Disclaimer: Don't own anything except for the plot and OCs. Certainly not made for profit.

Summary: Malik Al-Sayf is knowledgeable, wise and the only one able to talk sense into the current Grand Master of the Assassins. He's also determined to solve the mystery and return Virginia Bradley to the era that spawned her. He just has to figure out how to do that and keep her from causing his Bureau to fall apart.

A GRAIN OF SAND

"Virginia, you there, sweetheart?"

Those weren't words that she wanted to say aloud but she thought them nonetheless, heard them echo at the back of her mind as she stole a glance at her reflection in the protective glass covering which sheltered an ancient ceramic bowl from curious fingers. From the back, someone nudged her and Virginia moved automatically. Seconds later, it occurred to her to stand her ground but by then it was too late. She had been moved to the periphery and others were coming in to fill up the rest of the space. Sighing, she bit her lip and wandered off to enjoy the exhibit as much as she could.

"Yes I am. And I am enjoying myself," she murmured firmly under her breath. Although she made the effort not to look at her left hand, she could feel the unusual lightness of the ring finger, and looking was not enough to erase the knowledge that the slender silver band was gone. By now it was probably buried under a ton of garbage under some landfill, a fitting metaphor for her recently ended marriage.

She was all of twenty-two, worked at the family bookstore and was currently trying to decide on which Masters degree she wanted to pursue. And she had decided months before that she was going to attend the exhibit of Middle Eastern Ceramics dating back to the twelfth century. In that very complicated family tree of hers was an ancestor from Jerusalem, although looking at her, one would have firmly placed Virginia Bradley as hailing from Asia. With her dark hair and even blacker almond eyes, she looked nothing like her strawberry blond sisters or brunette brother. Idly, her fingers tangled in the long silver chain she wore around her neck. Another piece of history passed down from that particular ancestor. It was a tiny bronze bead trapped in glass blown around it, completely ordinary except for the years in had endured and the hands that had held it, all lost in time, buried in a sea of years of which she formed one drop.

"Stop it, Ginnie," she warned, shaking her head, spotting the melancholy that was starting to creep in through the door. She had spent months in a depression, to the point where her parents had given her back her old room and forcibly brought her back to live with them so that she wouldn't die under piles of unwashed laundry and dishes. Thanks to them, she was up on her feet and pretty steady.

Slipping the chain back under her new silk blouse, Ginnie straightened her shoulders, let her eyes run over the crowd and chose to slip through an opening. One particular display was neglected and she made a beeline for that. It was a series of cups, nothing special except for the exquisite intricate patterns of beads and engraved carvings that lined the rims. As she admired them, Ginnie realized the tallest cup, which looked more like a humbly fashioned chalice, had a small gap in the row that adorned the broad base. Bending down for a closer look, she frowned. Those beads looked awfully familiar…

Pain lanced through her head, a sharp stroke that left throbbing in its wake. Ginnie hissed, hands going for her head and she realized that the chain around her neck was burning her skin. "What the hell…!" Feeling frantically for the clasp, she realized that the metal was getting hotter; it scorched the tips of her fingers. Her mother was going to kill her but Ginnie's first thought was self-preservation for the present moment and with that, she yanked at the chain, felt it snap and fly from her fingers and slam into the glass with a crack that seemed to echo through the museum.

When the chain didn't fall to the floor, Ginnie rubbed her eyes and stared again. Like a pin drawn to a magnet, the chain remained stuck against the surface of the glass. Her mouth went slack with shock; this could not be happening. She would have attempted to grab the chain except that by now, it was emitting a reddish glow, as was the chalice missing the bead.

"Hey!"

The sound of scuffling drew her attention and she turned behind to see a man being shoved to the ground by another. Two others were pushing their way through towards her as well. And they did not look friendly. Instinct made Ginnie take two steps back, so close she could feel the heat of the chain at her back. And then all hell broke lose as shots were fired. The crowd screamed in unison and broke apart. Someone shoved her, hard, and she fell, bringing the display down with her. Glass shattered and Virginia cried out as she felt shards pierce her skin as she landed, palms out and flat to break the fall. Through her tears and terror, she realized that chalice had rolled several feet away into a corner, safe from the stampede around her. Her necklace was nowhere in sight and suddenly she knew, just knew that it was with the chalice; the bead had returned to its place of origin. She didn't know what the hell was going on but an impulsive doggedness seized her and she pushed forward through the crowd. Come what may, that chalice and her necklace were coming with her.

Several people ran into her but she pushed them off, her eyes fixed on the prize. At the back of her mind, she was aware of the terrified urge to run but for the moment, instinct was drowned out by the overwhelming desire to have the chalice. Finally, she made it and with an expression of grim triumph, she grabbed the cup.

For a moment, Virginia's vision swam and she saw another pair of hands superimposed over hers, and a soft voice speaking in a language she could not understand. In the chalice, there were several drops of blood. Her breath caught in her lungs and she could hear the pounding of her heart above the mayhem. And then the world collapsed in a glow of red and gold.

Virginia screamed as light pierced the darkness behind her tightly shut lids and she felt herself fall away into nothingness.

…

He had not seen his third decade yet but already he felt like an old man. Maybe it was the infernally hot day, hotter than the norm with the sun blazing its single eye on the suffering population which sought refuge in vain under tents and in the buildings. The air, scorching, dry and acrid still found them and wrapped itself around their skin, coating them with sticky perspiration, beading their brows. It made his arm itch miserably and he felt more wretched still that his right hand was fully occupied at the moment with several wrapped cloth bags containing food and jars of precious inks and quills. Of course he could have stopped and scratched but Malik was reluctant to draw more attention to his arm, or rather, the lack of one. One year on and it was still a sensitive topic to him, still drew glances of curiosity from the public. Revulsion he was comfortable with; it was pity that he despised because they were right. It was a weakness and he was not a whole man because of it. Every fibre in his being was attuned to making up for the change in weight and he was always far more wary of movements to his left, which in turn impeded his perception of the right. He hated that he was no more an Assassin, merely a Rafiq, even if, according to Altair, he was a Rafiq of Rafiqs. Others sent their Assassins to seek his advice and knowledge. On some days, that sufficed. Malik hoped that those days would increase.

In spite of his stubborn resolve, or perhaps, because of it, the itching in his arm escalated, invading the thick scarring that formed around the cut made by the surgeons, creeping rapidly up to his shoulder. With a fierce oath, Malik gripped his purchases tightly and soldiered his way through the sweating crowd. He was damned if he was going to stop because of a mere itch. The sight of Templar soldiers ahead made him pause slightly. Like all bullies, they loved picking on the weak and feeble. They usually made the mistake of applying that to Malik. It was easy enough to blend into a crowd and evade them but he was not in the mood for listening to any taunts. As a member of the Brotherhood, he was not to draw attention to himself or the others. Putting a blade into the neck of the Templars was obviously not the way to do so and given his current foul mood, Malik decided discretion was the better part of valour.

Cutting gracefully through the sea of bodies, Malik headed for a narrow alleyway that would eventually lead him to the Bureau. It was a more round about way and one that ordinary citizens would avoid but he was armed and far more dangerous than the average man and those who died in the shadows told no tales so as far as he was concerned, this was a good route to take.

That was until the sun itself seemed to descend into the path before him. One moment, everything was still except for the pickpocket on the roof who had been watching him. The next, dazzling golden lights exploded before him, forcing him to drop his bags and shield his eyes with his arm. Turning away, his hand fell on the dagger he kept hidden in his robes and with a metallic ring, he drew it. Back pressed against the wall to protect him from an assault from behind, Malik tried to open his eyes but the light was too strong. The silence was deafening and he could not make out the cries of the vendors, the sounds of cattle and mule, muted as they would be from this distance. A wave of unease rippled through him. This unnatural glow and the accompanying heavy stillness in the air reminded him too much of the encounter between Al Mualim and Altair.

"Another piece of Eden?" he wondered. Malik was contemplating retreating from the light when as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished. Brown eyes opened, blinked at the white spots that danced before them before realizing that the light had not taken all that it had brought with it. On the ground was sprawled a woman, and her attire was… Malik had no words to describe what she was wearing. Not even the Franj or the women they brought with them wore such clothing. And not even the whores from the brothels bared that much flesh except behind closed doors. But it was what she held in her hand that garnered most of his attention. In one hand she held a broken necklace with a bronzed bead encased in some kind of clear material. The skin on her hands was scratched and laced with thin lines of blood.

He was down on one knee trying to ascertain if she had suffered any injuries when she stirred and groaned. "You are awake then?" he said gruffly, slipping his hand beneath her face to grasp her chin, trying to get a better look at this stranger's face.

The ground beneath her strange, warm and uneven. Her head felt so heavy and memories swam in her head. She remembered the screams and the gunshots, the golden glow that had overwhelmed her, the darkness she had fallen into. Someone slipped a hand beneath her chin, lifting her face. When she opened her eyes, the man's face swam into view, blurred at the edges in spite of her blinking. He loomed closer, his voice low, like the rumble of thunder at a distance, his words strange and indecipherable. Ginnie raised herself up on one elbow, shaking her face free when she realized that the hand beneath her face was currently holding a knife. A very long and wicked looking knife.

Malik dropped the knife and slapped his palm over the woman's mouth before the scream erupted from her lips. His thumb and fingers dug into the soft flesh of her cheeks and above them, those strange black eyes were wide with horror and panic. With one hand she pulled at his wrist, with the other she tried to hit him. He dodged easily, twisting around to straddle her back, pressing her into the ground without mercy. Her screams were well muffled and although she flailed like an angry shark out of water, she was unable to throw him off.

She was going to die, Ginnie thought wildly as she panted against the rough palm that stopped her screams. And there was no one in this strange alleyway to help her. With her face almost on the ground she could see the knife before her eyes and she wondered why her assailant had yet to cut her throat. He bent low and said something in her ear and the sheer proximity of his face to hers caused her to renew her struggles.

"Stop that," Malik ordered but his words had no effect on her. "I promised I would do you no harm." The words were barely out of his mouth when the sound of metal on metal and hard running footsteps reached him. His lips curled in a silent snarl; the soldiers were coming, undoubtedly drawn by the light. For a moment he contemplated leaving the woman and taking the object she held in her hand; that would surely be enough to solve the mystery. He would leave it to Altair to determine, probably with the help of that wretched Apple, if this truly was a Piece of Eden. But one look at her terrified face, bared arms and legs told him he could not leave her to the mercies of the city guards. He had heard enough horror stories from beleaguered brothel owners and angry grieving fathers to know that the soldiers, Franj or otherwise, thought every woman in Jerusalem was theirs for the taking, let alone those who walked about in such an undressed fashion.

Since they already seemed to be headed their way, he saw no reason for maintaining the silence and released her to retrieve his knife. As he expected, she began screaming again. What stunned Malik though was that she began screaming in English and with an accent he was unacquainted with.

"Help me! Somebody, please!"

Suddenly the crushing weight from her back lifted and before she could even think, Ginnie found herself yanked to her feet, her wrist caught in a grip she knew was going to leave bruises. She tried to kick the man and found herself propelled against the wall, the breath knocked from her body. "Listen to me," he hissed and she certainly did because this time, the words that came out of his mouth made perfect sense. His English was heavily accented but his pronunciation as crystal clear. "City guards are coming this way and if you wish to return home unharmed, you will shut your mouth and do as I tell you."

For a moment Ginnie simply stared at the man, her mouth hanging open before she remembered to use it. "City guards? In New York?"

"This is Jerusalem. You must have hit your head harder than I thought."

Like she thought, there was really no use arguing with a mad man. "Perhaps if you could leave me here, I'll find my own way back."

Cinnamon eyes with deep black irises bore into hers and the look on his face informed her that he thought her quite, quite stupid. Not since the third grade had anyone made her feel that small. "Your senses are addled, else you would not be dressed in such a fashion. You appeared together with that light and I want to know what it is you are about and if," his eyes glanced at the chain in her hand, "this is truly a Piece of Eden."

"Eden? As in Adam and Eve? And you saw the light as well? Were you inside the museum just now?" Ginnie truly wanted answers to her questions, if only it would slow him down for a second because he had begun dragging her along with him. Digging in her heels, Ginnie looked around frantically for something, anything to help and that was when she realized the cup was missing.

"Wait! Where is the chalice?"

That got his attention. Malik spun around, suspicious but she wasn't even looking at him but instead glancing around. He could smell the panic radiating off her. Unfortunately, the soldiers were getting closer. "There's no time, we have to go now—"

"The cup! It goes together with the chain…" Ginnie pleaded, pulling on the hand that imprisoned her even as her gaze scoured the narrow lane. There was nothing but a few stacks of discarded crates and rubbish as far as she could see. "We need to search this place—"

"Halt, infidels!"

If they weren't in such an alarming situation, Malik would have rolled his eyes. Everyone was an infidel, apparently. The sight of the soldier's eyes, huge as saucers as they alighted on the woman, was rather amusing though. "Run!" he ordered.

She would have but at the moment, staring down at her from the other side of the alleyway was a man wearing the most authentic armour she had ever seen. And was that really a bow and arrow in his hands? The hand around her wrist tightened and her captor began dragging her along with him. "Halt!" The solder bellowed as he notched an arrow to his bow. That snapped Ginnie out of her stupor. "Is he really going to—?"

Malik cursed and slammed both of them against the wall, seconds before the arrow whistled past. The woman screamed again and this time, when he ordered her to run, there were no delays.

a/n: My very first AC fanfic. I simply adore Malik. Love it/hate it?