Overhead the sun set, painting bleak greys in violet, crimson and gold and casting tall shadows throughout the walls of the great castle. The cerulean blue of day was but a distant memory, and it was now gold that embraced the figures of white below, moving elegantly and even in the safety of home, keeping closer to the shadows than the light. Masyaf, quiet as it was, was bustling. There was the ring of clashing blades echoing from the grounds, the sounds of diligent training. Quieter were those who kept to the library, taking preference to training the mind than the body, if only for a short time.
The children of Masyaf, sons and daughters of assassins scampered about, free from their lessons for the remainder of the evening and no doubt growing tired with the last stretches of day. Inside the castle walls was a gloomier place than outside, where twilight was beginning to take hold over the threshold of their safe haven like a warm blanket draped upon a sleepy child.
Deep inside the castle walls laid the mentor's chambers, damask and dark, yet gentle; there was a sweet odor to the chambers, one which came only with having a family. It was a family which was extended, perhaps, by the solitary figure which stood inside, filling the incensed air with a jasmine scent and a renewed quirk of personality. Now more than ever, there was comfort, a sense of peace within the walls, so guarded and cold in the past.
It was not the whirl of scents that was notable so much as the faint glow from within; a ghostly illumination that, oddly enough did not radiate any heat or cold. Simply, it was alive, almost human in a sense. Such was the nature of the strange artifact stolen what must have been a lifetime ago. Five years now and since then a surreal peace had befallen Masyaf. There were snakes about, no doubt, yet peace had settled upon them like the great willow's shade.
There was peace here, but also emptiness. It was an emptiness that lurked within the deepest reaches of his heart, thrice damned as it was. Serpentine in nature, it was that inkling of loneliness that allowed it to slip past the rigid outer defenses and lure him in. Malik knew not to touch the Apple. From the mysterious entity that had corrupted Al Mualim and overtaken Abbas, he knew it was not meant for lesser men. It was a power which, in truth, frightened him; it was a power which was both frightening and baffling. There may even have been an inkling of jealousy within him, that Altair could wield such a power and he could not, that Altair both possessed internal strength and wisdom which he lacked.
Whatever it may have been, he was drawn to the artifact, and nut eyes turned a spectrum of hazel against the radiant glow. There was an internal struggle against the temptation, in which he fought the apple, but still peered down at it, captivated with its beauty and all the mysteries contained within the ancient artifact. For hours he might have fought, but it was mere seconds, as if the artifact played tricks on the time and exhausted his mind prematurely; it subdued him, combatted his wit and overwhelmed his senses.
When his brain caught up with his body, the Apple of Eden was in his hand. Truly, there was neither the heat that would come from flame or sun, nor cold, but the warmth of a living being. There was but an instant in which the haze was lifted and his mind was clear; it was not regret that touched him then, but curiosity, a curiosity for what might occur next.
In a flash of deep amber, a beauty which could have rivaled the grandmaster's eyes, he was overtaken. It was a lightshow, a glare that would stretch to fill the capacity of the room and beyond, escaping through the windows to leave a pool of molten gold upon the courtyard below. Malik was already elsewhere, however, in a place far from Masyaf.
Below Jerusalem the great caverns dripped with moisture, cold and without the blessing of daylight. Above them the sun-kissed city would still be cloaked in the darkness of night. Dawn would break soon, but he was confident they would be through with their mission before the sun crept over the horizon. There were still hours before dawn yet, and there was hardly any way to go. Altair, at least, seemed certain of that.
Three crept beneath the holy city above them. Altair led the way, keeping a steady yet cautious pace. They remained in the shadows and stopped abruptly. A burst of honey, a gold that set heavily over the scene and the atmosphere was now changed. His stomach coiled and twisted within himself, both with nervousness that perhaps should not have been there, but remained and now anger. The words shared between them were slurred; they were important and yet lost upon him. What was being spoken? They argued, a wall of cool arrogance around Altair while Malik- or the vision of his past self- was beyond frustrated, exasperated at the man he was to regard as his superior.
An odd sensation swept over him, as if he had blinked and missed something of great significance. He had, in fact and now he was certain of where he stood. They were in Solomon's Temple, on that fateful night in which even the torches that were to illuminate the dusty corridors seemed to radiate that of darkness. It was a scene which came to him many a time at night, haunting his dreams and gnawing at sweet dreams till the turned to nightmares, especially at the beginning. Now this felt too real, despite the jumps in time. This realization was only brief, however and soon he was consumed by his self then.
"Kill the assassins!" Shrieked Robert, his voice deep and booming with such ferocity that more of the fresh rubble crumbled and his voice echoed; it sent such a chill down his spine and within him there was a swell of panic.
In the fraction of a second he was lost to fear, one of the men Robert commanded launched himself at him, brows furrowed and lips curled in a snarl. Time seemed to stall, and he could practically count the teeth that were bared at him. His fear consumed him, stilling him, freezing him to the spot. There was a distinct helplessness to the situation, a certain death. His skill and his brother's surely would do them little good against Robert himself and he feared Altair would not return for them; he hoped he would, but somewhere deep within the reaches of his heart knew he would not.
Kadar moved in a flash of white, quick as a feline upon its prey. Metal clanked, drawing sparks. Kadar pushed forward and flung the assailant back. As his brother glanced back, their eyes met, pale blue reflecting his own figure in a ghostly shade. There was no need for words, for Malik understood the meaning then. Simply, there was no time to be taken by doubt. They had no choice but to fight now and perhaps there was unspoken pride there as well, that the mission still might be salvaged.
Whirling around, Malik turned in time to counter another. In the moment in which he and his brother had addressed one another, it seemed the others had done the same. Now they surrounded him, speaking in their native tongue as if to throw them off. Malik understood, certainly Kadar did as well. German, French, English, none were lost upon them.
This was a conflict in which Malik knew he would have to draw on all his experience and skill, or else it would be the end of him- and his brother too. His brother who lacked the same experience he held. No doubt these men were well trained, Robert's personal guard. They showed confidence in their stance, sneers painted upon their expression. Malik sought to change that, to destroy their confidence and cripple their teamwork. It was the only chance the pair of them had at victory, and perhaps survival.
They stood, swords drawn, back to back. Briefly, their backs touched and he found feel his brother, a full two inches taller than him, trembling. Sweet Kadar, reckless and wild, trembling before the enemy. However slight, his brother's fear was detectable. Did they even stand a chance?
With little time to reflect upon the thought, Malik threw himself into battle. His mind picked at all he knew of combat; of all the things he had been taught. Pick a target. Focus, defend, counter, show no fear. Focus, defend, counter, show no fear. Focus, defend, counter, show no fear. Focus, he reminded himself. With a grunt of effort, he plunged his sword deep within one man's belly, taking only the slightest break in his defense to attack. As his blade slid from the knight's body, he felt the life drain from him like a candle blown by a fierce wind.
He turned on his heels, met another's blade with his own, now slick and dripping with thick crimson gems. Ahead, no more than a dozen steps, a leap away, fought Kadar, now surrounded by three and struggling. Desperately he wished he could assist his brother, but he faced four now; four highly trained Templar Knights that would no doubt like little more than to see his life's flame snuffed.
Repositioning himself into a defensive stance he blocked a blow, recoiled and slid his blade free, thrusting it where he saw an opening: at the knight's side. It was but a knick, deep and painful, no doubt, but essentially harmless. Another came at him, one from either side. He leapt back, leaving the two to stop short and recollect themselves. In that instance Malik cut one down. His hidden blade swept at his throat, cutting a clean river of blood to paint his companion's face in a veil of red shades. With only a slight adjustment, Malik hacked sloppily at his legs. It was enough. The man screamed in pain but suffered for only a second. Still writhing on the ground, Malik impaled his chest, blade stopping his heart and leaving a corpse behind as he turned to face the last. Clutching his side, the man sneered and snarled, but no longer held such confidence; no longer did he appear intimidating. The man threw himself forward, waving his sword about violently. Sloppy, Malik saw, and he ended the man's life quickly.
There was a wail, but it was not from the man he had killed, but the man Kadar had taken down. Shocked, Malik pivoted. The last of the men slid from Kadar's sword and sagged, ungracefully to the ground. Kadar was panting, strained and exhausted and not quite unscathed. But Robert still lived and upon realizing his men no longer stood to defend him, began to clamor up the scaffolding to where the artifact rested. Nearer and quite possibly acting only by instinct, Kadar chased after him, much faster- of was always quick- and scrambled up before him. Malik was able only to catch a glimpse of them before reinforcements, men who they must have missed, or had arrived in such short time filled the room. Above, Kadar fought Robert, while below Malik faced the new foe.
He, like Kadar, was feeling the strain of battle. Centering himself, he focused on the foe at hand. One by one they fell to his blade in succession, but for every one he cut down there seemed another appeared and then another. Would there ever be an end to this fight? It was unlike any struggle he had ever faced, it was sapping his strength from him, his energy and with it his skill. Yet he persisted, undaunted until three remained.
Now he was injured, caught in the arm by an arrow and refortified by blade when not two, but four had come at him. The pain was dull, a separation of body and mind. But reality was harsh and it was Kadar's voice that dragged his attention from the battle, at last, away from the men who were beginning to inch away from the man turned deliverer of death. "Brother!" And there was something coming toward him; the artifact, he saw, followed by a string of curses.
In the air rang a gasp, so quiet, yet stifling; and time slowed again with the release of a shaken breath. How baffling that but a trickle of a sound could overwhelm the capacity of the opening, but it was the sound that came first before the reality washed over him. The world was grey, drained of all but streaks of rouge. Steel, glinting in the torchlight, pierced through his body's body. Battered now and weary from the fight, the boy who was a man sunk to his knees, coppery bubbling at his lips. Kadar sputtered; shock etched upon his face, and then met his eyes. The cerulean blue was so far from his world, like a budding colour, only half there in a dim truth. "Run," Whispered the corpse as his last breath rushed from his lungs in a great race of fleeing air.
Pure instinct guided his hand to the artifact being tossed in the air. He caught it. The very air seemed to dematerialize at his fingertips in absorption of life itself. Then the ball erupted in a lightshow of molten riches, releasing an unearthly light as if from the heavens themselves. About him those who remained were afflicted, crying out in pain and inner conflict. Someone laughed madly, a high, insane laughter. It was Robert, who stood unharmed and looking to him with such bloodlust in his eyes that his very bones seemed to rattle.
Remembering his brother's last wish, he cast his thirst for revenge and all humanly attachments aside and ran. His injured arm was quickly losing strength, but he clutched the artifact with such ferocity that even with numbing fingers it found no chance to slip from his hold; the other kept his sword in hand and he ran. One stray knight he encountered as he backtracked through the tunnels, relying on memory and animalistic senses more than sight. Robert was behind him, he knew, shouting and guaranteeing his death like his companions'. Like his brother's and Altair's.
Luck seemed to favour him when the passage behind him came lose and collapsed, creating a barrier between himself and the great bear of a man. Then the horizon came before him in bleak pastels, the first inkling of light touching the sky. Air had never tasted so sweet, but there was no time to think on it, no appreciation to be had. Time was still of the essence and he pressed onward. Malik forced himself to continue until he reached the horses on which they arrived upon. His horse, Kadar's and… Altair's. Of the three of them, it must have been the cruelty of god to allow him to live when the others had died.
The pain would not catch up to him until after mounting and taking off at a gallop. Beneath him, he pressed his horse, the loyal beast that it was, onwards until there was simply no strength to be found. As the beast slowed beneath him and eased into a sickeningly slow pace. With nowhere to run, he was struck with the grief.
Hot tears seared the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over at last. Brimming with emotion, with the pain of losing his last remaining family and being truly alone in the world, something broke inside him. A sob, previously hitched in his throat suddenly released and the earth itself seemed to shudder, from the barren dirt beneath the horse's hooves to the shrubbery. "Kadar," The name slipped free, unbidden but stubbornly forced from his lips, "Brother!" There was no one around to hear his cries, but his heart felt as if it might erupt and there was the fleeting suspicion that the entire world must be able to hear him. "I'm sorry…" And this slipped with a mere breath, lost upon the gentle late-morning breeze. "I'm sorry.."
Days would go on in a blur with a heavy weight upon his chest, like lead and iron. The artifact had been placed securely in a pouch, kept at his side and the wound in his arm now ached, unbearably. There was much blood when he removed the arrow, but with no time given to treat it. Robert, it seemed, had many men at hand and had compiled an army to follow. They were close on his heels, too near and stretching for what seemed like miles behind him.
Growing feverish with the days he spurred his horse into a gallop as often as he dared. The path to Masyaf was long and daunting; guilt ate away at his chest to leave disaster in its wake. Many times he doubted he would survive the trip, wished death upon himself even. There was no respite, no break from the travels or a moment to rest. Never once did the pain sate, dulling with the days but always there, always unraveling every fiber of his being without mercy. By the time he reached the great castle itself, a stretch of grey jutting into the sky, a ghostly pale blue like his brother's had been, the pain was but a dull pit in his chest.
By then he was terribly weakened, a wreck made doubly so with rumours of Altair… Altair who was alive, who had survived, returned and had no doubt been successful in his mission. It filled the trench dug deep within him with anger, such a flare of anger never felt before in his life, never imagined even. This was what gave him the strength to continue, insisting upon going on without aid.
His vision blurred for what felt like only a fraction of a second, but when the world came into focus again he was on his back. Now his brow was laced with sweat, teeth gritted together and arm constricted. Pain sunk deep in his bones, sending tremors throughout his entire body in sharp spurs. There were men about; speaking in quick, panicked tones while one alone remained calm. This was the voice he focused on, the one which was eerily level and bothered none by the coming gore. They cut into his skin and he howled. The echo of his own voice reflected his turmoil, wetness streaming down his face in streaks, pooling in his ears even as he shook his head, struggling desperately but held down.
The pain, the unbearable, inconceivable, intolerable amount of pain- it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and for all the wailing and begging for the pain to stop, there was no relief.
"Malik!" Again there was that ghastly amber, bright, unfocused, fading… then gone. With it, left the pain, the vision and the reality in which it existed.
Now there were two deep pools of the same- no similar, very similar to, but not quite the same- amber. Concern was etched into them, subtle and yet distinctly present. "Malik." Altair's voice was firm but dripping with worry. Beneath him he felt the cold stiffness of the castle ground. When had his strength fled him so to bring him to his knees? Cast aside, apparently rolled away laid the apple, lulling innocently, now dull.
Everything he had seen was gone, and yet the awful feelings the visions brought lingered, drawing upon long suppressed pain which he had believed forgotten. There were tears in his eyes, he realized with horror, and with it, also the nauseating turmoil burbling in the pit of his stomach. "Altair…" Breathy and desperate came his voice.
"I'm here, Malik," Altair assured him, trying, he knew, to offer comfort, trying and failing. "Whatever you saw, it was an illusion. There is no truth. It was only the apple. You are here now, as am I, and you are safe from whatever illusion it showed you." For a moment, there was nothing he wanted more than Altair's comfort, to be in his arms, with anyone, perhaps. It was pitiable beyond all else.
An illusion, Altair said. A mere illusion, he spoke as if he knew from experience. It had to be so, Altair wielded the apple frequently, studied it with such fervency it often seemed a risk to his health. What terrible things had the apple shown to him, then? How was it he wielded the artifact with such efficiency? Surely he was shown such visions that—any lesser man would crumble.
That was just it. The apple had shown him all it was capable of, and he had crumbled.
He was a lesser man.