A/N: Hey there! Today I really felt in the mood for writing a death!fic. I bought two new songs off iTunes today; Look Away - Thousand Foot Krutch and Flowers for a Ghost - Thriving Ivory. Both are such beautiful songs that convey so much emotion and really helped me write this story. Anyways, enjoy!
Flowers for a Ghost
And I said,
Who will bring me flowers when it's over
And who will give me comfort when it's cold
And who will I belong to when the day just won't give in
And who will tell me how it ends and how it all begins.
*Flowers for a Ghost – Thriving Ivory
***
Outside of Masyaf, a lone man stood in front of a single white cross. The rain that had fallen for three consecutive days continued mercilessly, making the ground slick with mud. If only he hadn't been so reckless. The scene in front of him cried plaintive from every possible perspective, causing Altaïr to clench his fists in fury. Small white flowers poked out beside the grave in clumps.
It was different with Malik than it had been with any other soldier. To Altaïr, he wasn't a man that he could use at his simple disposal. Over gradual time, he had become a friend; a close one at that. Erratically, a gust of wind picked up causing Altaïr's white robes to flap violently beside him. In his scarred hands, he held Malik's sheathed blade. Unwillingly, his stomach flipped over as he leaned down in front of the cross to place the sword blade down.
- - -
The suffering had been short and quick. While he was fending off a guard, One of Robert de Sable's men pierced him in the chest with their scimitar from behind, taking his breath in one lucid movement. Altaïr could recall the way he gasped and fell to his knees, hand clutching the wound. Quickly Altaïr leapt from his spot and dipped his blade into the killer's flesh, earning a cry of despair as his head fell to the hard ground. Quickly he turned to Malik, whose eyes were closing ever so slightly.
Stay with me! He remembered shouting, making sure that he wasn't going to be ambushed. Robert de Sable had fled, forgetting the treasure he had sought after. How he could never fail to remember the expression of death staring back into his own eyes from Malik's. Gracefully, he pulled Malik into his arms and picked him up tenderly.
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, I am sorry... The words rolled off his lips with weakness, deeply inhaling a long breath. Safety and... But before he could finish, his eyes closed and his body became limp. Clutching at Malik's robes tightly, Altaïr ignored Kadar's words of grief and pity. If he opened his mouth slightly, he didn't know what would become of him - a man of insanity with never ending grief, destroyed and broken down beyond repair. It was better to leave some things alone.
- - -
He could feel the rain soak through his robes, water running down his body like a vast river. His mind had become trite, replaying over and over how he could have changed the outcome of the mission. An assassin was never supposed to linger, moving on quickly was the easiest way to handle agonizing situations. He couldn't be maudlin at a time like this. Soon, he would have to return back to master Al Mualim. For many years, Malik had been his outlet and involuntarily, that had been taken away from him.
Taking one last glance at the flowers and the sentimental marker, Altaïr turned in the opposite direction and ran as hard as he could. The void in his chest stretched from end to end, yearning to be filled with the memories of his dearly beloved. He needed to get away to heal, to learn how he could do without him. Jumping off a ledge he came to a standstill, watching the sunset gleam miraculously before him. Painted in front of him were stripes of gold, intertwining with the deep purple which loomed over his head. The sun glowed behind the hill, casting an orange glow on the land bestowed upon it. It felt too soon to say a final goodbye.
Compared to many other unimaginable situations, it was hard to believe that a deceased man alone could bring the master assassin to his knees.