The pain was unbearable.
An eternity filled with nothing but paralyzing, torturous pain. Pleas to God for deliverance went unanswered as the hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks. It wasn't the type of pain you could get used to, it did not numb over time. Every step upon the earth shook the wound mercilessly and each small gust of wind cut into the raw flesh like a knife. Nothing helped alleviate this pain; not drugs, not alcohol, not unconsciousness.
But the pain was not the worst part. The knowledge he suffered, this was the worst part. Knowing that he would most certainly survive this pain, while his brother Kadar had perished, was more torturous than any mere flesh wound. It stripped the assassin of his most precious drive for life and left him with the unabashed desire that he had been the one to die. The understanding that he would never again be the man he trained so hard to become, that his future held nothing but crowded walls and pitiful stares is what tortured Malik the most. The awareness that he would recover enough only to slave the rest of his days while the man responsible for his terrible losses roamed free pained him much more than a flesh wound ever could. This was the worst part.
Either that, or the smell. He smelled like death. What used to be his arm, the holy appendage which boasted the Brotherhoods deadliest weapon, was nothing more than a charred, ragged token of just how badly Malik had failed. A permanent reminder he would carry with him for the rest of his days.
When he resurfaced into consciousness, Al Maulim was seated on the cot next to his own. Malik didn't bother to speak, knowing once the old man was finished observing him, he would reveal the reason for his visit to the crippled assassin.
"Safety and peace Malik," The grand master spoke in a grave voice. "I have spoken to the Healer. She says you will have healed enough for movement when the moon is next full." Malik stared blankly at the master, his eyes dulled with sleep and his head heavy with foreboding. "You have done a great service to the Brotherhood Malik Al-Sayf. Your courage and honor prevented the artifact from falling into the hands of our enemies and led to the destruction of a large faction of templar soldiers. You succeeded where even our best assassin had failed, and for that I am eternally thankful." The mention of Altair sparked a touch of life in Malik and he spoke for the first time in many weeks.
"And what of that insufferable, arrogant bastard?" His voice was shockingly strong as his fury and suffering expelled from his mouth.
"Worry not of Altair. I have dealt with him personally. He faces a long and difficult road." The Mentor paused and looked at Malik's mutilated arm. "And it seems you do as well."
"I will be fine." Malik snapped as he attempted to sit up, a move that sent a joint wave of pain and nausea through his mangled body.
"Rest my son, you shall not suffer any longer. I am rewarding you for your duty and perseverance. You are now awarded the rank of Dai and are promoted as Rafiq of the Assassin's Bureau in Jerusalem." Malik's dark eyes widened in shock at his master decision. He did not want this, to be a scholar, keeper of a mere half-way house for his brother Assassin's to use and leave once the real work had been completed, a servant. It was shameful to his family name, to his brother Kadar's memory. But the throbbing of his wound stopped his mouth from protesting. With his missing limb, Malik could never become a master Assassin. His handicap made him a liability and he would be forever condemned to a life of parchment and ink. Another wave of pain and nausea washed over him as he lay his head back down, this time however the strongest feeling came in hatred: Hatred for the man who had so selfishly caused Malik all of this pain.
"I understand." He resigned in a defeated voice as he closed his eyes somberly. "Thank you Mentor." Al Maulim got to his feet and motioned for the Healer to reenter the room.
"You will leave at the end of the month Malik. The Brotherhood lost many today and their losses will be felt for some time. But there is always hope for those who support our cause, in whatever way they are able." He placed his withered hand on Malik's furrowed brow for a brief moment before slowly exiting the infirmary. The elder Healer came forward to check Malik's bandages and she noticed the boy's eyes beginning to squeeze together tighter and tighter.
"Do you require anything child?" The woman asked, her voice full of wizened compassion. Malik buried his face in the crook of his elbow and parted his dry lips.
"Wine." He requested in a voice as empty as death. "Wine and solitude." The woman nodded, unseen by the assassin, and left to fulfill his requests. She returned quickly and placed the alcohol in his hand. Once Malik was sure he was alone he lifted the cloth flask to his lips and drank without pause until every last drop was consumed. He dropped the hollow sack to the floor and allowed one single cry to erupt from the very depths of his soul. The plangent sound echoed through the stone room, harrowing and empty. He then fell into another state of unconsciousness, the dull pain still throbbing.
This... This was the worst part.