bond. Even if other man wishes to see their ties severed from each other, Altair will weave the threads back together.

Determined to keep awake, Altair tries to find something to preoccupy the time. Thought... he hasn't thought in some time now. Maybe this was a good time to catch up.

His first thoughts are of wonder; wonder of this being the longest time the two assassins have stayed in each other's company since childhood. That thought brings a smile to Altair's face. He had forgotten what a menace he had been as a child and the fun that came with it.

Young Altair had kept book lessons entertaining for himself and the rest of the class with a daily show of pranks. Most of them ended with a swift paddle to his ass if he failed to push the blame onto someone else. Of course there had been days when Altair was too sore to reap the punishments of his powder keg instructor and the jaded novice would kill the hours by staring at the back of a boy who sat a row in front of him. Malik would squirm in his seat, nervously glancing behind him in an attempt to figure out what he had done to warrant such attention. Altair found it amusing to watch the reserved boy fetter. After Malik witnessed the other boy use a blade for the first time, he became proud of Altair's ogling.

They didn't know much about each other back then. All that changed the day Altair felt very, very motivated. He had devised an ingenious plan to frame Malik for one of his pranks for the exclusive chance to see the genius's mortified face.

Altair's plan was executed just as he was dreamed it would. At first, the Rafiq didn't believe Mailk would do such a thing, but thanks to Altair's fabricated evidence, Malik's was deemed guilty in the end. Malik's face was it how it should have been: horrified and betrayed as he was dragged out of his seat and beaten in front of the entire class. Altair had thought he would feel paramount from such a victory, that he would even laugh, but as he watched the dark haired boy endure the false punishment, shame consumed him.

They had come to know each other's names quite well after that, but never spoke a word to one another. Not until the Rafiq, out of sheer desperation, forced Malik to try and teach the eagle boy grammar. Malik had given Altair's first lesson in diffidence while the eagle boy was silent. After many failed sessions together, they grew familiar with each others existence. Malik nearly fell off his chair when Altair pointed to the word "qalam" and asked for help with the pronunciation.

Sadly, the fleeting admiration felt between Masyaf's two best assassins was not meant to last. The brotherhood was hungry for a swift conquest of their enemies, and in their haste, they turned the two boys fragile friendship into a self-destructing rivalry. Indeed the two men grew stronger from their cancerous hate. A few seconds in each other's presence was all either man could tolerate before they both were on the ground kicking and biting each other.

Altair and Malik hadn't changed much over the years. A young troublesome Altair was the same as the now proud Altair. And Malik had never forgiven him. They still hated, still loathed, and rarely spoke to each other.

Where would they be if now if their friendship had never taken that devastating loop?

Altair breathed out a contented sighed as the warmth of their joined hands ran up his arm and an eased over his entire body.

_-It would probably feel something like this.-_

Altair is convinced now. This warm sensation wrapping around him from the inside out is Malik's revenge.

Altair stops thinking. He's done more than enough of that. Instead, he flips over Malik's hand in his own and studies it. He brushes his thumb along the raven's scraped knuckles, runs his fingertips down his friend's palm, trying to discern if it is just the softness of his skin that attracts him.

That was one more thing different about them. Malik tended to his skin. He kept it young with a number of remedies found in his collection of books. Malik's hands are so unlike Altair's beaten ones which are left to heal on their own should they encounter dryness or cuts.

Altair presses their palms together, sizing up the two. Altair silently announces himself the winner of the broadest palm contest. Malik wins the title of the tallest fingers. Their hands are equal, but in different ways.

Malik's body twitches abruptly. Altair thinks nothing of it. He's used to Malik tossing in his sleep. It is only when the raven shakes the entire bed with his flailing limbs that Altair raises his head in concern.

"Why? Why did you leave us to die? Do we mean so little to you? Is there nothing you won't sacrifice if it means saving your pride?"

Altiar scowls. He's growing increasingly tired of this topic.

"Malik please, won't you ever understand?"

"No! You don't understand! Kadar! He-he-!"

Malik shudders, reliving the memories of his brother's murder behind his sealed eyes. Sweat trickles down from the raven's brow as he fights for his life against enemies that no longer exist.

"What of Kadar? Tell me!" Altair demands.

A guard outside hears the commotion and kicks open the door to the room. The guard draws his blade. Malik recoils in fear of the sound.

"What's going on in here?"

Altair throws his arm toward the door in a soundless message for the guard to take his services elsewhere, "Sheath your sword and then get out! You're making him worse!"

"It was me!" Malik confessed, "I was the one who couldn't clear my head! I had nearly lost my arm stealing the piece of Eden from them!"

"You mean that's him?" the guard asks.

The guard sheaths his sword and looks at Malik as if he's a ghost.

"Malik, he's the one that retrieved the treasure from those bastard templars. Everyone on that mission was said to have perished..."

Altair ignores the guard's ramblings. He has more important things to do. He reaches for the cloth in the water basin and wrings it out. He dabs Malik's forehead with the cool liquid, "Shhh. It's alright Malik. There's no reason for you to fear them. I am here."

Malik won't hear it. He throws his head back and forth and blocks Altair's aid.

"Don't lie to me! You left us to die in there and it's all I could think about! And he saved me! My little brother gave up his life for mine!"

Tears rolled down the raven's face, "His death is my fault. I've lost my only family because I couldn't stop thinking about you!"

Such a confession has Altair's eyes shocked to their limits.

"Me...?"

Altair's body feels like stone.

"No Malik, that's not true. You're ..." the next part is stuck in Altair's throat.

The novice assassin swallows, trying to urge the words out. His voice achieves a crackle. He's losing his ability to speak more often and Altair's frustration has towered high because of it. His rage now searches for an out.

His fierce eyes target the meddlesome guard who insists on watching Malik brave through his darkest hour as if it's a riveting street performance. This violation is all Altair can think about and his anger explodes. The master assassin springs to his feet, knocking over the stool he was sitting on in the process. The guard is startled by this and takes a step back from the terrifying golden eyes branding him as their next victim. Altair spares no time in separating the distance between them. Emphatic strides bring them closer together and the guard backs up all of the way out the door where he proceeds to fall into a group of similar men with suspicious eyes.

"If I need your help I'll ask for it! NOW STAY OUT!"

Altair slams the door in their faces and runs back to the bed. He takes up his friend's hand and searches for where he left off in his speech. Somehow, the words come easier for him this time.

"Malik you're not the only one who made a mistake that day."

"He said ... he said ...," Malik croaks out between hicks.

"It's alright. It's alright to take a breath," Altair soothes, cupping his friend's cheek and touching their foreheads together.

Malik seems to calm down. His eyebrows knot against Altair's and he complies.

"Kadar said I had to come back to you. He said it wasn't my time to die ... that ... I should forgive you because ... he forgives you. He said that he would gladly give his life to see the both of us live on and be happy. My little brother said that! Who would have known he was capable of being so mature? I wonder if I even knew him half as well as I thought I did."

Altair is glad the man beneath him cannot open his eyes.

"How can you formulate such nonsense? Of course you knew him better than anyone. You are his brother, you loved him dearly."

"You posses great skill Altair, but that alone does not make you a master. Just as well, Kadar is my brother, but it seems I knew little about him. He's hidden things from me, so many things. When he threw down his swords and lifted me onto his shoulders I never knew he possessed such courage. You know my brother, seen how awkward he is in combat. But you should have seen his eyes then, how they looked at me! He believed it was his destiny to save me that day!"

Malik sniffles, streams of tears overwhelming his face that it's burned red.

Cottons planted its roots in Altair's throat. Flies hatch and fill his stomach. Altair does not know how to console, but he does know the distraction of the flesh. Altair styles Malik's dark bangs to the side and kisses his forehead. He kisses the corner of his friend's left eye, moving down to do the same to his lips. Malik's hysteric breathing finally relaxes and his face is relieved of the harsh signs of grief.

Altair dries his friend's stained face with a careful thumb and knuckles, planting arbitrary kisses on whatever skin he happens to choose.

Malik blinks open his eyes and feels a looming shadow beside him.

"Altair?"

A stray tear travels down Malik's face and Altair is quick to remove it.

"I've come back to save you; to bring you back home with me."

Altair seals his lips over Malik's before there can be any silence. Both men close their eyes for the long satisfying kiss that follows. There are no foul intentions of lasciviousness. It's a simple gesture of pleasure and reassurance. Altair pulls away slightly, feeling Malik's hot breath blows against his cheek. Altair nuzzles his nose against Malik's.

The peaceful smile that crosses Altair's lips becomes disfigured as the master assassin starts to cry. Altair sobs to himself. It's a loud array of pathetic sounds even by his standards. Tears have started to trickle down from his eyelashes, warm liquid landing onto Malik's closed eyelids. Malik is unaware of any of it and drifts back into a less fitful state of dreams.

* * *

**TBC…**

Thanks for Reading!

Chapter Completed: Monday, July 25 2010.

Comments and Questions Welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hope this was worth the wait. I am trying to make the romance move a little slower, a challenge since my other fictions dive right in.**

* * *

Malik shoots up from his bed into a perfect letter 'L.'

His dream, the hallucinogenic cocoon he was in shatters over his head. He can feel the pieces roll over his body like wet earth, pretentiously like he's risen from the grave. It's dark, cold and empty around him.

"It was a dream, _just_ a dream," he tells himself, laughing at his foolishness as he does. The dream had felt so genuine, so perfectly crafted that he believed it to be real. He can't remember what threw him so terribly close to the brink, but it doesn't matter. The dream is over.

Sour sweat trickles down into his eyes, making them burn. The injured assassin moves to wipe it away, but his body must be asleep. Only 5 fingers have made the journey to his face and the other 5 are nowhere to be found. Then Malik remembers he doesn't have 10 fingers anymore. One arm is whole, flesh, a soldier; and the other … twisted, ghostly, and invalid. It won't be the last time he has this bitter realization and Malik tries hard not to break into tears, tries not to loathe the man responsible for his misery, but he can't, he won't.

Malik hears mumbling outside his door. There are 3 guards at least, judging by the shadows moving across the floor.

_- Is this your clever plan Altair? What did you tell our brothers; that I am a beast, a raving lunatic who requires a cage and a warden?-_

Malik pushes himself to his feet, his heart pounding in his throat. His mind is confident, but his body collapses to the stone tile beneath him. He groans as his knees and wrist take the weight of his fall. Stray grains of sand scurry back from the heavy huffs of air spouting from Malik's lips.

It's terrifying how deteriorated his body has become. He doesn't know if he has days or minutes left to live, but he vows to keep his heart beating until he finds his revenge.

Malik concentrates on the first three obstacles standing in his way: the guards outside. Luckily, he finds an iron bed pan lying beside him on the floor. Smirking at the damage he could do with it, the assassin picks it up and trudges over to the door. He almost gives himself away with a groan, underestimating the chains of pain latched onto him. Malik bites his lip and ignores it the best he can. He takes a few more deep breathes then holds the last one in. He opens the door, just enough for it to give an eerie hiss. The guard's reactions are immediate. They step back, their conversation of meeting together for a night of gambling replaced by talk of intruders and the undead.

One by one, they slowly flow inside the room. Malik waits for the right moment, attacking the hind man first.

The two remaining men spin around at the alarming sound of metal colliding with bone. Their comrade lays unraveled and unconscious on the ground, but there is no time to be concerned when a bed pan is being hurled at the next man in line. The second man's jaw breaks before he can draw his sword.

The last guard is Malik's hardest challenge. He is known as Qareeb and is a skilled and intelligent man. With Qareeb no longer stunned by surprise, he easily blocks the bed pan with an armored gauntlet before it connects with his temple.

"Al Sayf what sorcery has possessed you," Qareeb asks, bewildered. He doesn't use his full strength against Malik, knowing the man is ill.

Grimacing, Malik tries his best to match the strength of his opponent. Already his injured body is succumbing to the strain of battle, his defeat assured with each passing second. He has never fallen to Qareeb in the ring before and refuses do so now.

"I think it best for you to lie down," Malik snarls and with the last ounce of rage-powered energy, he breaks their standstill. He raises a boot and kicks the guard to the bed.

Malik knows he can't finish the fight and so he storms out of the room before Qareeb can retaliate. Once outside the room Malik notices he's housed in a familiar location on the second floor, the Master's quarters off to the right. The area is sparsely populated by the night shift guards and some nocturnal scholars, but does not contain the silhouette of the man he wishes to kill.

Malik doesn't have time to search. He can feel himself becoming faint, his vision rippling and his feet seem to be spinning him around in circles.

"ALTAIR," Malik screams at the top of his lungs, his voice spreading throughout the cavernous ceiling.

"COWARD! WHERE ARE YOU!"

Several of the scholars look at the shouting raven-haired man and start to wonder if he's gone mad. No one answers and the assassin turns to a scholar watching him in close fascination. Malik grabs the man's shoulder and it seems more like a lever of stability then a threatening gesture.

"WHERE IS HE?"

"You've gone mad!"

"You know who I am looking for! Altair! Where is he?"

"I haven't seen him."

By this time, Qareeb has recovered and emerges from the room in pursuit.

Malik knew he would be apprehended soon. He would be locked up again, perhaps questioned. His temper boiled over and he screamed, "You're all hiding him from me aren't you? Has he turned you against me? He's turned you against the creed?"

"Malik!"

Malik stills at the sound of his rival's voice calling out to him from the bottom of the stairwell. Al Sayr wonders for a moment if Altair is merely a man of his imagination, a phantom that only he can hear. Malik's body freezes at the thought. His mind turns blank and he doesn't have the courage to face the figure that lies just out of his sight.

"You're ill. This isn't like you," says the voice of Altair. The world seems to have gone quiet; the room melting down to a mess of dripping wet colors and the only clarity is the Altair's reverberating voice. Malik chooses not to respond, lest he look like a mad man.

Arms close around Malik from behind, a weight more real than he had expected.

"Leave him go," Altair breathes into Malik's ear, and Malik feels the warmth and texture of skin wrapping around his knuckles, easing his hand out of a clenched fist.

"Have you been avoiding me," Malik asks in a poor display of defiance.

The scholar watches as the two carry on in a private conversation, feeling as though he's nonexistent. The scholar wonders if he should run away, but just before he does his eyes flicker just a centimeter over from Malik's distracted eyes to settle on Altair's. Altair's eyes are a piercing yellow beneath his hood, the narrow slits of a waiting serpent. The scholar's clothes are released and tears away from their custody.

"You know the answer to that," Altair whispers sharply, between grinding teeth, "Come. You have a fever and should not be out of bed."

"Why should I listen to you?"

"I've made you something. If you go quietly to bed I'll show it to you."

A long silence follows. Malik is new to the idea of Altair using a gift as a means of negotiation and is stuck on how to proceed.

"Malik please, everyone is staring. I don't want them to think you've lost your mind. Faint, right now in my arms. I'll catch you."

How is it that after everything Altair has done to ruin his life, Malik still cannot deny him forever? Malik allows his legs to buckle under him, shutting his eyes, pretending his skeleton has been torn from his body. Altair catches him, as promised, and carries his friend back to the room.

"What was the meaning of that," Qareeb asks.

He's been watching them from upstairs, waiting just outside of Malik's room. Qareeb's arms are crossed, making it a point to block their entry.

"He's ill. Hope you never have to endure the same. Retrieve the men from the room, unless you would prefer them strewn about the floor."

Qareeb is a tricky man. He would just as quickly defend you as he would sacrifice should it benefit him. The man is always lingering in the shadows for the whisperings of others.

"The master will hear of this," Qareeb remarks on a hostel note.

"And so he should," Altair agrees, knowing his words will anger the man further. Qareeb doesn't feel in control if his adversary isn't squabbling.

After the bodies have been taken out, Altiar shuts the door behind him and puts Malik on the bed. Malik doesn't open his eyes, enjoying the relief that comes from keeping them closed. Altair smiles and wants to kiss him, if only to see his reaction.

"Don't open your eyes just yet."

"Oh does your surprise involve murdering me?"

Altair lights a torch and a candle. Malik's nose twitches at the scent of fire.

"If you think I am capable, then keep your eyes open."

Malik makes a distasteful noise to signal his decision to keep his eyes closed.

"I'll be but a moment," Altair says and Malik hears the open and shut of the door. When Altair returns, Malik can tell the assassin is carrying something. The proof is the way the door is jostled open and the rhythm of Altair's steps. The air smells differently, pleasant almost.

"You may open your eyes."

Malik almost doesn't want to. He cracks open one eye, then the other. Altair is holding a wooden plate out to him with fish, bread, and vegetables.

"What-what is this?"

"I know more than you think I do," Altair grins, very proud of himself. Fish was a rarity for them and Altair knew Malik enjoyed it more than most men did.

"Well are you going to eat it or are you waiting for me to feed you?"

Malik's eyes widen and his rebuttal dies in his throat. This had to be one of the few times Altair has ever done something considerate and each time Malik deadpans. How is it that a man can be so callous, so vein, and yet remember a friend's favorite food? Malik starts to rethink Altair's personality, wonders if Altair does truly hear every word he says. Al Sayf is overcome with an adoring heat in his chest.

"Why don't you take the first bite," Malik suggests.

"Honestly, if I wanted you dead I would pierce your throat and be done with it."

"Do as I say," Malik spits back.

Altair laughs, "As you wish."

Altair peels back the silvery skin of the fish and takes a bite of the white flesh hidden inside.

"See, delicious. You should thank me."

"I'll thank you by giving you the privilege of feeding me," Malik remarks, arching an eyebrow in contest.

"Oh, then allow me to cleanse my hands first. I wouldn't want to sully your meal oh great and powerful Dai," Altair says, placing the plate down on the bed and walking over to the wash basin. Altair means what he says, but that doesn't stop him from filling his words with sarcasm.

"It seems you're finally starting to realize my superior status," Malik smirked.

Frowning, Altair finishes his bathing and sits down on the stool. He picks out another piece of fish and places it before Malik's lips.

"Open your mouth, or do I have to work for that as well," Altair asks with mild irritation.

Malik opens his mouth, stating an amendment in mid-bite, "Depends, promise to answer my questions."

Altair shrugs, "Fair enough,"

Altair plucks another piece of fish off the bone, "Ask your question."

"What does the Master have planned for me?"

Altair can tell that this question carries a heavy weight in Malik's mind. Sadly, Altair does not have an answer that will relieve him.

"I do not know. He does not speak to me as he once did. He tells me what I need to know and nothing more. You may have to ask this of him yourself."

Malik opens his mouth compliantly to accept the food, satisfied with the answer Altair gave him.

"Why are you here, cooking me a meal and fussing over me like a foal?"

"I must."

When the burnette moves to slip in another piece of fish, Malik doesn't allow it to enter his mouth.

"Why?"

"I promised the doctor I would watch over you."

"Did you promise this in pity for me? Is this just an act to atone for yourself?"

"Yes."

There is silence. Malik's feelings of displeasure thicken the air around them, sending light shocks to Altair's skin.

"Malik, do you not remember?"

"Remember what," the injured assassin barks.

"Do you remember having the chance of killing me and choosing not to? Do you remember what you told me?"

"I … I did what?" Malik starts to sweat. His stomach does nervous flips. He remembers short clips of the story Altair is referencing, but he doesn't dare speak of them.

"It's likely not to happen again," Altair interrupts, "Don't let it worry you Dai."

"How long have I been asleep," Malik asks.

"Two days."

Altair takes a short pause, waiting for Malik to ask another question. Malik remains silent. Altair decides to ask a question of his own.

"Are you tired? If you'd like I could go get you something to read?"

"I wouldn't trust your judgment on literature or your judgment on anything else."

"I think you'll like what I have in mind," Altair smirks, and pulls out a small scroll from a pouch on his belt.

"Altair must I explain to you what a book is," Malik sighs.

"Take a closer look before you judge the worth of this parchment, my brother."

Altair unravels the paper on Malik's lap, Malik's hand rising to help keep the paper flat.

Al Sayf scans over the page. He finds himself having to squint in the dim light. His eyes start to focus on the mechanical shapes that almost resemble a maze.

"This is Acre… Jerusalem… Arsuf …"

Altair smiles. He knew Malik would recognize the map quickly.

"What do these marks mean," Malik's brows knit, pointing to the "X" on Masyaf.

"They are Robert's informants and his suppliers. This paper holds everything we need to know," Altair declares with a triumphant voice.

"How did –"

Altair is quick to cut Malik off, assuming his question, "It came into my possession."

Malik only glares that the coy statement.

"You give me the wrong answer, Altair. Perhaps, you should listen until I am finished speaking."

"Then ask again," Altair rebukes, not at all pleased with the way Malik was belittling his victory.

"How do you know this isn't a decoy to keep us from the truth? Something this crucial to Robert's plans wouldn't be lost so easily unless it was a trap for us."

"It may, it may not be. What else are we to do?"

"Have you not shown this to Al Mualim?"

Altair growls, "He told me I was a child to think that this called for his attention. He nearly tore it in two."

Malik could see how hard Altair's pride had been struck with Al Mualim's reaction. Altair became rash in these moments, consumed with impatience. Malik was sure Altair would storm off to attack each and every one of the pinpoints on the map this very night if it meant he could convince everyone that his theory was correct.

"Altair, I mean not to discourage you, but I believe the Master may be right."

Altair stands, the action as tight as a drawn bowstring. Altair turns away from Malik, takes a few heated paces forward, and then turns again. He repeats these actions as if he were a rat in a cage. His whole body is shaking and his spine is poised to strike out at anything that crossed his path.

"Altair –"

"I do not wish to hear any more," Altair barks.

"I also believe there may be some merit to what you say."

Altair stops and stands up straight. Malik takes that as his cue to continue.

"We could investigate on our own, secretly. It was true there was an informant in Masyaf, we shouldn't dismiss the possibility that there could be more in each city."

"Yes, Thank Allah you see it! You were always different than them Malik," Altair says, taking Malik's hand in both of his and squeezing it affectionately.

Malik blushes, almost certain Altair means it as a compliment. At the very least, the Dai is relieved to have his friend back to normal. Contrary to what anyone would believe, he prefers an egotistic Altair over a moping, enraged, deluded fool. Malik knows the chances of what Altair hopes for are slim, but will support him for the time being.

"Shall we discuss the plan then?"

Malik must respond delicately to that question.

"If you would hear my opinion Altair, I think we should await Al Mualim's orders."

Altair's mouth opens to protest, but Malik moves his hand gently block Altair's objection.

"Please Alatir, I heed you to listen so that you may see as I see. The city our Master assigns you to will provide us with our starting point. The mission will supply us with a cover to explain our business and gives us means to learn more about the templar's plans. If you're still unsatisfied with those reasons, then stay your hand awhile longer for the sake of preventing my execution."

"Execution? How could he declare your execution when you brought him what I could not? He very well could have executed me had you not returned with the artifact. If it comes to it, we can start a new order of assassins, Malik. I won't leave you a second time."

"Careful of how loud you speak brother. There are many who would disagree with you. Make no mistake that I am happy that you still carry a relic of our friendship, but to see our home in divided chaos, to have a civil war … I don't think that is worth my life."

"I'll prove it to you."

Altair leans forward for kiss. Malik, confused by the sudden invasion of his personal space, leans away. The brunette moves in closer and the back of Malik's head smacks into the stone wall pressed against the bed. With nowhere for his lips to retreat to, Malik's eyes widen. Altair smirks and pushes their faces together. Malik turns away at the last second, his only functioning hand desperately pushing against his friend's shoulder to restrain him.

Altair feels no remorse for his actions and has not thoughts of backing down. Not when his body felt driven to press forward, the need to feel Al Sayr's flesh against his own had burning at his wick for days.

"Altair!" Malik pants, ducking head down like a turtle inside his shell. Al Sayf's is shaking far more than necessary.

Altair pulls back, "So you don't remember … "

"What are you talking about," Malik shouts, nearly hysteric.

"What you told me, you don't remember it do you?"

"Whatever I said, it had nothing to do with this!"

"Malik, why are you so afraid of me?"

"Altair, I can't," Malik cries. Tears begin to form at the crooks of his eyes and Malik hates himself for it.

"Yes, you can."

"I won't!"

"Why?"

"You wouldn't understand!

"Tell me."

"Tell _me _why you want _me_ Altair," Malik demands, looking Altair in the eyes.

Altair takes a moment to reflect on his answer. As he thinks, he gazes into bright hazel eyes. Altair can't seem to come up with a single reason. Rather, there are so many reasons; so many small mannerisms Malik has that make Altair want to be around him that it seems stupid to even try to list them all.

"It would take me day to tell you all the reasons why."

"You have 10 seconds."

"You're strong; you're smart, you believe in me, I like how you preen over your skin, I love the look on your face when I surprise you, I love how you overreact when –"

"I do not overreact! It's normal for a person to get angry if you insult the—"

Malik stops mid-rant when he hears Altair's deep chuckle.

"Can I kiss you now?"

"No," Malik's grimace has been rebuilt and fortified.

"What else must I do, then?"

"I know you Altair, you would soon forget me for another partner. I am simply what is most convenient for you at the moment. I'd rather keep my dignity."

"Then keep me entertained, that shouldn't be too hard for you."

"No."

"Just one kiss. I promise I will do no more than that. Let us see if your answer remains the same."

Malik doesn't say anything and instead gazes down to Altair's lips. Altair leans in slowly; giving Malik plenty of time to push him away, to turn his head aside, but Malik stays still, panting heavily.

Malik closes his eyes as if to brace himself and then Altair is catching his mouth with his own. The kiss is gentle, the brunette adding just enough pressure and motion so that both can feel the tingle of their lips fitting together. Altair opens his eyes and finds that the wrinkles are fading from his friend's face to welcome bliss. Altair, being the devious man he is, slips his tongue into Malik's pliant mouth. Malik quickly recoils, eyes opening, but Altair's explores deeper into the warmth, momentum and passion making both men see the universe in their eyes.

"Please Malik," Altair pants, kissing the man's neck. He gives the tendon he encounters a light bite and sucks on the skin around it. The brunette's hands travel down to lightly caress Malik's battered body.

"Then, rest with me for the night," Malik says.

"Only if I get to touch you until I fall asleep."

"As long as your touching doesn't keep me awake," Malik says, eyes half-lidded and closing.

Altair rolls to the side and props his head up on elbow. Malik follows the same idea and steadily lowers himself down to rest properly on the bed, hissing when his abdomen contracts.

Altair never did plan on treading past an exchange of kisses and caresses. Malik's body wouldn't withstand any more attention than that. The simple fact was that Altair enjoyed teasing Malik. His reactions are so colorful in nature, its fun to watch him squirm. Altair cuddles up close to the man's flank, wrapping and arm around Malik's chest. He gives a quick kiss to the dark-haired man's cheek.

"Do not worry; I shall bring safety and peace to your dreams."

"I expect no less, novice," Malik mutters, his voice thick with an emotion he doesn't dare name.

**TBC...**

* * *

Thank you for Reading!

Comments and Questions Welcome!

Chapter Completed: Tuesday October 18, 2011 at 1:08 am


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Malik is the first to wake up. The morning light is far too bright. He snarls at the pale sky, blinking until his eyes adjust. His body shivers, a frigid breeze penetrating through his clothes to prickle his skin. He wonders where Altair's warmth has gone, but that thought is weakened by the oncoming nausea. He feels hollow, stripped. Malik tries to turn over onto his side to ease his pain and finds that his legs are tied together with rope.

"Ah, you've awakened," remarks an old man's voice.

Malik knows the sound very well.

"Master," Malik seethes, his mind suddenly exploding with hatred. He can't say he's surprised by the situation he's in; he been anticipating his own execution for days, but he wasn't expecting it to turn out this way. He expected the courtesy of a notice, a day of pardon to enjoy his last moments, a damn final request, a will, anything that attributed to his years of devotion to the brotherhood, anything that said yes, he existed. Now that he thought about it, the gathering seemed like a last minute thought, a haphazard attempt at cleaning up a loose end that wasn't supposed to exist. Considering this event was ordered and overseen by the leader of the assassins himself, it was curious to see the master threatened by his presence to expedite proceedings.

For the life of him, Malik can't clear the blame from Altair as the cause of his execution. Altair was an accomplice in this plot, whether directly or indirectly, perhaps both. Had Altair just listened to him in Solomon's Temple, all the events leading up to this point could have been averted. And Last night … last night must've been a game for the eagle assassin, a game only deceitful, dishonorable bastards know how to play. How stupid he must've looked, Altair must've been laughing at him the entire time! He should know better than to believe Altair gave any care for him. Altair probably drugged him as he suspected. His plan had been to patronize him, give him his last meal of sorts and his final earthly pleasure if out of pity. Malik saw red behind his eyes.

Al Mualim begins to pace back and forth in front of him, holding a gleaming silver dagger in his hands. The old man tests the tips sharpness on his aged fingers.

"Do you know how many years it has taken me to become the man I am, Malik? I know you're one of the few men intelligent enough to understand."

"What is the meaning of this? I have done nothing, but served you," Malik wails, struggling to move forward, but two guards on either side of him keep him firmly in place.

"An assassin is at a grave disadvantage without both his hands, wouldn't you agree? You are a liability, one I am willing to part with."

"How can you do this? After what I have done!"

Al Mualim laughs, "You've been against the brotherhood for some time now …"

"What," Malik is too shocked by that last statement he doesn't have a clue on how to continue.

"Ah yes, the treasure. Cunning you are Malik, bringing it to me had always been a part of your plan, a device to keep suspicion from you.

Malik stares down at the stone patio, wracking his brain to make sense of what his Master is saying, but all that comes out of his mouth is, "Altair…"

The master wags his finger, "Ah yes, Altair. We have him as well."

"What," Again Malik is dumbfounded.

Al Mualim cues for his guards to come forward and Altair is brought from the shadows of the steeple. Malik can hear the rattling of chains, muffled curses rendered intangible beneath a cloth gag in his mouth. Malik turns, finds Altair's robes stained in red and heavily incarcerated. Malik's eyes widen to their limits and his complexion pales. Just what is going on here?

"Both of you wished to give me over to Sable, it is apparent to me now. You would have this land fall into the templar's hands, if it means you can take rule over it. But you did not foresee Altair betraying you, did you Malik? After all, there can be only one ruler and Altair has always been such a greedy child. Your blood feud worked to my advantage. It allowed me to see the truth lying beneath your hoods; your intentions have been exposed for what they really are!"

Somehow Altair had ripped his gag apart with his teeth and spoke, "Lies!"

A guard was quick to silence him with a jab to the stomach.

Malik struggles in his vices to help Altair, growing increasingly perturbed. How much torture did they put him through to weaken him to this state?

"This isn't a trial you insolent child! Your sentence is already set." Al Mualim yells, placing his dagger to Altair's neck.

"No," Malik calls out, surprising himself and everyone else.

Al Mualim smirks, withdrawing his blade and walking over to stand before Malik. The old man kneels, taking Malik's chin in his hand. The falcon struggles, but Al Maulim forces his gaze into his.

"There was always something special about you two. I saw the potential for greatness inside the both of you even as young novices. It was almost too perfect to have two geniuses under my hand, and I now I see that it is a curse. It breaks a father's heart to see his sons fall off theirs pedestals. Don't worry my young scholar; your deaths will be fitting to your crimes.

"Throw them to the ocean!"

Malik couldn't believe what he heard. He gazed toward Altair as they both were being carried closer to the precipice. Altair had gone deadly still and did not struggle for a time, but then as the water came into view he fought with all his might. He managed to wrap his chains around a guard's feet and trip him on to his back. He knocked the other guard over the edge of the cliff. Malik watched absolutely amazed, but then Al Mualim was there grabbing Altair's cloak and throwing him back towards the edge.

"Goodbye my sons."

Altair keened over the edge and Malik screamed after him, soon feeling his own descent as he was pushed.

While sailing through the air, wind whistling through his ears, all Malik could think about was how Altair was feeling. How horrible it must be to die by one's worst fear: to drown in a black abyss alone and powerless.

"Altair!" Malik screamed, trying to reach the man in front of him.

Altair didn't respond and Malik seen him hit the water first. The falcon felt a horrible pain of loss in his stomach, warm tears dripped from his eyes and he closed them.

_-__I won't leave you!__-_

Malik felt a frothy rush of cold, an overwhelming impact that reached his core. His whole body tingled and he saw stars.

When his vision started to clear, he saw the white robes none too far beneath him and Malik tried every movement possible to get him closer to the man. Every inch Malik gained, Altair's steel chains sank him deeper down.

_-Altair! Altair! Altair!-_

_-Please__,__ wake up you fool!-_

Malik started to feel it, the burning need to breath. Soon, it wouldn't matter if he reached Altair or not, his body would choke. Malik found himself frantic, using his last reserves to at least touch Altair again.

Malik heard odd sounds, clicking noises almost and saw shadows of streamline figures around them. Malik's mouth opened, gulping down a mouthful of water, making him cease in the water.

A darkness was coming over Al Sayf and suddenly there were shapes swimming around him, swift slick shapes that spoke to him again in their language. Malik remembers death and it didn't pan like this. It had been quick, beautiful, pleasant, but he supposed that each time you die is a different experience.

* * *

_Frush_

_-That noise … - _

_Frush_

_-… I hate the__ sound of waves__.-_

Altair felt the cold flowing over him, always methodical, again and again.

He blinked open his eyes and found himself laying on top of pliant, wet sand. Atlair simply stares on at the grey, empty shoreline stretched out in front of him.

He remembers being cast into the sea and is convinced he's washed up somewhere on the beach of heaven. It was surprisingly more life-like than he originally thought. He was still in chains and his body was still stiff.

He heard the calls of seagulls, loud and annoyingly close. Altair attempts to get to his knees. It was like learning how to walk again for the first time.

Then Altair saw the body lying next to him, a few paces away surrounded by the seagulls.

"Mal-," Altair's voice was hoarse and he could speak no more. When he tried to stand he fell, grains of sand clinging to his wet clothes like a seasoning.

"Mal-," He tried to say again and gave up. He managed to stand this time and he shuffled over to the body, swatting the birds away. He sank to his knees and turned Malik over on to his back. The dark-haired man's eyes were closed, mouth hanging open. Altair shook him, "Mal-."

He silently cursed his voice for not working.

Altair leaned down and awkwardly held Malik's nose shut and breathed into his mouth.

Malik started to cough, brows knitting together in agitation.

"Could you stop that," Malik groaned, "I am alive you novice."

"Mal-ik" Altair coughed, hunching over his friend and hugging him the best he could with chained hands.

Malik found he his ankles were tied up as well and simply smiled. Altair was content to lay on top of his friend for awhile, taking in the fact that they were both alive.

Malik's eyes opened once he heard the familiar squeaks of the creatures that came to their rescue. He tried to sit up, but Altair's form prevented him from doing so.

"Altair, get up."

Altair grumbled but complied. Now that Malik could see, he spotted the streamline figures performing acrobatics out in the ocean. It was a truly beautiful display, their skin gleamed in the sun.

"Look, they're our saviors Altair. They must be saying "good morning" or "you're welcome."

Altair made a nonchalant glance over to the dolphins and then went back to resting his head on Malik's chest. The brunette made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded like, "I am not saying thank you."

Malik laughed at Atlair's ungrateful behavior and stroked his wet brown locks.

Altair looked up at his friend with a pout and then leaned up and kissed him.

It took a moment for Malik to respond.

"Altair…"

"I love you," Altair said bluntly. The brunette can't explain why his voice had returned to him at that particular moment, but he doesn't question it.

Malik visibly blushed and Altair smiled.

"That's not-"

Malik didn't get to finish before Altair's tongue was playing with his own. Al Sayf's eyes slipped shut, and for a moment he believed everything was the way it should be, that all was right, and just in the world. He had been blessed with a second chance and he felt a peace unlike any he had ever known shower over him as their lips touched to the sound of the sea and the dolphin's cheers.

A gentle breeze ruffled them and Altair shifted breaking contact. He sat there, waiting for Malik to say something, but the raven-haired man looks away, "I was going to say we should get out of these binds," he explains.

Altair makes a haggard expression, "If those things really were our saviors they would have left us a key."

Malik chuckles and Altair can't help how his heart flutters at the sight of his friend's expression.

"We'll find something, I am sure."

They both stand, one helping the other as they make their way for solid ground.

"Wait," Malik says and turns toward the sea.

He waves at the dolphins and shouts out the words: "thank you."

Altair winces, "You're an idiot. You're saying "thank you" to fish."

Malik punches him slightly.

"Argh, that's my injured side!"

Malik simply glares at him.

"Alright, fine. Thank you, you stupid fish," Altair whispers.

The land leads them up an incline and they walk for a time through long reeds of wheat. Once they reach the top of the hill, the land opens up into a small meadow of various wild flowers with an old, one-floor house and a stable off to the left. They notice clothes on the clothes line and accept the possiblity that they may be chased away by the owner.

They choose to settle in the sable, easily their safest option. As they walk inside, a horse whinnies at them, spooking the two assassins. The horse shows no other sign of aggression and seems healthy and agile so they continue in. There's a mound of hay towards the back and also a wall of tools.

"Well at least we found something sharp and somewhere to rest," Altair says.

Altiar takes down the scythe from among the pickfork and axe and cuts the rope around Malik's feet.

Malik quickly peals the thick rope away and sighs in relief, "Ah, I can't tell you how good it feels to have those off."

"Really, I wouldn't know."

"I think I perfer you in chains, at least you behave," Malik teases.

Altair raises his weapon, "Which one of us is holding the scythe?"

Malik laughed, "Stay here, I'll scout around the house for something we can use."

"Malik, will you be alright," Altair asks seriously.

"Please, I may be short one arm, but I am still the better assassin."

"The only reason you're getting away with saying that is because I am currently chained up."

"Still, I am not worried; I have the all-mighty Altair who will come to my rescue if I run into any trouble."

"Don't forget to bring back some dry clothes," Altair says, slightly embarrassed.

"Of course."

Altair watches Malik leave, still feeling uneasy about the arrangement.

Malik takes a moment to to watch from the cover of the stable, waiting to see if a human shape appears in any of the open windows of the house. When no one appears, Malik moves in closer, peering inside. It's a small shack with a large kitchen and two bedrooms. No one seems to home and so Malik opts for trying the front door rather than attempting to climb through the window. The door easily opens for him.

There are cabinets and countertops to his left. On the table there's a carving knife along with several vegetables and bread. He pockets the knife. He opens drawers and cuboards trying to find some small metal tool. He finds keys but none of which will unlock Altair from his shackles. There's a large cooking chimney built into the house. A fire poker and a pot won't help him.

Malik heads outside to the clothes line. He reaches up to unpin the white tunic when a voice startles him.

"What are you doing, you thief!"

With men's clothes hanging on the wash line, Malik considered himself lucky to be confronted by the wife. At least she would listen to what he had to say before she started smacking him around. As she rushes over to him, with a sack slung across her back, Malik notices her bun of bright blond hair, clearly marking her as of European descent. She wears a long sleeve, jade tunic with a brown vest layered overtop, brown pants and boots.

"I am not a thief. Please, allow me to explain."

She raised an eyebrow at him, thrown off by his response. In her experience, thieves ran away after being caught. She scrutinized him up and down, taking in his soaked clothes, his missing arm, and rope marks around his wrist.

"My God, what happened to you?"

"My friend and I were driven from our home."

"Wait, friend? You mean there are more of you?"

"Just myself and one other. Please, we mean no harm, we only wish for some shelter and dry clothes."

Malik doesn't like the hateful look blooming in her brown eyes.

"It was the assassins, wasn't it?"

**TBC...**

* * *

Thank you for Reading!

Comments and Questions Welcome

Chapter Completed: October 28, 2011 8 pm.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Malik looks at her strangely, "Why do you—"

"Why do you not? How can you defend them after what they have done to you? King Richard is trying to unite this country and yet the assassins accredit their murders of his men to acts of peace? What a farce! Tamir is dead because of them!"

"Tamir… ," Malik echoes, rolling the name around in his memory, "… he is the weapons dealer, correct?"

"So you know of him," she scoffed.

A few trains of thought take off in opposite directions inside of Malik's head as he analyzes the repercussions of Tamir's death.

"When," Malik asked her.

"Today. I was to pick up a special order, but it seems that both my money and my weapon are gone."

"So it is with the templars that you align yourself with?"

She laughed, "As if they would have a woman join their ranks! I am as fully capable as any man, yet the turn me away, the bastards!"

Malik could relate to being underestimated, especially after the speech Al Mualim had given him before being thrown into the sea.

"Then what of your husband?"

"Husband," She sputtered, taken aback by the idea, "I belong to no man."

Malik admits he's embarrassed. He shouldn't have assumed she was married.

"Forgive me, its just the clothes-"

Her loud sigh cuts his explaination short, "Doing their laundry seems to be all I am good for."

Malik blinks at her, speechless for the moment, until a horse's cry breaks through the air and diverts their attention towards the stable.

Altair had freed the stallion and was now barreling towards them on the back of the bay-colored horse. balls of grass flew into the air as the horse swerved left and right. Altair nearly threw himself off the saddle as he tried to use his chains as a makeshift bridle.

"Altair you idiot," Malik mutters to himself, holding his ashamed face in his hand.

"Is this your friend," Abegail sneered, pointing to the rider.

"Yes…," Malik begrudgingly admitted.

Once Altair resets himself, he can concentrate on the two figures standing just beyond him. They look nothing like the teaming mass of murder he invisioned them to be. Altair pulls back on his chains, bringing the horse to a trot in front of the pair. He can see that there is no cause for his calvary despite the shouts he had heard from them earlier. Altair dismounts and doesn't like the unappreciative stare he recieves from Malik. The woman next to him was equally unimpressed, raising her eyebrow up at Altair.

"I heard voices," Altair explains roughly, "I thought-"

"You thought I was in need of rescuing," Malik concluded. Thankfully, the raven managed to stop himself before he said "from a woman."

"Who is she," Altair snaps, shifting to stand in front of the dark haired male.

"She," the blonde declared, "is called Abegail. It's a pleasure I am sure."

Altair continues to snarl at her and Malik steps in front of his friend, shoving the assassin behind him.

"He had my best interest at mind, do not hold it against him."

"It's nothing I can't fix," she says and begins to stroke the narrow patch of fur between the horse's black eyes.

"Your friend looks in need of blacksmith," she says, nodding towards the iron cuffs wrapped around Altairs hands. "Help yourselves inside. I'll be in after I tie up Dawn," Abegails smiles and leads the horse away.

"I don't like her," Altair whispers, after Abegail was saftely out of range.

Malik rolls his eyes and opens the door to the house. "Of course you don't. "

"It's small in here," Altair complains as they suffle inside.

Al Sayr sighed, "Show some gratitute Altair. Abegail has every reason to throw us out and yet she wishes to help us; a thief and novice who nearly rode off with her horse."

Altair pouts and wanders over to the window. He watches the blonde woman outside, still suspicious of her intentions.

"You're calling her by her name already," Altair says accusingly.

"Yes, Altair," Malik barks, growing tired of Altair's antics, "it's appropriate when someone tells you their name."

Malik sits himself down on one of the benches on the other side of the kitchen, leaning his back against the wall. A pained sigh escapes his lips as his muscles stretch.

"How do you know she isn't plotting something," Altair asks, "Even for someone who is kind, she's too helpful."

The scholarly assassin looks toward the cieling and closes his eyes. He half-hears Altair pin allegations on Abegail, the words diluted by the water in his ears. There is a familiar rhythm to the sounds of Altair's voice and Malik realizes his own logic is being recycled back at him. He had no idea their conversation about the scroll was still still a bruise on Altair's conscience, but that did not give him ground to attack the girl's character. Malik took the sentiment as an attempt to infuriate him.

"There are kind and forgiving people in the world Altair, you forget this."

Malik wraps those words together just for him and the Eagle is glad he can't see the intense look in hazle eyes.

Altair watches as Abegail emerges from the stable alone and unarmed. She blends in with gold surroundings of the farm, a lioness in the tall grass.

"She's on her way back," Altair says nonchalantly as he turns away from the window.

"Marvelous," Malik hisses and then growls as Altair pushes him to the edge of his seat to make make room for himself.

The Raven can feel golden eyes staring at the lines of his neck, inviting them to face each other, but Malik ignores the silent request.

Lips softly graze the curve of Malik's cheek and the darker assassin whips around with a bright flush to his cheeks, covering the the violated skin with his hand.

Malik is about to shout something when Abegail walks in; finding the two boys and their seating arrangement odd when there were plenty of chairs for them to choose from.

"I never caught your name," Abegail says, her gaze clearly indicating Altair.

"Altair, his name is Altair," Malik replies.

"Malik," Altair reprimands.

"Please, like you could have come up with a believable lie."

Abegail takes a deep breath as the men continue to bicker with each other. She pulls a tinder box from her bag and begins to light the fire pit.

"Is it a habit of yours to make a specticle of yourself, Altair?" Abegial cut in, not even sparing the assassin her attention.

Malik laughs louder then he expected.

From her position in front of the hearth she heard the other man stand up to confront her.

"Sit down," Malik commanded and made Altair do just that.

Abegail wasn't threatened in the least and kept her back toward them as she palced dried grass beneath a pyramid of wood.

She was happy to have thier company. It may seem strange, but she feels comfortable around them, accepted. Altair is merely puffing out his chest at her, spreading his feathers wide to seem bigger than he really is. It's how any male would act if he felt threatened.

Abegail has taught herself many skills over the years, but the most valuable is knowing how to read a man's heart. How very rare it was to meet a man with a noble soul, and she feels such honor to be in the presence of two such men. Inevitablly, her mind sinks back into the dark memories of her life. She has visions of hands, chians, and her own screams. Her expression hardens and she cracks the flint stones together hard. A spark catches fire and she blows on it.

She stands suddenly and says, "Once the fire heats up, I'll be able to get those chains off you."

Malik and Altair cease their yelling and gaze at her as she steps into one of the bedrooms. Malik can tell there has been a change in the way she carries herself and watches her through the open door. There are dried flowers nailed to the wall.

"Thank you, you are very kind to take us in," Malik says delicately, "Again, I apologize for my actions earlier."

She comes out carrying two sets of clothes and places them on a chair.

"I would have done the same."

"Miss, if you don't mind me asking, how do you intended to take his chains off?"

Altair was nervous himself of the answer.

Abegail returns to her spot in front of the stove.

"I used to work with my father as a blacksmith before he died. It's been 5 long years without him."

She hears Malik offer her his sympathy with a quiet "I am sorry."

"It's alright. I still make weapons in my spare time. I can't seem to let that part of me go. If only I had the tools, then I could make something legendary. That is why I relied so heavily on Tamir."

"Who is Tamir," Altair asks Malik in a hushed voice.

"I'll explain later."

Abegail reaches under the hearth and pulls out tongs.

"I have never tried this before, but I am thinking that I may be able to break your chains with these." She held the tool up for the two assassins to see and then she lays the tongs in the fire, waiting for the iron to reach a high temperature.

Altair makes a move as if to run and Malik trips him. Altair lands face first onto the floor.

Abegail chuckles, "You have nothing to fear, I have very steady hands. Though, we will have to drench you in water, otherwise you may catch fire. Altair, I'll need you to come outside."

She picked up a few pails and waited by the back door.

Altair turned to Malik, unwilling to agree unless the other assassin joined them.

"I wouldn't pass up a chance to throw water at you," the Raven smiled and followed after the blonde, Altair trailing after him.

After they arrived at the well, Abegail was happy to do all the labor as long as she could watch Malik drench Altair with the buckets of water.

Malik couldn't supress his laughter and Abegail had to agree Altair looked ridiculous throughout the whole episode. Altair never breaks from his motionless stance, a frown plastered on his face as he endures fours session of water is splashed over his head. Altair pounces, catching Malik in a hug, trying to make the other male wet. Malik is too absorbed in mirth to put up much of a fight and wraps an arm around Altair's shoulders.

Altair smiles.

"We can't have any part of you dry Altair," Abegails says, "We'll have to coat you in another layer of water just to make sure."

Altair pouts and lets go of Malik and braces himself for the wave of cold liquid she hurls at him.

The blonde girl fills up two extra pails to take inside with her just in case they needed.

Back at the house, she set the pails down, grabbing two rags and dipping them in the water.

"Altair, I'll need to wrap these around your hands."

The assassin reluctantly holds out his chained hands. She could tell he was keeping a close watch on her as she threaded the fabric through the chains and instructed Altair to keep his hands flat.

Finished with the task, she checks the tongs for a bright orange glow. Seeing that the correct color, she sets up the anvil.

"Altair lay your hand down on the anvil and no matter how hot your skin gets do not move, the water will protect you, understand?"

He nods.

"Malik make sure he keeps still."

He nods as well and wraps a hand around Altair's arm.

She takes out the hot tongs and looks to them, "Ready?"

The both nod.

Altair is afraid to watch. He closes his eyes and looks away before the tongs reach him. He can feel the heat through the cool rag around his hand and thinks this is just like the day his finger was removed.

Malik is watching tentatively, informing Altair of what is happening.

"It's working Altair, I can see the chains starting to bend!"

Altair smiles weakly, his breath coming in heavy pants.

"Don't clench your hand," Abegail scolds him.

Altair clenches and teeth and forces his hand open. With a snap the first chain falls off.

Altair blinks, so amazed and overjoyed he thinks he's going to cry.

"One more," Abegail reminds them.

Altair changes his positon and feels Malik's grip shift to his other arm.

"Ready," She says, and it's more of a cue then a question.

The second chain takes more time than the first, and Altair can almost feel his skin boiling.

Altair hears the second snap, and the weight he's been carrying is gone. He's free.

Abegails smiles proudly and hangs the tongs on one of the iron bolts around the hearth to cool.

When she turns back around, Altair is holding his hand out to her. They share a firm handshake.

"Thank you."

She blushes slightly, taken aback, "You're welcome."

"You're free to help yourself if you're hungry," She says, changing the subject and distancing herself away from Altiar, "I wasn't expecting guests so I don't have much to offer."

She slices a few pieces of bread and hands them to Altair and Malik.

"I suppose I could make another trip to the market."

Malik nearly chockes on his food. He manages to swallow it down.

"I wouldn't want you to trouble yourself. You've already done more than enough."

"Are you afraid I'll bring them here?"

Malik's looks down at his feet and he says nothing.

"What are you talking about," Altair demands.

"Malik has told me that the assassin's threw you from your home. He is afraid that I will bring guards back here to question you."

Altair's whole demeanor transforms, "So you are a templar?"

"If you mean that I fight for King Richard then, yes."

Altair prickles, assuming a stance that will run her through should he decide to act.

"Are you going to kill me now," she asks him, gripping the carving knife in her hand.

Templar and assassin stare each other down, moving in a circle around each other.

"Why don't you ask yourself something first. Why would I go through the trouble of freeing you, offering you my home if I meant to turn you in?"

"She's right," Malik says, putting himself in the crosshair of the two fighters, "Why can't you see her good intentions Altair?"

"She's lying! Don't let her fool you Malik," Altair screams.

She points her weapon at Altair.

"How dare you," She cries bitterly. Her frame is shaking visibly, tears collecting in her blue eyes, "How dare you think I am without a soul! I have no sickness that commands me to strip women of their clothes, of their children. I feel no pleasure when I see wife being used to toture a husband. I am fighting for the hope of this godforsaken world. What right do you have to judge me?"

"Altair, that is enough," Malik commands as if he is Christ himself.

"Abby," the Raven gently calls out to her, taking a step towards her, "please, lower your blade."

All the phantoms she has kept locked in her chest have broken free. She remembers cold stone walls, dripping water, and moans. She remembers wishing she were blind, wishing she had a choice.

She collapses, her blade clattering onto the floor. Malik is there to catch her as she falls, allowing her to cry into his shoulder.

"It's alright." He cooes, stroking her back, "it's over now. No one is going to hurt you."

"They took everything from me," She sobs weakly.

Malik is convinced Altair is already far away from this place by now, leaving behind two loose ends he will etnernally hate and wil probably never be able to forgive. Malik holds the girl closer, trying to contain his own grief. Wet fabric brushes against Malik neck and he looks up from the nest of blonde hair to see Altair holding them both protectively in his arms.

**TBC...**

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Comments and Questions Welcome

Chapter Completed; Sunday November 20, 2011 5:31 pm


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Edited 2/28/2012  
**

* * *

Chapter 6

Malik's life carried a similar tune to Abegail's tragic story. It wasn't hard to conceive what had happened to her given her circumstances and the careful inspection of her words.

The raven-haired assassin leans into her, laying his head upon hers. His breath travels over her ear, hushing her. Abegail continues to sob freely into his tunic. No cry, wail, or moan was considered to be too pathetic and so, none of her sorrows went unspoken.

Abegail honestly thought she was a stronger woman. One who could let go of her past. Altair had burned through her ice cap of logic in a magnificent and incendiary display of ignorance. Ignorance was brutal, discriminate, and impetuous. She remembered how those flames felt against her body; how it destroyed what little wealth she had in life. Old scars felt raw and anew.

Looking back, she supposed she had wanted to die; if only to prove what terrible control faith and belief had over a man's mind. She could have fell tonight in a bitter dispute of blood and religion and instead the three of them were huddled around one another as friends.

Abegail was easily lost to guise of warmth the two assassin s provided. She remembered the hard pillow of her father's shoulder against her ear and how easy it had been to fall asleep cradled in his lap, the steady crackling of wood warming them on through the night. She missed him, she missed him so badly!

Malik felt the girl in his arms becoming subdued and gave her a shallow pet on top of her blond hair.

"Feeling better," he asks her with a hopeful smile.

She inhales sharply and wipes her soaked face.

"Yes, I am sorry, I am not usually like this. I must look stupid."

"You do," Altair smirks.

Malik wanted to smack him; mostly because it was customary and partially because it was a stress relief. He decided against it. Humor was it s own kind of medicine.

"Ignore him, snarks Malik, "He's only mad because his type of stupidity is permanent."

The girl giggled softly and eased away from their collective arms.

"Thank you. A girl s tears don t seem to hold much value anymore," she mutters, forcing a smile. "Oh, I've ruined your clothes," she sniffs, brushing her palm against Malik's clothes, trying to wipe away the result of her tears. Both men made no move to stop her fidgeting, knowing her embarrassment.

"Ah, let me get you some fresh clothes," she sputters, rising to her feet quickly to pick up the clothes she left on the rocking chair some time ago.

"We'll be fine," Malik says, but the girl is clearly too absorbed in her own thoughts to hear him.

Malik rises to his feet shortly after the girl does. Altair, feeling neglected, tugs on the train of Malik s robes;waiting for the man to help him up. The raven sighs indignantly and offers his hand. Altair demands he be revered and makes a point of shifting his entire weight onto Malik s arm, hoping to receive the same kind of nurturing treatment Abegail had. Malik grits his teeth when he feels the added weight and Altair uses the leverage to yank the other down to his level.

"Altair," Malik hisses scornfully. The fall was unpleasant, and the floor wasn't so forgiving on his knees.

Abegail turns when she hears the thud of two men falling on top of each other and freezes.

"Oh, um you know why don t you use my bath? You must be freezing in those clothes. The tub is in the spare room and you can use the fire to boil the water. I am going to go out for a walk to help clear my head," she says, placing the clothes back where they were, I leaves these here. She continues to dart around the room, grabbing her cloak and her pack before heading for the back door.

Malik fought with the hands tying him to the other assassin. He manages to escape and meets the girl before she leaves.

"Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

_-It s nearly nightfall and you'll be alone.-_

She wiped at her eyes just in case there were some tears that were causing him to worry.

"No I'll be fine." She smiles. "I'll be back in a few hours. I'll try not to wake you."

And with that, she pushed herself out the door.

Even with the crickets filling the cooling evening air and the sound of Abegail's steps parting the grass outside the room is unbearably quiet. Malik realizes he s staring at door. He closes his dark eyes feeling guilty and defeated.

_-This was the poor girl's home and yet we made her feel that she had to leave.-_

The desire to scream his distaste was building, but it was against his better judgement to turn tonight s events into a lecture. Turning, Malik is surprised to see the novice has somehow stood miraculously on his own. Immediately, Malik knows something grave is brewing inside ibn la ahad's mind. Malik can see it in the way the light eclipses Altair's form; giving the man the appearance of an angel standing over a grave stone. Malik can t muster up the energy to understand what it means.

Sighing, the older assassin moves towards the spare bedroom. It would be wise to distract Altair from his brooding.

Altair finds refuge in his own solitude of darkness; away from the small cottage by the sea. Altair shows his confliction to aged floor boards, feeling much like the grains of sand caught between the cracks beneath his feet. Just as those grains would never again feel the motions of the sea, he would never again set his eyes on Masyaf. He can t explain why his mind and body choose this moment to fully realize their shared exile, but the sadness grips him inexorably. Altair's fingers trace the torn sockets of his gauntlet, missing the presence of the hidden blade. He accepts that he no longer possesses the right to carry such a divine weapon and that he is damned by his people. Even his white robes seem like nothing more than a costume. They were ordinary men now, two grains of sand from the same hourglass that were lost through a crack, drifting in their own dimension of time.

Altair wouldn't dare share any of these thoughts with the other man occupying the room. Malik was the only evidence Altair had of his prestige in the assassin brotherhood and he didn't to loose any more of those memories.

"Altair," Malik calls, beckoning him from across the room.

Altair doesn't know whether to curse Malik's perceptiveness or praise it. A smile appears of it's own volition as he slowly crosses the room, the creak of the floor signaling each step. He kneels between his friend s feet. Once again, Malik s voice has guided him out of the darkness and Altair has overwhelming urge to let the man know what that means to him.

"Malik thank you."

_- I would have gone crazy if you weren't here with me.-_

Malik blinks, jolted by Altair's words. "For what," the raven asks. The scholarly assassin was expecting a cold and brash Altair, not this supple creature beneath him.

"I heard your voice back then," Altair explains, taking Malik's warm hands inside his chilled ones. Altair catches himself wondering about Malik, love and heat. The dark fingers are pliable at first, simple bendable joints, but then Malik s brain catches up with the sensation and those hands open and take him in. Altair is smiling again even though the other man can't see it.

Malik can do nothing but stare. With effort, he works up enough muscle function to give a nervous nod. His heart is beating much too loudly for his liking, his body too. This moment is crucial for them, but Malik is not so confident that his tongue will form the right words. He opens his mouth in an attempt to speak, but dammit he looks the wrong way and he catches sight of those bewitching golden eyes. He tries to blink the spell away, altering his gaze between the far wall and Altair.

"You're ... you're welcome."

Altair smiles brightly, amber eyes glowing brightly in the darkening colors of days end. The brunette leans up for a kiss, pausing every inch until lips meet lips.

Altair is pleased to find Malik's mouth is attentive, folding over his own in smooth transitions. The young assassin wants to push for more and take everything Malik has to offer in the next moment, to burn away his disfigured reality with the power of sensation. Altair reaches one hand around Malik's neck, pulls him closer so their kiss becomes deeper, rougher, urgent. Malik grunts and Altair knows he's crossed a boundary, but the assassin decides he won't stop pressing until he's crossed each one. Another hand trails slowly down Malik's chest, slipping under the white tunic to learn the true shape of him. Malik gasps into the other man's mouth, breaking their tongues apart in offense of Altair's wandering curiosity.

"Stop now, get off me," the wise owl pants, willfully yet weakly shoving at the other man.

Malik admits to himself that he s terrified. He has no idea what he's agreeing to or what it means if they become lovers, even for the night. No, one night wouldn't be enough. Malik had his hands full keeping Altair out of his mind. He could only Imagine the torture of knowing Altair's flesh and be denied of it s pleasures. It may very well drive him insane.

Malik likes to think he is hateful for a reason. He believes it keeps Altair at the perfect distance. Now that distance is thinning and their invisible barrier is being stripped away. If only Altair knew how the Raven felt all these years.

"Why don t I believe you," Altair pants, just as breathless as his partner as he dangles his lips just beyond the other's reach. The impact of those words have Malik nearly jumping out of Altair s hold. Foresight prevents them from splitting apart. The man is easy to predict. Altair restrains his friend by taking a bite of his neck, sucking on the veins like a common leech. Altair is impressed by how loudly Malik moans. It's interesting how the very body that has scorned his very existence is shuddering and bucking against him in surrender.

Malik' s resolve is dwindling, overshadowed by the white lights of passion flashing across his vision. His body, so accustomed to the pain of living, became ravenous in the hands of pleasure.

"I won't ask you to do anything," Altair whispers, already pulling at his partner s clothes and exposing a smooth, tanned chest. Sweet, meaningful kisses and nibbles are dotted over his friend s heart, on his collarbone, and on his neck. Altair glances up from the edible flesh to see that Malik is already under his control. The eagle finishes his accent with a lingering kiss on his friend s mouth. One hand moves up to curl over Malik s ear to brush through thick ebony locks, while the other hand curls warmly around his waist.

"Malik please. I need you."

Those words jolt Malik out of his haze of endorphins to stare unfocused eyes on the man that wants to eat him whole.

With determination in his narrowed eyes, the brunette wraps his arms tighter around Malik form to quiet it. Malik relaxes a measure and he too reaches out, touching the brunette's prickly cheek. Tanned fingers twitch and pull back before Altair can feel their heat.

Anger reflects in Altair's eyes and his brow wrinkles. He tries to keep the emotion from his voice and fails. The words come out gruff and indignantly.

"Why are you so afraid of touching me? Am I unworthy of you?"

There, he said it. The evil thought has been infesting his mind for longer than he can remember.

Malik looks down and says nothing. Altair's anger gets the better of him and he forces Malik to meet his eyes.

"Look at me!"

The man does as he's told, his expression as cool as a snake and his eyes sharply lidded.

"No, that's not why."

"Then tell me why," Altair orders, his tone coming out harsher then he intended.

Malik closes his eyes and locks his jaw. His blunt nails dig into his friend s hand as the painful words clatter from his tongue.

"Because everything I know will change. I can t live through another change Altair. I am without an arm, a brother, and a home."

Malik won't let Altair lead him off his course so when he sees the brunette about to interject he raises his voice a few octaves higher.

"And I accept that!"

Altair s demeanor melts into perplextion. He s become a tamed beast and listens to every word pouring out of Malik s mouth in fascination.

"Altair .. you have been the only constant in my life. And I wonder if this will cost me the one certainty I have left. Please, tell me you understand."

Malik's eyes are swollen when the confession is done. Altair can feel the momentum of his friend s plea reach into his soul.

"I understand."

Altair plays with the strands of hair framing Maliks face, loving the forlorn expression captured before him. He smiles when he thinks of the words he's about to say.

"I made a promise to you; to stay by your side until the very end."

"When did-"

"You were asleep."

Malik laughs slightly, "Of course you would say it while I was unconscious. How can I be sure it's true?"

Altair finds Malik's hand and squeezes it gently with one of his own. His gaze doesn't waver from his friends emerald irises.

"I won't leave you."

"I ll swear I ll hunt you down and kill you, if you do."

"I would enjoy that," Altair taunts and Malik takes the bait. Before the older assassin can spout an insult, Altair pacifies him. "Be proud you're the only man who can send Altair ibn la ahad to his knees."

While Malik takes on the impossible task of erasing those words from his memory, Altair takes a taste of his partner's pink lips. Slipping out of his own damp tunic, the brunette presses his chest against the hard contours of his lover. Both men sigh in satisfaction as their skins meet. Altair s hands are about to discreetly slide Malik's belt and pants down, when the raven stops him again.

"I...I...don t, Malik stutters, clearly not used to speaking under such heady conditions.

"What now," Altair grouses. He begrudgingly gives the other a few inches of space.

"I am I am going to be terrible at this," Malik confesses.

Altair wants to admire the amount of courage it took for Malik to share that sentence, but Altair wasn't interested. He rolls his eyes instead.

"Don t you want a partner that knows what they're doing?"

"No," Altair replys bluntly. The master assassin points to himself and says, "Altair ..." Then, he points to Malik and says, "... wants Malik."

Malik chuckles and Altair wants to drown in that smile.

* * *

Thank you for reading!

Comments and Questions Welcome

Chapter Completed: January 8, 2011 5:00 am


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Assassin's Creed, Drama, Romance