(one shot)

The tolling bells had barely sounded their last echo when Altair touched down in the Bureau with a heavy thump and a clang. Malik huffed, irritated. It seemed Altair could not help but to obnoxiously announce his presence wherever he went. The entire countryside would have heard the racket.

"Novice, what have you done! Every assassin in Jerusalem has crawled back here to take refuge whilst you play with the guards!"

His accusation met with silence ticked him off like nothing could but the stretch of it had him wondering. Altair was quick to defend when things inevitably went wrong, silenced only when he knew he had made a grave mistake.

A scrape of a blade on stone and a grunt had them all on edge. Had a guard made it back rather than their brother? In which case, they thought, where the hell was Altair and what had happened to him? The bells were quiet, the guards had either caught him or lost him. Would they have to kill the man in the foyer? Would they have enough time to take him away so Malik wouldn't get mad for spilling blood in his Bureau?

"Malik?"

It was him, worse for wear he sounded but it was him all the same. Malik had responded immediately, vaulting his desk and hurrying for the foyer. He arrived in time to have Altair collapse into him, dropping his sword all the while as he struggled to keep on his feet.

"What happened?" Malik demanded. Altair couldn't be heard if he replied at all, muttering into the Dai's shoulder as he righted himself as much as he could manage. The idle assassins were shot a look and Malik awkwardly supported Altair to a far corner of the foyer. Laying him back with almost exaggerated care though they were quick to notice why.

Altair was covered, head to toe, in blood. It drenched his robes and slid down his skin, pooled in the grouting of the flagstones below and sunk into every fabric it touched. The Dai's side imprinted in every place Altair had touched.

"How much of this is yours?" asked Malik. Altair gave himself a drowsy once over and coughed and spat out a gob of pink saliva. Disgust passed over Malik but he hadn't the time to reprimand him, for all he knew Altair was steadily dying before him.

"N-Not all. A little."

"A little," Malik mocked, "where are you hurt novice?"

"Can wait-" Grumbled Altair.

"Not if you don't want to die."

They were at an impasse for an instant. Altair wanting to get to business and Malik not wanting the trouble his corpse would bring. Altair lost out, looking down to the vambrace his hidden blade resided in, he shook his arm.

"There is the worst. The rest can wait."

"Fine. Don't whine to me when the rest of your wounds become infected."

None moved to assist Malik as he retrieved the Bureau's medical kit. Altair busied himself sluggishly hacking away at his robes to expose the wound, and a grievous ugly wound it was, jagged and deep, and clumsily unlatched the clasps on his vambrace, allowing it to fall carelessly to the ground. The slap of blood soaked sleeve following soon after.

Malik hurried back to him, ordering a novice to retrieve water, and set aside the box of supplies. He rifled through it for needle and thread and had the novice clean the area around the wound whilst he thread the needle and popped open a jar of vinegar.

"Hold down his arm."

The novice looked as though Malik had asked him to slit his own throat before gingerly laying hands on the master assassin. Malik poured the vinegar into the wound and retreated with a start when Altair jerked violently.

"Hold him down novice." Malik growled. The novice struggled against Altair's strength, he forced the arm flat to the floor for a second and Malik took the advantage. He knelt on Altair's palm and dumped the remaining vinegar into the wound.

His arm felt as though Malik had set fire to it. The pain had cleared his foggy mind but quickly grew to agony as the needle first pierced his flesh. His vision warped, stomach flipping wildly as the world swayed and all at once, with only a moments respite, he blacked out.

#

Altair woke with a start, the clanging of blades jumping him from slumber. His arm, his body, throbbed with barbed lances of agony. His eyes burned against the dim lighting of the room. The air was thick with smoke that turned oddly in the nose, incense? The clanging, now sounded practiced, too even to be heated combat, training? His head pounded, blood rushing as he moved. He cracked his eyes and squinted around.

A crowded closet, set with precariously packed shelves. A rickety door, the broken frame letting in the only light. Dusty flagstones and a nest of pillows and rugs and cloaks piled beneath his body. Beside him a stick of familiar incense smoked away at the remaining stub. He had been there for some time it seemed.

He hauled himself to his feet with the support of the shelving and shuffled to the door. He waited, listening for anything even slightly off, he assumed he had made it to the Bureau but this could be a ruse. He could leave this closet only to find himself dead center of a templar safe house and he was stripped of his weapons and robes, clad only in a thin tunic and loose trousers.

Silently, he snuck into a familiar corridor and relaxed as much as he ever could. From the quiet it appeared most others had resumed their missions.

Malik faltered in his work as Altair seemingly appeared from nothing opposite him. He slapped his quill down with a deep huff and glared across the desk.

"Altair-"

"Peace Malik."

Malik eyed him, watched him sway in place and wondered how he'd been snuck up on. Altair looked ready to keel over, pale, haggard and slow as he was.

"Sit down novice."

He sat and spied the real novices peaking in through the lattice, practice abandoned for potential gossip.

"You've been here two days already. Your wounds, as always, were far more severe than you let on." Malik supplied, fanning his work.

"Have I reported to you?" Asked Altair.

Malik shook his head. "Have concern for your well being novice. You dropped in here slathered tit to toe in blood, tell me you've been betrayed and faint from a bit of pain. The guards are out rounding up every man and woman in white robes."

"They were waiting for me."

Malik stalled. "What?"

"The guards, my target even, they were ready for me. They knew my name."

"We have a snitch."

"So it seems. Malik, I need to know.."

The novices waited with bated breath. Malik was going to flip when Altair accused him, they were certain. For all his posturing he had grown distracted the longer Altair remained unconscious.

"The order, did anything strike you as off?"

Malik regarded him a moment, shocked himself that no accusation flew his way. He scratched at his stubble, pulled his journal from beneath the desk top and dropped it over his work. It fell open to his last page.

"Look for yourself. I went over it again, pulled some older stubs for comparison. The writing is the same," he lowered his voice, "the signature is the grandmaster's."

Altair looked stricken, disbelief twisting his features, thoughts churning behind his eyes. He gazed at the stubs, noting every detail and deviance. Nothing was enough to hide the truth from his eyes however much he searched. The grandmaster had certainly ordered both.

(End Note: Should you find it in your heart to review it'd be nice to see if I kept a consistent tense throughout, it's not a strong suit. Help me help you in getting better content ;)

Cheers.)