It was far more pleasant, in his mind, to just stay in Acre forever rather than return to Masyaf and be ordered to trudge a thousand miles to Jerusalem and face Malik; Altaïr was sure of it. Not that Jerusalem was a bad place, or that Malik was a bad person, no, Jerusalem was history in the making and Malik could be pleasant when he was silent. It was just that Malik was missing his left arm and his place in the Assassin Order, along with his brother. And it's not like it was scary, but he felt guilty. Too guilty. He'd never felt so guilty in his life, even when he made a little girl cry for her friend's death (which he caused). Because he himself was the reason for Malik's misery.

If it hadn't been for his self-centred, arrogant ways, Altaïr had not only broken three of the basic rules to the Assassin Order, which doing so could've been avoided if he weren't being a total ass, but he broke a friendship and cut one's life short during his trip to Soloman's Temple to receive the Apple of Eden before Robert de Sablé. Nonetheless, that was then and this was now, and now was redeeming himself as a Master Assassin to not only look better but to get his weapons back. Sure, Malik lost his arm and brother and rank, but he lost his weapons and was booted down to a novice, which Malik just loved to tease him about. Besides, Al Mualim had a million and one side-tasks for him to do, so why not?

Well he had a reason now, and it was spelled M-A-L-I-K.

Currently walking slowly with his head down and fingers crossed, so as not to be discovered by the stingy guards of Acre, his feet moved without his mind which was currently being bogged by several thoughts of worry. He was no longer aware of the overwhelming heat that cause him to sweat through his clothes, or the dry sand that was kicked up into his face with every step. He would've normally succumbed to these but he was too lost in his thoughts. Quickly, though, much too quickly, he was out of harm's way and exited the blending. Breaking free from the group of Scholars he'd used to look like a Monk, he checked his surrounding with his head as far down as he could manage. All seemed well so he pressed on, mounting the saddle of a lone black horse, not bothering to gallop to the Kingdom, staying in a slow trot. That meant that only moments later would he have to face Malik, probably having a scowl on his face. . .

At least, Alhamdulillah, he'd have to visit Al Mualim first.

The next thousand yards or so flew by as quickly as the blending and, surprisingly, Altaïr went by undetected. Soon enough, too soon, he was forced to dismount the horse and slowly make his way to the castle atop the mountain in Masyaf's city. . .

God, it was definitely hotter in Masyaf than Acre or the Kingdom. For some unGodly reason, the sun beat down hard enough to drive Altaïr insane, and make him just work all the more faster to get to Al Mualim's desk, pushing past people roughly and sprinting up the hills. Normally, he didn't bring forth any haste – and he especially wouldn't normally now, seeing as how he really didn't want to see Malik, but he could feel the toll of being in the sun far too long being taken, the beams of light making him itch to be shaded, driving him mad.

Hurriedly, he ran up the small hill that lead into the fighting ring of the mainland, nodding to the guards as they called out their "Hellos" to him. Many people were either shoved out of his way or jumped back, now receiving many complaints, screams of terror, and even a rock thrown at him by an annoyed guard. He was quick to disregard them, tearing through the door of the castle and up the small stair case where he stopped in front of his master, leaning over on his knees, panting. Al Mualim cared not and started with the usual lecture.

"I need you to report to Malik in Jerusalem," with a chuckle, he watched Altaïr raise up as if he didn't expect so. "I'm sure he will be very. . .excited to see you again." He turned round to the open with behind his desk, waiting for Altaïr's response which came shortly thereafter, separated by heavy breathing.

"As. . .you wish, Master." He sucked in as much air has his lungs had the capacity for and tried to keep it in as long as possible while Al Mualim nodded, making a weird face at Altaïr's puffed cheeks.

". . .Good. And, Altaïr," Altaïr let his breath go, chills running down his spine the way his master would say his name. Always so rigid, sure, but very. . .full. "Take these on your way." He motioned at a small huddle of throwing knives. Just seeing them made Altaïr please; he was finally seeing a dent in that list of things to regain.

"Thank you," he simply said, retrieving them graciously and putting them in a pouch on his back.

Desmond's body jerked as he struggled to cope with the sudden switching of being in Al Mualim's study in Masyaf to the city boundaries of Jerusalem. Every time that Doctor Warren Vidic, his captor, and his assistant, Lucy Stilman, would fast forward his memories, he'd temporarily come back to reality. Instead of being allowed to suck in everything that Altair had seen, smelled, touch, felt, and so on in a good night's sleep, he'd have to suck it in for that second that it was fast forwarding, and put a lot of stress on his body. His head was spinning, hurting, it felt like someone was taking a hammed and slamming it in the back of his head. He tightened his fists, short nails digging into his palms and he groaned loudly, tightening all the muscles in his body. Every sense was heightened – the brush of cold air on his feet, Dr. Vidic's barking loudly in Lucy's ear, Lucy's perfume. He struggled to stay with it, to stay sane. Lucy put her fingers atop Desmond's gently, reminding him that he was human, and that he was alive. There were people there. He'd be fine.

The time to tell Malik of his doings finally came up as Altaïr took his first step into Jerusalem since his failure at Soloman's Temple. Just thinking o the incident made him shudder with misery and regret – mostly guilt. Poor Kadar, died thinking he was a hero when he was a fool, a damn fool. A large stream of travelers or something were leaving, and unfortunately, too. He pushed his way through, making sure no one's pots were knocked off their heads. When he was tossed out of the throng suddenly, he stumbled into the sand below him, jumping up and catching the attention of guards.

Shit, he searched for a group of Scholars, blending in with them. Though the blending went smoothly, he began sweating, fearing they'd see though it. I must have the greatest of luck, he thought, proceeding slowly to the Bureau, whose entrance lied on the roof. The Bureau was, though, far away, and the sickening heat was too much to bear, so Altaïr put himself out of this world and into his own where he moved to the Bureau out of instinct and walked the entire way slowly.

Am I walking slowly simply to stall? And why should I be feeling regret and guilt for that fool, he's done nothing but wish death upon me since the accident. It was hardly my fault – if he hadn't restrained me, things would've gone smoother. But no, he pulled me back, costing him his arm and brother.

No no, how could I think this? If he'd known his brother was to die, surely he would've left me alone. He was doing what he thought right for the brotherhood. Maybe. . .Maybe Kadar died for the greater good. If it hadn't been for Malik, despite being he who'd made me a failure, Robert de Sablé would've gotten. . .whatever that treasure is, most definitely, and would've gone to Masyaf after. We wouldn't have been prepared. Perhaps this is all just my own fault. Perhaps.

Reality slowly began to seep back into his being, starting with the disgusting smell of a woman who's been running in circles, asking for money. He was her next victim.

"Please, sir, do you have any money?" The language that rolled off her tongue was strange. He didn't quite pick up on it, and gently pushed her aside, trying to continue on. Although, she made for a nice distraction. . .no no no, he couldn't stall the slaying of Talal just because he was too pussy to go say "Hey" to Malik. Malik only had one arm, any ways, what could he do? So Altaïr walked around the lady, getting a very short-tempered huff, and she jumped in front of him. "No, you, don't understand, I have nothing!" She continued babbling in the strange language – presumably Hebrew, shaking her hands in his face. Altaïr shot her a mean look, walking around once again. She pushed him, stumbling him for a moment and used it to block him. "Please, sir, just a little money!" Besides the fact that she was speaking crazy-language, her veil covered her mouth, making her almost inaudible. Altaïr sighed, really just wanting her to go away seeing as how he had no money. "Sir, I need money!"

"Imshi." He growled, looking forward and not elsewhere. She picked up on it, but didn't budge. She did, however, change her language.

"Men fathleki-"

"Yajebu an athhaba al aan."

"Bas-"

"La. Idrukni." He pushed past her in one last attempt, but she did not budge. His eyes widened in anger, pursing his lips. "Anesa, min fadlek-" She cut him off by stamping on his toe, then stomping away, cursing to herself in Hebrew. He cringed, quickly bringing his knee up against his chest to reach his foot and rub it. After a few moments, a thug pushed him aside off balance and he fell into the dust with a grunt.

Oh how he wished it wouldn't kill him to hurt civilians. . .

Biting back his anger, Altaïr popped up, bumping into a guard. He stared at the guard like a deer in the headlights for one moment before turning round and walking off as fast as he could without putting them in high alert.

"I'll have your head for that!" The guard yelped, unsheathing his sword. Altaïr broke into a sprint, shoving people and guards aside to climb a ladder that led to the Bureau entrance. Malik had shut it just in time, too, the bastard. . .

Hearing the approaching guards and really not being in the mood for a fight, he looked around one last time, seeing a pile of hay on the roof besides the Bureau. He free-ran for it as fast as he could and jumped into the hay.

Not fast enough.

The realization that the guards saw him – yes, guards, three were on his tail now – left him no choice but to fight. He rolled out, little pieces of hay that had attached themselves to his outfit flying free as he pulled out his short blade and went into a defense stance taught to him several several years ago. His legs were bent slightly, spread apart rather far in the incident that someone was behind him. The hand with the blade in it was out in front of his face, the other hand behind to keep his balance maintained.

"This should be easy," the Guard snorted, taking a step forward and throwing his long blade very poorly in Altaïr's direction. Grabbing the guard's arm with his left hand, Altaïr pulled him closer, cocking the blade back before shoving it in the guard's abdomen ruthlessly, out, then pushed back in at a different angle with a couple grunts of effort. The guard's eyes widened, and he fell back at Altaïr's release, clutching his armour. His friend's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he looked around before retreating too quickly for Altaïr to catch. Ego boosted, Altaïr jumped down into the Bureau – which was now open.

Malik.

Always a good friend, a pity he should've hurt him so, both emotionally and physically. Not to mention putting a scar on his love life. Malik had always been there for Altaïr, presence rude or not, and when everyone needed Altaïr, he followed his own rules, which were pretty fucked up to begin with. The fear of seeing Malik slowly crawled back up his spine, stopping him dead in his tracks. His breathing became shallow and shaky, inaudible.

Fear overcame justice.

It overcame his mind.

His speech.

His actions.

He could've walked right into that little hut at this very moment if he wanted, boasting about his victory up on the rooftop, but he felt pity, and regret, and anger. His legs wouldn't let him go, and why? Malik would tease him, at most. Nothing he couldn't kill a guard for later. But to Altaïr it felt like the end of the world. Even if he didn't believe, why not turn around and greet God instead?

"Altaïr, get in here." Save him the trouble of being the one to approach him, but now he had to look at him. Ever so cautiously – looking at his feet rather than the Bureau Leader – did he walk into the room with no information on any thing of Talal but his name and that his death would be soon. All he had were hideous apologies that stayed in the back of his head, to seemingly never come out.

"Malik, I-"

"Stay your tongue, Altaïr, I'm not in the mood right now for your games. Just tell me why you're here and what you know so you can leave." Altaïr's eyes rose to see Malik's missing arm, the cloth folded up. He felt like throwing up right now – not because it was nasty but because what he'd done was putrid. Costing this able man who'd almost been a Master Assassin so much. Even sadder was that now all he could do was watch Altaïr's growing success without complaint.

A sudden epiphany blonked him on the head, and he realized that no, he should feel those not. Fear and pity weren't going to bring back Kadar, nothing would. Nor would any thing bring back his arm, at least not with their days' technology. No, not those but anger, anger in himself, in his confidence to kill de Sablé, and ashamed, because all of this could have been stopped if only he weren't so dumb stupid. Anger he should feel, and anger he felt.

"Altaïr? Speak to me, fool!" Malik threw his arm in the air, and Altaïr cringed. He opened his mouth to speak.

But had nothing to say.

"I-I don't have any information on Talal ye-"

"Be gone!" Malik cried, pointing angrily to the exit. "And I'll not see you again till your knowledge has grown, lest you desire for this quill to be in your eye!" He threw the ink pen at Altaïr, letting it splatter and stain the back of it. "Now out!" He let out a droned sigh, and fell on his bottom ungracefully, leaning back again the shelf. A book fell, hitting him on the head. When Altaïr didn't move, only stared, he threw that book in the same spot as the ink pen. "OUT!" He buried his face in his hand; no longer being able to see Altaïr calmed him.

"As you wish-"

"It is what I wish!" Sorrow filled his voice and Altaïr was sure he heard it crack, taking that as his cue to leave. He looked back once to see Malik crying, trying so hard to pretend he didn't care, and finally left to get the dirt on Talal.

At least it was over...

Ah, my first fanfiction. Yep. I hope this pisses of AltMal fans.

The conversation in Arabic goes something like,

"Go away." He growled, looking forward and not elsewhere. She picked up on it, but didn't budge. She did, however, change her language.

"Please-"

"I have to go."

"But-"

"No. Leave." He pushed past her in one last attempt, but she did not budge. His eyes widened in anger, pursing his lips. "Woman, please-" She cut him off by stamping on his toe, then stomping away, cursing to herself in Hebrew. He cringed, quickly bringing his knee up against his chest to reach his foot and rub it. After a few moments, a thug pushed him aside off balance and he fell into the dust with a grunt.