In his eyes lay the memory, still fresh. His mind closed off the memory but in his heart, he would always live on. Death, something no one should witness. Yet he did.

Slowly, his brown eyes closed as tears slid across his tanned cheek. Lying back, using his only arm to keep his body on his side, Malik cried. For the first time in his life, he actually cried. The wounds were deep, the loss was harsh. Never again would the assassin scold his younger brother for failing a mission again. Never again would his blade clash against his in the art of fencing. Never would they mock Altair again. Never. For Kadar... was DEAD.

Sand and dust flew up as the three assassins faced their enemies. Only one templar before them, another four awaiting their turns, behind the back of their trusted ally. The templar's face, hidden by an iron helmet, had shown no weaknesses, not a single open spot to strike through. As the tension in the air grew, the three assassins seemed to synchronize their heartbeats. As one, they attacked, slashing viciously and in blind rage at their enemy, who, wounded, still could parry the blows, his pose firm, his feet both on the dusty tiles of Maysaf's streets. He showed he was one of the best. As the four other templars snuck up behind the assassin group and attacked them, Altaïr and Kadar were distracted, leaving Malik in a heated battle with the elite templar.

A snarl left the unseen mouth of the templar. Sweat pearled off of Malik's face. He had shown no fear for it would be his downfall, leaving his weak spots open. The templar rushed towards the tanned man and slashed at him with strategy, something the regular templars were not trained to do. Parrying most of the hits, Malik got tired and took a deep breath only to breathe out forcefully after. He knew the templar looked him right in the eyes and the assassin was aiming for a blow. Both rushing towards eachother, the sand blowing under their feet, Malik let out a growl and used his wrist to deliver a great blow to the templar's head. His helmet received most of the blow, but it had been badly damaged and became unusable. The templar took it off. Under the helmet, short, dark brown hair had hidden, Yellow teeth were forming an almost toothless smile. He spit out a single, rotten tooth that had been hit out and wiped the saliva off of his mouth. Still, he had spoken not a single word. Amber eyes looked at the frown the assassin gave them. Chargin at eachother, both males let out a battlegrowl and the sand flew up from their feet. The metallic clash of the sturdy assassin's sword and the well-made templar mace sounded like a chime in the empty streets, birds flying off into the distance, no longer able to witness the battle. Another blow hit the sword and Malik sunk to his knees as he called out for his brother. The mace had hit the sword but suddenly fell off and hit Malik's upper left arm with a fierce blow.

Malik rose to his feet, his sword had been hit out of his hand. His left arm bled, his eyes were blind with rage. His younger brother, fighting well, protected him as he stood up again, picking up the bloodied sword and taking a firm pose.
"Go for it!"
the young male yelled, running away, facing several other, approaching templars. Blood stained the streets. The gash in Malik's arm was deep and it hurt bad. As he stood, and faced one of the dreaded templars, he held his arm against his chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding. It was only a matter of seconds before the cloth that protected his chest area was completely covered in the red fluid. He was scared. Not afraid of death nor imprisonment, no, he was afraid of losing what he really cared for. His allies.

Kadar, his face damp with sweat and tears, fought against the templars as if he was the last one standing, the fate of the group in his hands. His sword, hitting the tense air with a soft hissing sound, landed with a loud clang on the templars', whose face was no longer hidden by the helmet, showing scars and fresh, bleeding wounds. His eyes suddenly changed to a horrified expression, as Altaïr retracted his hidden blades from the templars' back. The assassin gave Kadar a sign of brothership, and he ran off, Kadar left standing in the blood of the freshly killed templar. Quickly turning around to parry a strong blow, Kadar found himself once more in the middle of battle. The last time in the middle of battle. Moaning with pain and exhaustion, he raised his sword to attack the already badly wounded templar and release him from his suffering, but his movement was too slow. The templar, seeing his chance to attack an unprotected spot on the body of the young, grey-hooded male, struck with force and flung his sword at the soft tissue of Kadar's stomach. Even though the hit wasn't hard, and, if Kadar would be in good shape, would have done him barely any harm, the blade fully hit the soft, tender skin in the assassins' side, creating a gash deep and deadly. As red was flowing from the wound, the templar's body hit the floor and he exhaled his very last breath. So did Kadar. His pale blue eyes widened in fear, looking Death right into it's hollow eyes. For him, it has ended gracefully, the templar before him falling dead to the ground of exhaustion and bloodloss. The last he saw was his brother, fighting for him. Fighting for them, the assassins, and proudly, he closed those sky-colored eyes tenderly as a tear of joy slid from one.

Malik, still unable to use his wounded arm, caught in the middle of battle and dizzy from the massive loss of blood, saw the body drop on the floor. A soft thud was all he needed to hear to know that all he had loved had now left the skin and bones that were once his brother. He stared at the spot the lifeless body lay with mixed emotions. He did not know what he had to feel, he did not know what he had to do. Blinded with rage greater than a massive thunderstorm but awkwardly proud his brother took the templar with him, Malik flung his bloodied sword at the templar's corpse, and did not stop until the poor man was nothing more than bloody pulp, his face unrecognizable. Not allowing his soul to rest, and forcing it to haunt the many streets of the Arabian city, in search of peace. Dropping his sword, Malik also fell to his knees, and looked up to the heavens as the dust settled in the Maysaf streets. He cried. He yelled his brother's name as he clenched his fists and hit the sandy street. Altaïr, standing next to his master, placed his hand, stained with templar blood, on the shoulder of the mourning man. Slowly, Malik lifted the limb body of the deceased assassin and pulled it into a cold, yet tight hug, saying one last prayer, one last goodbye...

Tears in his eyes, clenching the stump that was once his left arm, Malik lay himself to rest, bothered by bad dreams and flashbacks to the day he would once remember as the worst in his life. Bad dreams had pestered him ever since that day and sleeping was a punishment, but the busy assassin's life, had made his weary body tired and heavy. He needed the time to recharge, he knew, as he lay his head on the soft pillows that had formed to the shape of his head. There was one plus about the night's rest the bureaukeeper had granted himself, though. He could never get any closer to his beloved brother than he did in his dreams, either good or bad...