A/N: Well. It would appear that this has taken FREAKIN' FOREVER to update. What can I say, except that Malik is a little bitch? Last chapter, I said Altair was being difficult. Malik has taken that frustration to a whole new level. I don't want to spoil anything, so I'll leave you with a warning.

WARNING: This chapter has a "WTF did I just read?" factor of a bajillion.

Enjoy! :)


The Brothers were exceptionally curious, although not entirely surprised. It had been just about a week since Altaïr had unofficially officially taken over Al Mualim's spot as Master of the Assassins, and today was the first day he would be addressing them as one body, one functioning unit.

A few of the younger Assassins had been curious, and some had even been slightly indignant -they had been reprimanded for that later- as to why their new Master had not addressed his pupils in some sort of initiation or even a word, the day after Al Mualim's demise, when Altaïr had been informed of his newfound position among the Creed.

After Altaïr had defeated Al Mualim, and the old Master lay dead and exposed, chaos ensued. As Altaïr was otherwise engaged with a much more personal battle, warring internally with himself and the Apple, he could not attend to the anarchy that was erupting in the village.

Merely seconds after Altaïr had lost himself in the Apple's golden aura, Malik and his men arrived to an extremely strange sight- although by that time, between having a trusted Master betray you and him succinctly enslaving the entire population of your village, Malik and his men had seen enough strange things to use the word sparingly- and this was strange.

Altaïr was staring at a projection of some sort that was emitted from the Apple that Al Mualim had so closely guarded. It was a large, spherical map. Yet how that could be possible, Malik had no idea, as it was not made of any solid material. It was translucent, and light golden mist seemed to settle around it as if it was sitting in the middle of a fog. The map seemed to be one of the world- but what of the masses to the west? Comparatively, the Holy Land was an ant under the sandal of a reckless, unthinking human. Could this be true? If it was, who resided there?

Brilliant gold lines shot through the illusion -if that's what it was- and continued through the sky, resting upon random surfaces. Marks dotted the map, showing the residence of unknown items. (As Malik later learned, the unknown items were other Pieces of Eden.)

As Malik watched Altaïr watch the Apple, a sense of unease overcame him. It was like a sense of want and need had fallen over him like a blanket made of the finest silk- light to the touch.

But what was this? Malik had no idea where these feelings was emitting from, or entering his awareness. Was it of touch, of sight, of smell, of sound? Could he taste it on his tongue? Was it in the air?

Why was he hearing hushed voices, cajoling him, caressing him with their saccharine pleas? They asked him to steal the Apple, hide it away from everyone, and only unleash it upon the world as a means to control, to be king.

"You will be everything you ever dreamed… Complete control…" They promised, drawing him in the way Medusa drew men in with her unearthly beauty, only to be turned to stone as they gazed upon what they thought they desired.

Malik forced himself to look away from the map, from the beauty and mystery it presented. He would not be turned to stone. He would not succumb to the honey-sweet persuasions this thing offered before him.

The whispered phrases were broken now, only coming in short bursts. Slowly, they died away. Malik sighed in relief, only to regain the breath he had just expended, as the voices started speaking again, and he gasped.

With horror, Malik registered the change in the voices. As he pulled farther away from the Apple, the voices became louder, screeching, shrieking at octaves high enough to make Malik stumble backwards. And it was only getting worse. They were all around him, cutting him, clawing at him. They were inside him now, tearing at his insides, his vital organs, his memories and dreams. Their screams were almost visible to the eye, a wall of sound, rushing at him as an unstoppable force, breaking upon impact, washing him in a fresh batch of cries. It was anger, at its purest, most uninhibited form. It was following no social boundaries, no tameness, no breeding. Only primal fury, unbridled and unrestrained. As the volume of the voices rose, Malik felt himself drop to his knees, tearing at his hair with his right hand. He was yelling at the voices, now. Screaming curses and banishing them from his sight. He couldn't hear himself shout, let alone think about what he was spewing to these vile creatures from the darkest depths of hell.

As the cacophony reached the widest point of the crescendo, the ultimate climax, and Malik was about at his breaking point, everything stopped. The silence was so sudden that the furious pounding of the pulsing of blood in his head was actually throbbing.

Malik sat in a dumbfounded stupor, breathing as if he had just run ceaselessly for hours on end. Ever so slowly, colour melted back into his wavering vision, and sounds -normal ones- invaded his silence. However, not-so-normal ones were making themselves known to him as well.

Screams reminiscent of those he had just experienced were floating up from the city. People were sobbing, shrieking, shouting, and making sounds Malik knew only to be indicative of one thing- death.

Immediately, Malik was on his feet, investigating his surroundings. Although he had been a dai for months, his finely tuned senses had not left him.

"What has happened?" Malik barked at his men, who were watching him with wide eyes.

"Malik… are you feeling feverish? Do you know where you are?"

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Malik realized that his men had seen his exchange with the Apple. They had heard him screaming, trying to rid his soul of invisible demons.

With shame, Malik saw in his mind what he looked like. A broken, insane individual. One who had seen too many dying, seen too many slaughtered and destroyed. His mind had merely snapped. No one could blame him, right? His brother was dead, his arm was gone, and his leader and idol had betrayed everyone. A lesser man than Malik would have succumbed to a similar fate much sooner. He was lucky to have lasted as long as he did. Breaking down at the sight of his dead master's body was merely the last he could tolerate.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

He was not insane. He was not delusional.

He had to convince his men of his sanity. The damage in Masyaf needed to be assessed, and Malik had no idea where the rest of the Assassins were. For all he knew, they were part of the screaming, tragedy-stricken mob below.

What if Al Mualim, while in control of almost the whole population of Masyaf's assassins, had forced them away from the city? Or, even worse, compelled them to die- by their own hand or another's.

Malik took a deep breath- and then asked the worst possible question he could have asked in his situation.

"Did not any of you feel it?"

Now, Malik's men were nervously sneaking glances at each other.

"…Feel what, Malik?" One asked hesitantly, with pity in his eyes.

Internally, Malik cursed himself for such an unthinking blunder. Of course they hadn't felt it. They weren't the ones rolling on the ground as if their insides were boiling.

Malik wiped sweat off his brow, and readied himself to stand up.

"Maybe you should rest, Malik."

"And maybe you should not speak unless spoken to," Malik snapped brusquely as he stood up shakily. He steadied himself quickly, the wide eyes of his soldiers not escaping his notice.

"We must help the people of Masyaf." Malik ordered. "We have a duty to protect this city, even after the threat has gone."

"Maybe we should seek help for you, Mali-"

"GO!" Malik interrupted the man who tried to speak. "Leave this place, now!"

And with Malik's fervid shout, the men took off with no further questions. Malik watched them go, and when the last tassel whipped around the corner, he immediately went to the body of Al Mualim.

Malik stared down at his previous Master, and felt a plethora of emotions fighting for dominance.

This was the man who had been like a father to him. This was the man who had taught him to wield a sword, to strike at an enemy with deadly precision. This was the man who was great and intelligent, and who all the assassins looked up to. He had gained the knowledge of the ages, had passed it on to a new generation. This was the man who had taught Malik that missing an arm was a mere technicality.

"The passing of information and enforcement of our laws are, and always will be, as important as the deed of killing itself. Never look down upon yourself, Malik. Handling your injury with pride and poise is what you have done, and I commend you for it."

This was the man who attempted to take over The Holy Land.

Al Mualim's words -comforting at the time- were now fading rapidly, becoming as inconsequential as a raindrop on the forehead, a caress of wind to ruffle the tassels of his robe, rendering Malik emotionless. After all, what was rain to a mighty assassin? A mere technicality.

As these thoughts ran through Malik's head involuntarily, another struck him. However, this one was jagged and sharp, not vague and detached. It tore his mind as it blazed through, looking for a safe place to remain. It made despair leak out of his eyes in torrents, dropping onto his Master's robe, staining them, staining him, staining the memories.

For, if what Al Mualim stood for was false, then what he said was rendered untrue, was it not? Malik was not like the others. He was a burden, a lowly dai with one arm. He was an abomination to the Brotherhood.

For so long, Malik had deluded himself into thinking that he was worth it. He had argued with himself for hours, as the darkness swallowed up the sky and the stars peeked meekly out of their hiding places among the cosmos. All the sunrise ever brought him was empty assurances and dark circles under his tired eyes.

With Al Mualim's seemingly biased preference and blessing, Malik was barely functioning. Without it, Malik's fragile façade was crumbling fast. He was standing in the middle of an earthquake, and his feet were cemented to the ground. Buildings that were laid in concrete and promises and assurances were tumbling to the earth, shattering on impact. Cracks were opening up in the ground, swallowing anything in their path. Malik could only stand and watch in horror as civilian after civilian, and building after building were brought to their demise. Suddenly, the sky plummeted to the earth, taking the sun, earth, moon, and stars with it. The hole was pulling everything in, a gravitational force that was unheard of.

At Malik's feet, a hurricane of bloody sunsets and pelting rain was melding into a vivid green field under a pounding gray sky full of thunder and lightning. Electricity was crackling in the air, jumping from cloud to cloud, person to person. Malik could see the life leave their bodies. The fear in their eyes, their souls, was quieted. Their heads lolled like that of a young girl's rag doll, their heart now just as lifeless.

As the rain pelted the field, a familiar figure appeared on the grass. The figure stared up at the angry, threatening clouds with trepidation. Wind whipped at his hood, until it finally blew off, leaving his face with no obstructions and no shadows.

Malik felt his eyes widen.

It was Kadar.

"Kadar!" Malik screamed into the deep pit, watching his brother frantically search for a way out of the storm.

When Malik screamed, however, no voice rang out. Malik had felt his voice strain, had felt the volume at which he had yelled. Yet, no voice escaped his throat.

"Kadar!" He mouthed again, trying to move, to run, to do something. His feet were like lead. He could not move.

"Kadar!" Malik mouthed yet again. A vein pulsed in his neck. Wind was playfully kissing his cheeks and making his robes sway. Kadar's wind was different. It howled now, making it hard for the assassin in the storm to walk. It screeched past him, making his robes billow like that sails on a sailboat. Malik could see tears running down his younger brother's face. Whether they be from the wind or fear, he would never know.

The bloody sunset was back. Against a backdrop of the enraged thunder clouds, the sun sent crimson rays onto the field, causing the rain to appear dark red. As the dark rain drops settled on Kadar's robe, Malik saw with horror that the rain was red. It stained his brother's robes, making him look like he had suffered a tremendously painful and treacherous injury.

The wind was screeching now, driving the rain like pellets at Kadar's unprotected head. He tried shielding his face, but Malik could see the rain fly into Kadar's open mouth. He watched his younger brother choke on the water, and struggle to catch his breath.

Malik was struggling against the invisible reins that held him to one spot. Sweat beads were glistening all over his face, and his teeth were gritted.

"Kadar!" He attempted to yell, to no avail. "Kadar!"

The wind was still playfully nibbling at his fingertips.

Meanwhile, the wind had changed direction in the storm over the field. Somehow, it was blowing upwards. With horror, Malik watched as Kadar struggled against the massively strong winds. He watched Kadar be slowly, slowly, picked up by the wind. He rose above the field, towards the clouds.

Malik knew what was coming. He could feel it to his very core. It taunted him, laughed in his face. He could do nothing about it. He tried screaming his brother's name, only to be met by silence.

Kadar was rising towards a space in between two clouds. He looked like he could keep going, keep ascending into a broken and askew sky. But Malik knew that was not the case. He watched as red tears leaked out of his brother's eyes. His robes were a deep red, as well, the rain having done its job perfectly.

As soon as Kadar was situated in between the two clouds, in the only quasi blue spot left, Malik felt the fight drain out of him. He stopped struggling, and watched as Kadar laid spread eagle in the air. He saw his brother's shocked face when the wind stopped carrying him, and then saw the anxiety replace the shock.

With an earth shattering crack, thunder leapt in between clouds. Kadar was in the way.

In the split second before the lightning struck him, Kadar's fearful eyes found Malik's tired ones.

With the red sunset behind him, Kadar cast a long shadow on the grass below him. He was illuminated for a brief moment, as electricity coursed through his veins, a bright white light against the gray and red of the cruel sunset. Rain continued to pour, and the wind continued to blow. As Kadar writhed in mid air, Malik felt his own tears leak out of his eyes, and didn't notice the red streaks they left on his face as he swept them away.

With a sick sizzling, the wind and rain stopped. For one second only, Kadar was suspended in mid-air, now just as lifeless as the citizens who were pulled into this pit.

He plummeted to the ground. With no noise that Malik could detect, he saw as red slowly took over the green of the grass around his brother's body.

The storm clouds dissipated and the thunder stopped. Not a sound was to be heard. The sunset remained, though. It cast Kadar in an eerie light, making him blurred around the edges. The now-crimson sky was all encompassing, with stars dotted just above the swollen red sun, ready to descend and cover everything in the blanket of night, hiding the monstrosities that lay just beneath it.

Malik could not hold it in any longer. Taking a great breath, Malik screamed his brother's name at the top of his lungs.

To his complete surprise, Malik's voice broke the smothering silence.

His voice could only be heard when no one was alive to listen.

Coming back to the real world, Malik found himself on the ground again. Moaning loudly into the dirt packed beneath his cheek, he was breathing heavily. Small, claw-like scratches were scattered across his skin from where rocks had scraped along the sides of his face. The dirt was now situated quite gratingly into his cuts, and where there wasn't blood, there were brown smudges from his close relationship with the ground in the past few minutes- except for the tear tracts. The salty water had cleared the mud away, and left the scratches stinging.

Shakily, Malik pushed himself into a sitting position. He wearily raised his head up; his natural instincts were taking over- making sure that there were no more "real" dangers lurking. With a gasp, he realized that he was right beside Al Mualim's body. He scampered back, his mind reiterating one command only. Get away from that body.

Gulping breaths of fresh air, Malik stared at his Master's body from a good distance away. Al Mualim's hand was still outstretched, as if he was still clutching the Apple and not at an empty space.

Malik felt his chest heaving, still affected by the strange vision of Kadar. Could that be Al Mualim's doing? Was it the Apple, still playing with his mind? Anxiously, Malik looked toward Altaïr, who was still standing exactly as he had been when Malik and his men first entered the courtyard. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him, except for the fact that he was as unresponsive as any inanimate object one could lay eyes on.

So why was Malik so susceptible to this infernal Apple? He eyed the golden orb, puzzled and afraid.

He was not strong like Altaïr. He was not as skilled, not as smart, not as good. He was weak. He was nothing but a fallen angel of death. His black wings had burned up, leaving him bruised and broken and stuck on this planet. No chance of ascension remained. Forced to live as a shadow of his previous self, skulking in the alleyways at night like some damned rat.

He was stuck in some sort of purgatory. Not allowed to be seen by day -after all, what one-armed assassin could fight off swarms of guards, or even keep his balance while leaping from rooftop to rooftop?- he had to live by the darkness. Yet what he had been striving for his whole life -the rank of Master Assassin- was lost somewhere in the recesses of Solomon's Temple, shrivelling up with every passing day that its potential was not put to use. Restricted to the darkness, yet bound by the rules of the light. It was a tough line to walk, and Malik was already unbalanced enough these days without having to look down every few seconds to make sure he wasn't a step away from plunging to a premature death.

Altaïr remained a statue as Malik considered his options. Altaïr didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, and Malik was not intending to go near the Apple or Al Mualim again. What was going on with Altaïr, Malik did not know. What he did know was that he needed to get down to Masyaf quickly and help out the other assassins with crowd control.

Hesitant to fall under the same, mysterious spell that Altaïr seemed to have fallen under, Malik decided it was in his best interests to leave Altaïr to himself. He had a duty to the citizens of Masyaf, and besides, Altaïr was a fighter. He would not need or want Malik's help with this- He was Altaïr, the Master Assassin who saved the Holy Land from the rule of Templars. Malik was probably more of a hindrance being here, anyways.

With his plan to leave thought out, -to leave the courtyard, anyways- Malik found himself hesitating. He urged his legs forward, trying to ignore the tentativeness of his steps. So swiftly that he hadn't even noticed, exhaustion had settled over him in a fine mist, coating the backs of his eyelids, tempting him to sleep at every blink of the eye. Gritting his teeth, Malik fought through the haze as best he could, feeling like he was submerged under water instead of atop easily accessible terrain.

With slow, shuffling steps, Malik eventually was at the opening to the courtyard. He shook out his legs, attempting to overcome the sudden lethargy that gripped him.

He stuck his arm out to brace himself against the stone wall, almost falling against it in his weariness. A weight was behind his eyes, getting heavier with each step he took. It overcame his limbs, knocking his feet out from under him. He slid to the floor where the stone met the earth, exhausted.

With a frustrated groan, Malik laid his head back against the wall, trying to gather his wits about him. He was panting heavily, and he hadn't even attempted to get up yet.

Just as Malik was going to attempt to stand up again, he felt a slight breeze against his cheek. But it wasn't just a summer wind's caress. This breeze carried something significant with it, something that weighed it down.

It carried his name.

"Malik," The element whispered to him, stroking his cheek. "Join me. Join us…" The voice was neither male nor female, high nor low. It was merely a means of communication- a way for Malik to understand.

The sudden onset of lethargy made sense now. Quickly, Malik realized that it wasn't just physical and emotional exhaustion that plagued him, but that God forsaken Apple. It didn't want him to leave. It was trying, in one last ditch attempt, to seduce him. To bring him to the golden isles of bliss, where, just under those pure waters were the souls of the damned, and just on the other side of the bluff were the fiery bowels of hell itself, waiting with sharpened teeth and claws. The flames licked at the sky greedily, turning it red, yellow and orange. It was always sunset, just past those bluffs. Hell's fire would never be extinguished, would never be sated. It would always be looking for more slaves, more ignorant fools who wandered in, looking for power and heaven. How ingenious it was, to disguise Hell as Heaven. To wear a façade of benevolence, when just under the surface, scratching and tearing and begging to come out, was malevolence itself.

No, Malik wasn't going to be taken in again. He wouldn't go back to the place where bloody sunsets and screaming tornadoes blended seamlessly. He wasn't going back to the place where the skies rained blood and the living had no voice.

If he had to crawl, he would make it out of here. If he had to drag himself with his one arm, he would.

That Apple would not take him. He was stronger than that. He had fought through losing his brother, losing his arm, losing his reason for living. He had lost the ability to be all he knew- an assassin. But that wasn't going to be the end of him. He was damned if it wasn't going to make him fight that much more, tooth and nail, to leave this place.

With a surge of adrenaline, Malik rolled into a crouching position, ready to stand.

Matching his mood, the wind blew again, but more violent- enough to blow his hood around his face, shielding his eyes.

"Do you feel that?" It whispered sweetly, breath hot in his ear. "Do you feel that power surging through your veins? The world could be yours. They will bow to you, to their master!"

Malik shut his eyes, trying to tune out the faceless voice, even as it grew in volume, passion marking its excited, deluded ramblings.

"Power is everything. A man with no gold can be the richest man in the world, if he has power. The man with the most gold can be nothing, if all he holds in his hands are coins. Coins are meaningless, until those who matter tell its worth, with their cunning smiles and dishonest eyes. The world is theirs to mould, theirs to control.

"It could all be your power."

Malik held his head in his hand as the wind continued to blow.

"Lies!" He screamed to the air. "All you tell is lies!"

"Never lies." The voice promised, the wind settling a bit. "'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' He who transcends this simplistic, mortal barrier is the one who holds true power. He is the one who permits. Your word, your world will be truth."

"I will be operating as a deity?" The words spilled out of Malik's mouth before he could stop them. He heard the awe in his own voice.

The voice took on an almost smug tone, as if it knew it had won. "You will be everything to everyone. They will do your bidding, obey your every wish. It will al be yours." The air had gone completely still now.

Malik felt himself succumb to visions of his perfect world, himself rising above the rubble to govern, to be the leader of all.

"I…" Malik was about to ask another question, when his eyes fell on Altaïr, still staring into the depths of the Apple's mysteries.

Like a switch, his perspective flipped. How could he have been so ludicrous? How, for even a second, had he let himself entertain ridiculous fantasies about ruling the world, when he had just seen first hand the damage that the Apple was capable of? Was he really that weak? That influential?

"Never," Malik said aloud, staking his claim.

Summoning up all of his inner strength, Malik sprung to his feet and tore into the fortress. He heard a scream of fury behind him, disguised as a raging gust of wind. He felt the claws of the Apple start to enter his mind, attacking his thought process and rational decision making. They tore through his conscious and sub conscious mind, screaming through his most personal moments, his most private memories.

The sharp talons of the Apple were digging tightly into him, almost physically pulling him backwards. However, adrenaline was on Malik's side as it drove him down the steps to the foyer. He felt the grip on his mind weaken, and just as he passed through the doorway into the front courtyard, the Apple mustered up one more attack, one more assault on his mind and body. A blast ripped its way through his limbs, sending him flying through the air. He hardly had time to gasp before he landed with a thud on the packed soil of the front courtyard, rolling, falling, and tripping over his extremities before finally being brought to a stop by a stone wall.

For many minutes, Malik lay in a crumpled heap, unmoving. He tried to keep as still as possible, silently hoping that he was safe from the Apple for the time being.

Eventually, he stretched himself slowly out, wincing as he felt a slash filled with dirt across his forehead. Fortunately, he hadn't broken any bones, though his wrist was quite purple and swollen.

With a groan, he sat up and, bracing himself against the wall, finally stood. With his natural physical durability and years of training, Malik was used to extreme amounts of stress on his body, and therefore, was ready to fight through the pain, if not for him, then at least for the people he owed it to- the citizens, Altaïr, and his men.

Bleeding, bruised, and beaten, Malik left one war to enter another.

He wondered if he could get lucky twice.


A/N: Woo! That was fun, wasn't it?

Yes, It is from Malik's POV. I decided we should visit him for a while. Turns out, it was a bit of a mistake, considering he has such MAJOR self esteem issues. He doesn't have nearly enough tissues. (Did they even have tissues back then?) Altair better have a sense of humour up his sleeve, or it's going to be one helluva angsty, emo-assassin story. Yikes.

So, just to clear up a continuity issue: I would like to reiterate that I am making this up as I go along. Plot lines are chillaxing in my head, but they are safe in there. They're the cool kids of my brain. If I let them out into the real world, the sun will shine on them and show them for the underdeveloped children they really are.
Okay, enough with the dumb metaphor.
I know that Malik told Altair last chapter that the Apple didn't affect him. That would mean the Malik was *gasp* lying! Now, why on earth would he do that?

One more thing: This Apple is obviously not cannon.

Hope you enjoyed! :)
PS: Malik will never eat an apple again after this- ever. :P