AN: Hello! Tears here! So sorry, to everyone who's following MSoK with the Akatsuki and Jeen, I really do want to continue it but I don't seem to have a lot of compassion for it at the moment. I know it's been about two years...but I'll get to it! Don't worry guys, just keep calm and move on.

This is a fan fiction for Assassin's Creed. There will not be any AltairXMalik in this fanfction and there will be an OC involved with the entire plot. I'm trying to get the characters as spot on to their original personalities as I possibly can, but since I'm not so used to profiling yet I think I'll get better at it throughout this story.

Just to let you guys know, though, I plan to finish this one slowly since I really do like how this is going on in my head :D I hope you guys enjoy this! I know I do. Let me know what you guys think and I'll get the next chapter up soon. Thanks! Stay chill~ ;)

The silence droned on, broken only by his sharper breaths and the occasional stone on hoof made by his brilliant white horse. His heavy equipment and layered clothing made the heat almost unbearable, his horse wasn't faring too well either. It was one of those days, a day that made Altair wish he was back home, if he could even call it that, with his brothers. Some sparring and maybe a tournament or two didn't seem that bad, actually. But, sadly, he had wave after wave of missions given to him by Al Mualim. More slave traders in Jerusalem, same thing in Damascus; more traitors to the Brotherhood than necessary and Templar problems in other areas: these combined with the heat and irritated soldiers did not prove for a smooth and graceful trip. However, the best thing in all the tedious work was the amazing visit he'd get to pay to a certain Malik in Jerusalem's Bureau. Now, only if that were true.

The man was cheeky and sarcastic, quick to catch every flaw of his and the flaws he saw were reflected on his outlook on the man and his supposed arrogance. He held a grudge and Altair was aware of this. He did practically sentence him and his brother to death, half of that being the cruel truth, and he did come to regret his actions. He knew that he was arrogant and sloppy. Malik had every right to be entirely hateful of him, yet he still felt that sliver of friendship between them that he knew should have been stripped away the moment he proclaimed him and his brother dead.

Altair pushed the thought away and urged his horse to pick up the pace, nearing Jerusalem's stone walls and dark skies. The atmosphere reeked of population, crumbling ruins quickly coming into his view, the gates were up and guarded by the same guards in their eye popping armor, surrounded by the civilians in their own drab. He wanted to curse Allah and whatever god was out there, whatever god that would listen, but rather than stay out in the heat, he had to go spend more 'bonding time' with Malik in the shade of the Bureau and more time out in the streets with his targets.

If it rained, like the skies were suggesting, he'd be with a specific man in a specific building in a specifically irritated mood with an angry Master waiting for him back at home for the delay. Most likely at least.

His expression fell and he begged it not to rain.

He dismounted his horse and led it to makeshift stables, tying him down and making sure he was to be well fed and calm before breaking off into a jog towards the guards barring the entrance with tired looks and weak stances. He found it almost comical that people were even the slightest bit afraid of these children with knives, but he caught himself and the arrogance, stopping his mind abruptly.

With his blade, he struck.

The first to go down was the smaller of the four, his blood rushing to meet the open wound on his neck, gurgling with the strangled cries from the other soldiers; he felt bored with the same threats and curses he'd find himself with every time he'd strike.

"Infidel!"

"You won't get away!"

Altair wanted to tie them down and pull out each and every single hair on their heads; they were that annoying. Pesky, always saying the same things like rehearsed lines from a play. Again, he caught himself and his arrogance, making sure to quickly silence himself. Arrogance was a bad habit of his. Apparently.

He twisted on his heel and backhanded the nearest guard, sending him stumbling past the others and into the stone walls of the watch tower. Altair withdrew his sword swiftly and blocked an attack to his torso, parrying and kicking the offender in the gut with little effort needed to knock him off his feet and into the dirt and cobblestone pathway. The man cried out in shock, his panic and distress increasing when Altair went to pin him to the ground with a blade through his chest. His shriek ended as quickly as it had come.

But suddenly, Altair didn't have time to swing his blade to parry the attack from a Templar's fist; he was flung back, arms coming down to help him roll gracefully off path and spring to his feet again, blade ready. The Templar sneered and yelled at him in its foreign tongue of French. Or was it something else? It jeered with mock confidence and used hand gestures of some kind, and Altair was more than happy to shut him up.

Pumping with adrenaline, he slid forward in a readied stance, withdrawing his short blade and kneeling to plunge it deep into the Templar's foot, withdrawing it, and coming up to slice into his neck. Blood hemorrhaged out of the open wounds, pooling on the ground and the white coloring his uniform a darker shade red.

It was going to be a long day.

The combination of pink and red that stained the cloth around his wrists barely mattered to him, being a daily occurrence, as he trudged through citizen after citizen and through the crowds, pickpocketing knives as fast as he could dispense them from thugs with their loud, obnoxious curses and worthless threats.

Loud jeers, more threats, screaming children, and enthused merchants were everywhere and around the corners with the hustling of the citizens trying to get inside before the weather betrayed them. Colorful rugs and pots and clay items decorated the stands and balconies of the merchants and civilians. Jerusalem wasn't the worst place to be, but in the midst of war it seemed like the city had drained of color.

Altair's pace quickened and he round into an alley only to collide with a child's figure, knocking it backwards and to the ground, causing him to raise an eyebrow.

He didn't really know what to do. There were no children around him back at home and when there were they were barely through their training. He'd seen plenty of children around the streets of the lower class homes with their hands out and eyes clouded with liquid, but they'd never approach him. Of course he could just always side step and forget about it, but then he'd be digging himself deeper into his hole of selfishness. And this was a child! Not a thug or begging women he'd push out of his way to get to his target. He could always say sorry and leave, yes, he'd do that.

He knelt down and pulled the child up, setting them to their feet and brushing the dirt off their shoulders.

"Sorry." He gave a small smile. He looked up and into their face. The child was young, probably about six or five with mousy hair tied back with cheap, stringy pieces of twine. Her bangs were greasy and in her face, which was covered in dirt and grime. It seemed that she was pretty much made of filth, what with her body resembling a skeleton, because bones was all that was left of her. The features on her face were sharp while still retaining whatever baby fat she had yet to lose. The cloth hanging off her shoulders was merely a makeshift dress of what seemed like a rather large sack with holes for arms that only reached to her knees with what frayed ends there were. Her eyes were hazel and droopy with what seemed like sadness or sleep and he'd bet money that she was being raised by hand with all the scratches and bruises that adorned her neck and arms, her cracked lips dry as the desert, and her cheeks as red as the sun.

She mumbled a few words and exhaled softly, he raised an eyebrow at her and rested his knee on the ground. "Where are your parents?" he asked. When she didn't respond, he sat down. "Look, girl, it's going to rain soon. Find shelter or you'll get soaked." No response. By this time, he was getting irritated and instead of testing his patience he stood up and started to walk, but stopped when his shirt was caught.

He turned and stared intently at the girl, frowning. "What? Do you want money?" She shook her head and looked up at him with warm eyes. "Are you a warrior?" she asked, and with the question her eyes seemed to sparkle.

Altair raised an eyebrow.
"No. Why do you ask?"

"Because you have scars." She gave him a toothy smile. Such an odd answer.

"You have scars, child. Does that mean you are a warrior?" he asked with his arms at his sides. She shook her head and looked down at her feet. "No," she crossed her fingers and picked at her nails, "but my friend said that men in white robes were warriors. He also said that the guards were warriors." she grinned. He eyed her.

"Why would he tell you that?" he asked, leaning against the wall.

"Because he said that his father once told him that people who fight for something are like warriors. A-and," she stuttered, "he also said that people who are warriors have something that others don't have." she hummed. Altair stared blatantly at her and pat her head.

"Okay, okay. See you kid." he gave her an awkward smile and carried on. He thought nothing of this new acquaintance of his as he walked through the maze of alleys. All he knew, however, is that the air was growing moist.

He begged it not to rain.

It was almost midday, from what he could deduce with the lack of sun and sky, and it had yet to rain to his surprise. He was at the bureau now, resting in the courtyard with the top half of his robes hanging off his hips and his armor stripped from his person and hung inside. It was humid and warm, which was normal, but the air felt good on his bare skin.

Inside, Malik was attending to his duties as a Rafiq, writing and rewriting pieces of information and recording previously accomplished tasks, listing the new novices, and adding pieces to old maps and sorting them in the correct order by importance and usage. His boots constantly scuffled along the floor as he paced around the shop and around the courtyard when he needed something from Altair, lecturing or instructing him. The Rafiq was rather uptight since that fateful mission, but today was an exception. Today, to Altair's enjoyment, Malik was extremely persistent in his studies. He liked to watch the man scuttle for information he couldn't find, and when he did find it, he liked to watch his face change from annoyance to astonishment or happiness as he added it to whatever godly book he found himself busied with at that moment. It wasn't a great pastime, but what else did he have to do?

To surprise him, the Rafiq had slammed his book into the shelf and made his way over to the courtyard, hand at his chin and eyebrows knit together. His eyes were somewhere else as he stared down at his boots.

"Make yourself useful, novice, and fetch me some things." He muttered, lost in thought. Altair grunted and stood up, patting Malik's shoulder and slipping his arms into his robes.

"What do you require? And I suspect you have the means of purchasing these items?" he asked, slipping his boots on and fastening them on tight. Malik nodded and tossed a small bag of coins. "I need ink and a selection of herbs. I'll make a list for you, just if it so happens you forget it in that head of yours." Altair sighed and shook his head, retrieving his armor from the chair by the door.

"Such insults wound me. Tell me, did you come up with those yourself?" he gave the smallest of smiles and Malik rolled his eyes, pausing to scribble down a few words on parchment. "These are very important herbs. Don't mix them up, novice."

"Mhm. Don't-" his words were lost when the city lit up, lightning splitting the sky in half and stretching to touch the earth in a crackle of energy. When the noise faded, Altair groaned.

"It's raining." He sighed. Malik raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" Sarcasm was heavy in his voice. "I never would have thought." he rested his forearm on the counter and chuckled. Altair frowned and turned back into the courtyard.

"Safety and peace, brother."

"Safety and peace, Malik."