Only very rarely did Altair manage to look around him when he was rushing through the cities, finding his target, a white flash in the corner of the guards' eyes. All he ever saw were walls that slid past his view while he was climbing them, was the next roof he aimed his leap at, was the heart of his target he slammed his blade into.

Whenever he rode towards Jerusalem, he let his gaze drift across all the spires and domes, the rooftops and the massive walls closing all the buzzing life in. But once he was inside he hardly noticed which church tower he climbed, which mosque's minaret he perched on.

His latest target, however, had lead him into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. When his deed was done, his gaze was drawn upwards by the column of light that shone down through the dome on the dead body at his feet. Then he saw it: a painting, crudely done, placed right next to an unfinished mural. It was a landscape, a mountain on the left and a valley on the right. The top of the mountain was cast into bright light and a triangle sat on it, with an eye in its middle. Rays of light went out from all the sides of the triangle. The valley, however, was dark, except for its very bottom, where flames could be seen reaching out to anyone who would fall into the seemingly endless depths.

And someone was falling. A dark figure had just lost touch with the ground underneath his feet. His strong arms were thrown up, the right still holding a sword, and his right flailing about. Eyes wide, mouth agape, his gaze was still upon his opponent, as if there was a bond, as if there was more to this whole scene than their battle.

The opponent held the gaze. This man was bright and shining, and while his feet didn't touch the ground either, huge wings were supporting him. His sword was going down on the other man, but seemed to stop before it hit him. His eyes were calm and steady, but not triumphant.

That other man had been his friend.

Altair only managed to rip himself out of his contemplation when he heard the guards rush to the church door. He hid in the shadows and slid out of the door behind them. A few steps up a wall, and two roofs later a haystack. He lay there as the city slowly calmed down, lost in his thoughts.

When he returned to the office he hesitated a moment too long before he offered Malik his greetings.

'What is it?' the Dai said.

Altair frowned, then smiled. 'How can you read me so well?'

'You are all the entertainment I have. The other novices are so normal it bores the living daylights out of me.' snarled the dark man while he stored away the bloodied feather Altair had placed before him in the shelf under the counter.

'Do you think I am an angel or a devil?'

Malik's head slowly appeared above the counter. 'Have you been smoking those odd herbs again?' he grunted.

Altair hid his face under his hood, studying the floor. 'Angel or devil. What am I?'

Malik stared at him for a moment and then sighed, placing his hand on the counter and resting the weight of his body on it. 'It surely depends on your point of view.' he finally offered.

'You mean, if one is a templar, or an assassin?' Altair asked.

'Or if one thinks that killing people is a necessary means or to be completely avoided.'

Altair lifted his gaze and stared at Malik. For a moment they didn't say anything. Then Malik sighed again and pushed himself off the counter.

'Altair, you are asking me if you are good or evil. You are asking ME of all people. What can I say to you? I know you better than anyone and all I will ever be able to say is that you are both.'

Altair's face showed no sign of his emotions when Malik went around his counter to stand in front of his friend. He put his hand on Altair's shoulder. 'Everyone is both.' he said softly, and now a twitch in the assassin's mouth told him enough to know that Altair was relieved.