Descend.
He wasn't in the right sense of mind, he knew that much.
Something so trivial as a verbal fight, the majority of the loud conversation given by the one armed assassin to end the already delicate relationship they had sustained was causing to fuel such decision as this.
To basically wish for the death penalty.
To relieve this heavy, foreign and crushing weight he felt in his heart.
Affecting him so badly that his mind seemed disconnected to his body, unable to function to breathe or think.
Malik's expression still so fresh in his mind as he snarled at him bitterly in an inhumane way wasn't something Altair Ibn Al-Ahad think he'd ever forget.
So similar to the day that the hot-tempered assassin accused him for Kadar's death.
But the older assassin's expression, even though showing prominent hatred for the other had another lingering emotion in its depths. It showed clearly in those mad eyes as they glared up at the abashed man.
Altair had had his share on studying the emotions that played on people's faces when given certain situations. Assassination wasn't just about killing the target, it was an art, both needing to know skills of killing and the preparation that went behind it, interpreting all personnel around him and having another back up plan if something went wrong. Many people were easy to read, especially Malik whose face was basically an open book if you hadn't already guessed by the body language he posed right now but despite the stream of foul language and screams from the man's mouth that ricocheted off the room's walls, the way he snapped his wrist back from Altair's grasp and told him to basically 'fuck off', there was an underlying strain to his voice, how his eyes suddenly started to water before the taller assassin realised that the man was so caught up with what was happening that he, Malik Al-Sayf, was actually crying.
And for a reason Altair couldn't put words to, was that it hurt so god damn much when Malik looked like he was going to collapse in tears in front of him and shoved him away as soon as the other tried to get close enough to comfort him and calm him down, it hurt even more than the punch from Malik's right hand that he had thrown at the other's face and which now left a red mark on his stubbled jaw before Altair had taken his exit from his obvious unwanted company.
He couldn't say he regretted it, ending his rocky relationship with Malik, but he had realised over time, those eventful years of knowing the man, that something was changing deep down inside him. Especially since he found himself whenever he entered Malik's chambers, his mind and eyes would automatically search and rest on the face of the man rather than checking the room for any possible threat that his normal habit allowed. He had come to have softened his usual cold and inwardly self to him, the only person he had ever done so before despite the difficulties all relationships faced and this scared the man.
To have these underlying feelings that were unmistakably there was what truly alarmed Altair.
That's why he had to end this.
It was a weakness to feel that way, it would just be used against him, because love was unacceptable for any assassin and Altair knew that if he hadn't ended it, it would only come back to haunt him later. That if something had happened to Malik, if he came to suffer the same fate as his younger brother, he didn't know what he'd do with himself.
And he couldn't handle that.
He didn't want to go through all that unnecessary agony that would hurt even more than any physical wound.
Though despite he was the one that broke it off, he felt so utterly gutted.
The reaction he feared had been far worse than expected.
So now he was running with a sense of no direction like a shadow on the rooftops in the city of Jerusalem, but at the same time, for once in his life, he was glad that his wild dash through the main streets, not giving a second's glance to the surprised crowds that disintegrated as he ran through them, had seemed to have caught both guards and Templars attentions as they howled behind him, with the echo of unsheathing and well oiled swords, their voices lost in the winds but Altair managed to make out the repetition of the word 'Assassin!' as they charged after him, swords at the ready as the assassin masterfully ducked and wove through the crowds in the busy marketplace, fainting his agile turns with his divine skill of not upsetting one peasant he passed as Altair drove forward after clearing through the heaviest of the crowd, aware of the singe on his right arm as a projectile flew passed from somewhere above.
He was being cornered, and he was appalled at himself for allowing it knowingly as he merely ran on leaving only a trail of dust and practically feeling the heavy breathing of the armed men behind him as he found his sprint decreasing in speed, feeling the weighty steps that pounded in front of each other with every slowing step until he stopped entirely, standing beside the light brown wall that unless he made a leap over the stacked wooden boxes, he could have scaled effortlessly as he turned his head to see the seven men who were all exhaling heavily, that same mad glint in their eyes that appeared as soon as they had spotted him assassinating one of their comrades and Altair in turn taking up the offensive by sliding out his equipped sword.
But this time, he would take up neither the offensive or defensive, he would merely stand, hands now shifted away from his body with his palms facing outwards to imply no harm as he faced them in a submissive state, despite all his training that had been forced into him to fight or flight.
He simply stood there, the same blatant expression on his face though his eyes were shaded underneath his grey hood as the Templars and guards acted on the position in which they currently stood and charged towards him, their beings engulfing the assassin as his head was wrenched up to the sunlight, casting a blinding light that outlined the silhouettes of all the men before one threw his clenched fist into the assassin's head.
One blow was enough to cut all lights out.
It was pitiful to be in this state.
Kept up in the sad excuse for a jail that the assassin could have easily jail-break out of by how rusty the locks and bars were but instead he sat there, on the stony ledge, his head hanging low as he gazed mindlessly at his hands which were clasped loosely together, slightly tilting his left wrist to where his glove with his hidden blade were originally and missed how much the comfort of having his weapon sheathed there in any ready case.
Now he had nothing.
No weapons and certainly no dignity.
He couldn't help but feel so outright miserable.
And the frustrated screams that Malik produced were echoing relentlessly in his head, never giving him any time to have some peace in the cell, almost to the point that it was as unbearable as the raised voices of order and shouts that sounded through the walls of convicted criminals and the guards.
Why Altair?!
Because he needed to finish this. Before it got too out of hand.
Why would you fucking give me this false sense of security and then call it quits?!
Because if it lead to anything more than a substantial relationship, then there was no promise that it would hurt even more if something happened to either of them…if they were killed.
After all this fucking time, after all we've been through you, can't continue on with this relationship because you feared something bad would happen?!
It isn't as easy as it sounds…
Actually, I'm glad you pulled it off. Because I'm finally realising what a fucking asshole you really are into doing this to someone.
I hate you. I fucking hate you!
Please..
No! Fucking get away from me you fucking asshole! I hate you!
I'm so sorry Malik..
He was to be hung at 12 noon this day.
He figured as much, through all the successful assassinations the death penalty was bound to occur and when he felt the rope tighten around his wrists from the guard who had an unnecessarily smirk of satisfaction written all over his face he merely allowed him to lead him, almost like an obedient dog following his own master.
It would be easy to disarm the man there and then from his sword, but Altair made no move, just kept on walking forward, the rising voices of the people outside reaching his ears as he was flooded with the sun's light as soon as he stepped out of the keep.
He merely blocked out all the shouts of the crowd, hardly flinching from the rocks thrown at him as Altair felt the lasso loop around his neck, his feet planted steadily on the gates that would soon open to his death as his eyes scanned the crowd half-heartedly, the beggars who were the ones throwing him the rocks by the many times he had ignored them, the informers, inimitable disbelief painted on their expressions and the Templars and guards with a satisfied grin drawn all over their faces as Altair held their gaze easily before dropping it to his feet, aware that the rope around his neck was loosing its slack.
He didn't fear it though, death.
In fact, it couldn't have come at a better time.
There was nothing to go back to anyway; he wasn't satisfied with being in the Creed, in life anymore, if it meant that Malik now hated him.
He shouldn't have broken it off with the one armed assassin; it was one of the gravest mistakes that he had ever committed, second to Kadar's death. But it was too late to go back now, seeming that he was on the death row.
He hoped that Malik would move on, that the resentment that emitted off the man as soon as Altair spoke about calling off the relationship would fade away with his body.
I fucking hate you!
Those four words circled repeatedly around the assassin's head.
He had finally done it.
Pushed the man to the extent that he now loathed him.
And it wasn't fuelled by his cocky attitude, or the way he poked fun at being stronger than Malik because he had two working arms, if only he joked lightly.
It was because they new the extent on what they felt for each other…well what they did feel for each other. Altair had successfully demolished that possibility.
But he couldn't deny that he loved the man, even now, if they were still together, there was no way it was going to be allowed, that their relationship would work out.
Especially because the Creed would start to get suspicious sooner or later with the repetitive journeys to Jerusalem and the callings for Malik's presence as Masyaf.
If only he could live just a little while longer…to say that he was sorry for being such a bastard, for everything, so that he could leave this world on stable terms with the one armed assassin, who he dearly and truly cared for. So that he could utter those three words in which were potent to all the feelings and emotions he wished he had expressed.
He didn't believe in 'fate' or 'destiny'. It was merely not his time to say those words, to express how he truly felt.
It didn't matter now.
Nothing was going to change.
He had lost Malik forever.
The way it should be.
Altair felt the floorboards beneath him give way as the rope around his neck tightened with his descend, though as he fell, the sudden cries of people in the crowd succeeded in capturing his attention through his fall as his eyes snapped up to the face of another, someone who he could have sworn he had a name for as he glimpsed the man's unreadable expression, the being apparently moving quite fast towards him with an open and shouting mouth as the one-armed assassin dashed through the crowd, sword raised and at the ready as the desperate scream of Altair's name that was produced was lost with the sudden commotion of the emerging Templars and shocked peasants around him.