Why was it so hard to lose that arm when I had always thought I was ready to die for the brotherhood?

Isn't losing your life worse than losing your arm?

Isn't it, Kadar?

I am getting dressed. My right arm is very good at making up for the lack of the other one. I learnt to knot, fold, stuff things. I can do my work as a dai easily. I can still climb, for that matter. I need my feet more than I did before, but I am quite fast.

Altair is faster.

I can use my sword, and Allah help those who encounter it.

I can make love.

But for the longest time I thought it impossible to even look at that stump that is hanging from my shoulder.

For an eternity I woke up from a deep sleep and relived the horror of finding my arm gone, having forgotten it had been taken off a long time ago. Sometimes it still happens today.

Forever I felt my fingertips, aching like mad as they were fumbling for the sheets. But they were gone and my stump twitched. I nearly retched when I saw it. That trembling piece of flesh, covered in scars, useless, ugly, haunting.

At first I wore the bandages. But the medics told me to take them off. For weeks I couldn't undress, couldn't look at the damage.

I tried to think of Kadar, tried to make the shame I felt help me overcome my weakness.

Then I realised why it is so hard to lose an arm. Every second of my life I am reminded of my loss. Even if I ever got used to the arm not being there any more, I would still know about my losses. Dead people don't feel loss.

I had never looked at my stump thoroughly until Altair did.

We had been making love for a while, it hadn't taken long for us to gravitate towards each other, to the one thing we had that still meant something, when the brotherhood was falling apart and everything we loved was either gone or changing.

I had never taken my shirt off. He had never encouraged me to do it.

But that one night he simply slipped it over my head.

Then his eyes rested on the stump, his strange, bleak gaze that always reminds me of a cool stone wall. This time, the grey orbs were windows to his soul. His pupils were wide, his features unguarded. His guilt tangible.

Against my will I looked down on my stump as well. There it was. It was part of me. I had lost my arm. I had lost my brother. But I could look at it all without guilt. I bit my lip when I realised that Altair had exposed himself to his biggest nightmare when I was still struggling and lingering. I looked at him and my gaze must have been filled with adoration as he blushed and blinked a few times. He cleared his throat. 'Makes you look like a hero.' he said, and his voice was soft. It was a thoroughly moronic statement. 'A lost arm doesn't make anyone a hero, novice.' I tried to sound disgruntled, but how do you do that when you smile like an idiot?