Altair's POV
"Altair, Altair!"
My eyes crack open. For a moment, I'm blinded. The sun shines brightly in my eyes, but a silhouette moves in above me to block it. As my eyes adjust, I realise its Malik. But why does he look so stricken? What's wrong now?
"What is it this time?" I ask, smiling tiredly, but I'm surprised to find that my voice comes out as a croak and I can hardly move the muscles in my face. My eyes widen. "What..." And that's when I see the blood. It's spread across the white robes around my stomach, and continues to spread as I speak.
I remember then – Robert De Sable! The duel... I'd lost... But how? My prowess with any type of blade in combat was equal to his.
That was it... he'd told me the truth. For once, I believed his words. How could I not? Every victim on that list... they truly believed that they were helping people. Garnier's words echo through my mind: "It's not what I believe, it's what I know."
Robert De Sable told me that the tenth Templar was Al Mualim. I believed him. Why did I believe him?
Worst of all, why do I still believe him, even though I'm close to dying, and the only thing I have faith in right now is the Hashshashin order. Now, through my belief of Robert's words, I feel as though I've betrayed them. Will I take my guilt to the grave with me? I don't know anymore. I just don't know. It's like everything I've been brought up to know is false. How can I have lived in such... such a deceitful world? I don't know what to put my faith in.
I can't make the leap of faith.
Because of that, I was caught unawares. I guess my present state is my own fault. Strangely enough, though, the sword wound doesn't hurt. I thought my death would be a painful one... perhaps the God has taken pity on me, if there is one.
I see a glint in Malik's eyes. It's not a mischievous twinkle, nor a murderous glare. Tears. They're tears, welling and glinting in his eyes.
I don't believe it. Malik cares about me? Ever since Solomon's Temple... his brother... I thought he hated me! He told Al Mualim he wanted me dead!
Why, for the love of God, does he have to care now? Why does he have to cry? It pains me. I thought my former best friend hated me, wanted me dead; so now that his wish is finally being fulfilled, he has to show... these emotions?
"Malik," I choke out his name, "I'm so, so sorry – for everything – for Kadar, for your arm, for my breaking of the tenets... I was so damn arrogant, ignorant, stupid... I..." I feel blood and bile rising in my throat. Using most of my strength left, I turn onto my side and spit it out from my mouth to my side, to save some of Malik's dignity.
"It's okay," he whispers, "I was wrong about you – I should be sorry too! About the way I treated you!" One of his tears lands on my cheek. I hardly feel it – my whole body is tingling, becoming numb. "How could you possibly have foreseen Kadar's death? How were you to know that I would use a limb, and become useless to the Brotherhood apart from working in a Bureau? Yes, you were arrogant, you disregarded the tenets... but you didn't know what the consequences were to be..." He lets out a sob that wracks his body. "And now... neither of us can make amends, except for our stupid apologies..."
Malik's POV
With difficulty I sit Altair up and wrap him in the most brotherly hug possible with my one arm. I won't let him go, not until the very end.
I know that I can't save him. No one can. He's probably lost half of the blood in his body by now, and how could he possibly survive a sword sinking into his stomach all the way up to the hilt? It was hard enough getting him back to Masyaf without causing more damage to his dying body. But how to save him from a fatal sword wound? In our day and age, no one has found a way. I doubt, even in the future, that people will be able to perform miracles as such.
His head rests heavily on what remains of my left shoulder. He can't even move now.
We both know the end has come for him, because he just about manages to breathe softly in my ear, "Sorry, for everything, Malik."
"I am too, Altair," I reply gently, but he can't hear me, as a fit of coughs seize his body. I watch, silently weeping. And then he lays still.
"Altair," I finally say. It's not in a questioning manner; it's not in a sorrowful way, either. It's simply the name of my dead friend.
I pull his hood away from his face – and I see it! His eyes are staring into nothingness with a cloudy film over them, but his mouth is curled in that irritatingly cocky grin of his.
So even in death, Altair Ibn-la-Ahad can look smug. Even as tears stream down my face, I can't help but smile.