The Apple

Everyone knew what it was.

They all called it "training," when the grandmaster Altair took his two sons to the training ring in front of the keep. The two boys would chase their father and visa versa, he would lift the children up into the air and then lower them in a controlled "Leap of Faith," they would swat at him with wooden swords that he would easily dodge, and the three of them would laugh, endlessly.

Everyone called it "training," but they all knew what it really was.

It was "playing."

Malik watched from above, leaning against the wooden safety rail in front of the keep as his best friend chased his sons around the training ring. The grandmaster never abused his privileges, always asking the aging Rauf when the ring was free before bringing his sons out. Sometimes Maria would join them, but over the years the niche she had carved out for herself in the Order demanded more and more of her time as the brothers realized how essential she had become. Besides, she had confessed once to Malik when they watched, she had her own games with her boys, it was only fair that Altair had his.

"Altair!" he called, waving his arm, his fist wrapped around several scrolls.

The master assassin paused, his youngest son Sef hanging upside down in his arms while the older Darim tried to crawl up his father. "Yes?" he answered.

Malik waved the scrolls again. "Accounts," he said, "Halim wants you to go over it, 'just in case.' "

"Will he ever learn to stop coming to me?" the grandmaster asked rhetorically. Malik only shrugged his shoulders. Darim wrapped an arm around Altair's face and started to tug. "I'll be there soon," he said, Sef suddenly squealing and reaching over to tickle his father.

"I will wait," Malik said to himself, leaning further onto the rail briefly before hopping up onto the wood and wrapping his legs around the fence. In truth, there wasn't much need to bother the grandmaster; it could have been left on his desk in the upper study and it would have been looked over. But Malik liked watching Altair play; it was something the man had never done as a child - driven to be the best he could be, surging ahead of the other novices and determined to outshine everyone. Seeing him like this, it relaxed a corner of Malik's mind as he realized Altair was as human as anyone else.

Sometimes, even the one armed assassin forgot.

"What is he thinking?" a voice muttered beside him, and Malik turned to see Abbas, leaning on the rail and glaring down at the training ring as Altair's sons at last managed to tackle him to the ground.

Malik grinned slightly, watching the display. "I don't think he's thinking much of anything, right now," he said.

Abbas shook his head. "He is making a mockery of Rauf's hard work." The snarl was low, deep in his throat, and Malik pulled his focus away from the grandmaster and to the other assassin. His fists were tightly wrapped around the wood, his arms taught, and his mouth pressed a dark frown into his even darker beard. Anger defined his every feature.

"I fear you read too much into this," Malik said, hoping to help the angered man, "He would never mock Rauf, he is just being close to his family."

Abbas shook his head. "He disregards everything the Order stands for. We are nothing more than his pawns, to move about as he wishes."

"That is not true," Malik said gently. "He asks of us no more than he himself would give."

"His spits at tradition!"

Malik to a deep, silent breathe through his nose. "Life is as fluid as a river; its course can change in an instant because of a storm or a dry season. Traditions root us to our heritage, but it should not chain us to the past. Altair's thoughts on children are sound, the Order should grow up loving everyone, not just the brotherhood."

Abbas at last ripped his gaze away from the topic of their conversation, turning hard eyes onto the one armed man. "How can you support him as you do?" he demanded, his voice low and careful not to carry. "He killed your brother. He took your arm."

A small, wistful smile crossed Malik's face. "No," he said. "That man down there, the one 'training' his children, the one who discovered Al Mualim's treachery, the one who leads the Order, that man did not kill Kadar. The man he was, the arrogant one with a swelled head who did not understand the Creed, he killed Kadar and robbed me of my arm. This Altair defeated him, slowly, silently, in his months of disgrace."

The other assassin scoffed, snorting and turning away.

"He is a liar and a traitor. He does not deserve this."

Malik could only frown. He remembered Altair and Abbas being thick as thieves in childhood. The two had been inseparable when Abbas' father disappeared. Two years later, though, there had been a vicious fight that all the novices had watched - there had been curses that twelve-year-old Malik had never heard before, and after Al Mualim had finally stepped in the two almost never spoke to each other again. It was then that Malik hit his growth spurt and was finally able to compete with the other boy. Altair never talked about what had happened with Abbas, and the other assassin hadn't either.

"What did he do that hurt you so deeply?"

Abbas's face twisted into something dark and ugly, and his shoulders began to shake slightly.

"Ah, Abbas, what can I do for you?"

Both men turned to see Altair standing behind them. The younger Sef was draped across his chest, half asleep and smiling, and the older Darim was hugging his thigh, eyeing the adults.

"... Nothing," the assassin hissed. As an afterthought, he added, "Master."

Altair, still smiling, shifted Sef's weight and nodded, turning to Malik. "Halim's report?"

The scrolls lay forgotten in his fist, and he quickly handed them over. "His awe of you continues unhindered."

Altair smirked slightly, reaching down to pat Darim on the head. "I have spoken to him over and over, he cannot let it go. I look forward to when he becomes dai of Jerusalem."

"Yes," Malik said, grinning slightly. Halim had been a student under Malik during his time in Jerusalem, the boy was capable and skilled - more than he realized - but was utterly reverent of Altair and his skill. Now he was a remarkable assassin and spy, working in Masyaf to polish his intellectual training to make him ready to make the rank of rafiq. "Then he can spread his awe to the apprentices you assign him."

Altair visibly winced. In stark contrast to the man who had killed Malik's brother and brought shame to the Order, this Altair hated outright admiration and fawning. "I will look over it," he said in his soft tenor. Sef nuzzled into his neck. "After I've settled these two," he added, tugging at Darim and turning in towards the keep. He paused for a moment, looking back at Abbas and Malik. "Also, I'd like a senior meeting in two days time. Can it be arranged?"

"Yes," Malik said slowly, frowning.

Abbas demanded, "Why?"

"I had an idea."

"Oh, no," Malik groaned, rubbing his face. "Another one?" he demanded theatrically, his hand finding his hip.

Altair smirked. "One you might actually like," he said, reaching down to take Darim's hand and lead him into the keep.


Two days later, as the senior assassins gathered in the lower library, Malik could already hear the moaning and groaning, mutters that another thunderbolt was going to descend upon them as the mighty grandmaster had another 'idea.' Odds were being run on what tradition was going to be rearranged, there were still bitter fights about the use of poison - even Malik had spoken out against it - and later in private he had explained that the Order was not ready for that big a leap. Together they had worked out a series of stealth assassinations, from the air or from various hide spots. That, too, had taken some cajoling, but ultimately Altair bluntly asked if they would rather use poison, and the other assassins capitulated. That Altair was still considering suggesting poison later, after they had time to get used to work by stealth, and was even thinking about incorporating it to the hidden blade, made the one armed man dread the next time it was brought up. Privately, Malik hoped Altair's next idea wouldn't be quite so controversial.

Maria came in before Altair, an odd occurrence, and Malik immediately sought her out. She was fuming.

"It's a stupid idea and I hope you all vote against it," she hissed before he could even open his mouth.

Maria actually disagreed with Altair? About running the Order? Just what was he going to suggest?

He had little time to ask, however, as the grandmaster himself came in and everyone took their seats in the circle of chairs, Maria to Altair's left and Malik to his right.

"I understand that my ideas are different," Altair said slowly once everyone was settled. Rauf and the scholar Yazan smirked, Abbas out and out snorted. "I rely on all of you to tell me when I overstep my bounds and guide me when I make my decisions. Knowing how the last few meetings have gone, I hope this idea will be better received."

A few small chuckles.

Altair leaned back in his chair, a hand instinctively reaching out for Maria, who stoutly ignored it. Malik eyed the circle and saw several of the senior assassins note the divide, their faces becoming much more intent with the information they just received.

"Where is the Assassyun Order most centrally located?"

Everyone frowned. "Here, in Masyaf," Rauf answered, the aging sword instructor shifting his weight.

"Where is the Templar Order most centrally located?"

"Cyprus," Nazim, senior informant, said.

"Where else?"

"Rome."

"Where else?"

"France."

"England."

Altair nodded. "There are at least four major centers for the Templars, and only one for Masyaf. They fight to enslave the entire world, and we only protect the Holy Land. We keep it safe, but the rest of Europe and Asia and Africa are at risk of being taken over by them. Then, too, there is the fact that they are less likely in the last few years to announce their presence. Finding them has become much harder - not because they are not here - but because they do not wear armor and red crosses. If things continue as they are, we would be overwhelmed by their forces if they made another direct assault on the Holy Land."

Several people shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, remembering when Masyaf had been attacked by Templars before - had managed to make it all the way to the keep and capture Al Mualim before Altair rode in and inspired everyone to take back their home.

"You've given this a lot of thought," the chief scholar Yazan said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "What is your idea?"

"Expand our borders."

"Impossible," Abbas said. "Our Order is too small, we cannot risk spreading ourselves as thin as you suggest."

"Fair enough," Altair said, conceding the point. "Let me reword: Expand our influence."

Silence befell the room.

Malik was immediately beset with math in his head. Abbas was right that the Order was small, at best they could muster ten thousand men if they called in everyone from the outlying Bureaus - numbers had always been their greatest disadvantage. Even with men as gifted as Altair or young Halim or Malik himself, who could fight and do the work of two or three people, still could not make up to the exuberant difference in forces. Communication was also a factor, even with carrier pigeons it took upwards of two weeks for word to get out to the farthest-reaching Bureaus they had. The chain of command would be an issue, too, and how could they finance...? Malik's head started to swim at the prospect.

Others, too, were sharing his opinion.

"How do you expect to pay for this?" Nazim asked. "We break even every year as it is, it would be irresponsible to tax the village more, we have their goodwill to think about as well as how they would feed themselves, and we don't have nearly enough men to do what you're asking. We couldn't even take over one city, not without bringing down the wrath of Salah ad-Din's sons or alerting the Templars of our motives."

"We belong here," Abbas said, his eyes hard and disapproving. "Our home is here, our lives are here. Even the brothers assigned to other cities know that their home is here, we can't expect them to go gallivanting off to the farthest reaches of the Mediterranean and assault a city. That's suicide!"

"How do we communicate? Coordinate? It would take months to plan an attack, how much autonomy can the Bureau afford to have without become independent of us? We couldn't trust them if they didn't do as we say."

Altair smiled at that comment and looked at Malik before answering.

"What I am suggesting is this: we send someone, an envoy, a diplomat, someone who best represents the Order and its ideals, and we send him out to the designated city and create - not a Bureau - but an entire branch of the brotherhood as we have here in Masyaf. I am not suggesting we act like soldiers; you are all right that we do not have the manpower for such an action. I am suggesting, however, that we act like assassyun. We help local citizens, we perform favors, we ingratiate ourselves to the people, and then we recruit brothers and sisters to the Order. We teach them how to be assassyun, we show them how to run the branch we are creating, and we let them do it. They will then have complete autonomy to do what is necessary to keep the Templars at bay, and they have us and the other branches to fall back on if they fall into trouble."

Everyone stared.

Abbas was, of course, the first to speak. "We can't leave them independent! How could we trust them?"

The grandmaster looked to Malik again, the smirk crossing his scarred mouth briefly before answering. "A friend once told me some five years ago that a wise leader allows his men to do their jobs, to trust them to make the right decisions. It is arrogant to think that only we know what is best for the Order; Al Mualim thought that, and we all saw what his desire for lack of autonomy lead to."

"Then why do you never listen to us?" Abbas demanded. "You started this meeting asking for our opinions but you are still going to do whatever you want regardless of what we say! In spite of what we say!"

"No, Abbas," Altair said, his face serious. "Not regardless. I take everything you and the others say very seriously, none of my decisions are made arbitrarily or lightly. You all have trusted me to do what I think is necessary, the same way I trust all of you to do what is right. We are brothers; we share in every victory and success, as we do with every failure or disappointment. We are as one."

The chief village guard clamped his mouth shut and looked away, working his jaw.

"There is logic in what you say," Rauf said, trying to veer back on track. "I am not against the plan, but I want more details on how it would be carried out. Who would be sent as our representative?"

"It would have to be someone who embodies our Creed," Altair said.

"Then perhaps I should be the one to go," Abbas sneered, "since I know our traditions the best."

"No," Nazim said, deep in thought. "We would need a modern man for this, someone that children and teens would want to follow. If we're creating entire branches, we want to be able to recruit young."

"We should not limit ourselves to just the young," Yazan said, his old bones creaking in his chair, "even men of middling years can be convinced of our ideals, and while their training would be limited, it would give us the administration necessary to leave to the next city - we don't want someone spending ten years there just to train the novices."

"The Bureau, if we can still call it that, would have to be much bigger than even the one in Jerusalem," another senior assassin said. "A place for the brothers there to hide."

"We can still keep the hierarchy," another said, "If we reduce reports to quarterly, perhaps, or make some kind of uniform series of questions to answer, something standardized: Templar presence, political overview, that sort of thing. We could also link to other guilds to pool resources, putting less of a strain on us..."

Several such conversations began to erupt around the circle, and Malik glanced at Altair, who was grinning. The grandmaster looked at him and leaned over. "I was afraid they would dislike this."

"It would seem that even a novice like you can manage to be articulate when you put your mind to it," Malik replied with a smirk.

Maria was still huffing. "We all know who's going to volunteer for this," she mumbled, crossing her arms and sinking into her chair. "And they are all going to agree, damn them. It's a terrible idea, a bloody terrible idea."


Malik stood above Acre's port, frowning severely. He looked down from his perch, watching ships come in and the passengers disembarking. Playing at his feet, content to spy the crowds and guess a random citizen's purpose were Altair's sons, Darim and Sef. Occasionally Darim would ask if the two could practice their climbing and Malik would watch them as they went to a lower roof and raced to see who could reach Malik's solitary form first.

It was the only distraction he had as he waited.

Night was approaching and Malik called the boys to him, getting ready to return to the Bureau. Jabal had long since retired, no longer able to perform his duties as age had started to rob him of his mind.

"It's time to head back," he said, eyeing the haystack below them. He'd had it set up when he arrived in Acre, as practice for Darim and Sef.

Sef nodded, an eager smile of a boy still in childhood spread across his face. Darim, however, was looking out to the harbor with such intent concentration that Malik, for a brief moment, saw Altair within the nine-year-old's face.

Malik looked to the harbor, wondering what had caught the child's interest, and immediately saw what.

Or rather, who.

From the deck of a ship, staring at their exact position; was Altair.

Returned at last.

"Father!" Darim shouted joyfully and Sef echoed, though he couldn't spot the grandmaster in the crowd as his brother had.

Both turned to Malik and he gave the soft smile that only they ever saw and nodded. He jumped to the haystack first and watched like a hawk as Sef, then Darim, followed. From there they entered a hatch and descended through the building, giving a small nod to the owner who supported the Assassins.

They reached the dock quickly, but had to wait almost an hour as the crew set anchor and mooring lines, passengers crowding the deck with luggage waiting impatiently to embark. Darim and Sef waited with remarkable patience for their age. Malik, however, was growing quite impatient. Altair's latest journey to open up branches in the other cities had lasted longer than anticipated and, from various reports, had not been going well.

The Christians had been gearing up for another Crusade, intent on taking Jerusalem yet again, starting this time from Egypt and working their way north. Lack of money and demands of payment from the Venetians, however, made the Crusaders decide to attack one of the city's enemies, Zara. This eventually diverted further to assisting the Byzantine prince Alexios Angelos take the emperor's throne from his father's successor at Constantinople. While the Holy Land breathed a sigh of relief, the Assassins all held their breath, knowing Altair was there trying to set up another branch. Reports had become conflicted and scattered for the last year, but eventually Malik and the others had learned of the siege, the repeated attacks, and the three-day sacking of the city. Rumor (yet unconfirmed) was that it was a disaster worse than what the atrocities that had occurred in Acre a dozen years previous, when Crusaders slaughtered Saracen prisoners and Salah ad-Din retaliated by doing the same. Altair had sent no word for almost a year; Abbas had suggested they all assume him dead and hold a conclave to assign a new head. This was resolutely denied by not only Malik but all the other senior assassins, no one wanted to admit that their beloved grandmaster was dead just yet, the idiot was still in his prime and Malik knew the man would be damned before he died without securing at least Maria's welfare.

The steady stream of passengers and luggage finally started to dwindle as the sun finally set. At last, at the top of the plank, Altair and Maria stood, side by side.

And to Malik's shock and horror, Maria helped her husband down to the dock.

Altair limped, an arm around his wife for support, and his pallor was almost ghostly it was so pale. He appeared to have lost weight and Maria bore lines of worry around her mouth that only eased when she saw Malik and her sons.

"Malik," the grandmaster greeted quietly.

Malik said nothing, only moved to help Maria shoulder Altair's diminished weight.

The boys were tugging at their father's coattails, sensing the need to remain quiet. Together, they all helped Altair within the city walls until they found a secluded bench for Altair to rest on.

Altair was sweating and silently catching his breath.

With a severe frown at the clearly idiotic novice before him, Malik knelt down to Altair's eldest.

"Darim," he said seriously, putting his hand on the nine-year-old's shoulder. "Do you remember how to get back to the rafiq from here?"

The boy nodded, his face once more in fierce concentration that so mimicked Altair.

"Good. Go and talk to the rafiq. Tell him we need a horse and small wagon for your father."

Darim nodded again. "And a doctor?" he asked.

"No," Altair replied. "I merely tire easily. I have already been treated."

Malik's frown increased in severity and Maria matched him.

Altair glared right back at them both, his eyes as stubborn as theirs, before he let out a quiet sigh, wiping the sweat from his brow. "If you think it best," he said to Darim.

The eldest looked at his father with intense focus, then to Malik and his mother. He nodded and then ran off.

Sef glanced between the adults before joining his parents and climbing onto Maria's lap.

"It was a disaster," Maria said, clutching the seven-year old even while one hand continued to hold her husband's. "The Crusaders ransacked churches and monasteries alike, they raped everyone and everything in sight, burned entire districts to the ground. Worse, Pope Innocent - damnable name, the wretch - accepted the stolen goods with open arms and gladly let slide the fact that they attacked fellow Christians. He didn't even excommunicate any of them like he threatened."

Sef looked up "Ex-what?" he asked.

Maria looked to her child. "It's the worse thing that can happen to a Christian," she said softly, "It's when Paradise is denied to them because of their sins."

"But Paradise can only be made by people," Sef said, frowning. The seven-year-old looked to his father. "...Right?"

"Not all believe that, Sef," Altair said, grinning softly through his exhaustion. He reached out and ran a four-fingered hand through his boy's hair. "We must respect their beliefs, even when we do not agree with it." Something made him wince, and he leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath.

"Were many lost?" Malik asked softly, taking a seat next to the grandmaster.

"Too many to count," Altair replied, his face hidden by his hood. "It was a massacre. Worse, the Byzantines were so embittered by their Catholic cousins that the new emperor, Mourtzouphlos, became a Templar. I am certain he has already indoctrinated his successors."

Malik groaned at the very thought. Constantinople was such a key city, a crossroads of the worlds! Like Jerusalem it held Christians - both Eastern and Western - and Muslims all in one city in harmony, is was the junction of Europe and Asia, and now it was under Templar leadership. He sighed, knowing Altair had already had these thoughts and was likely cursing himself for it. He glanced at his best friend and could just see the man's eyes closed, the dark circles under them pronounced. He looked at Maria and she shook her head, even she did not know everything that happened in the city, but she knew it was bad as she once more looked to her husband.

"He tried to talk to the Venetians," she said softly, "To appeal to not to attack Christian cousins. He took part in the fighting, I was trying to get all the allies we made to safety. That was when the sacking started."

And he had been caught in the middle of it, bound by the Creed to protect the innocent and determined to prevent loss of life. No wonder he looked so terrible. Malik rubbed his face, knowing the next several weeks would be very difficult. Major setbacks hit Altair harder than most - he took them personally as he never had in his youth, and always he tried to understand what he could have done differently, how he could have known more. Malik suspected this would also lead to another long bout of studying the cursed Apple, and he never relished those times. If anything, they made Altair worse for it.

It was full dark by the time Darim arrived. Two journeymen worked a horseless cart and were quick to help Malik and Maria hoist the exhausted Altair onto it. The journeymen exchanged more than a few worried looks, and they all made quick time to the Bureau, the new rafiq having already summoned a doctor. Altair recovered for a full week, much to his unceasing annoyance; but even he could not fight off all the angry adults, and when Darim proclaimed that he was just as worried as the others the grandmaster was forced to capitulate.

By the time they finally arrived in Masyaf his color was a little better, but his weight was still an issue as were the bags under his eyes. Maria and Malik took turns watching as he slept, nightmares making his rest hardly restful. Often he would wake up with a small gasp, almost fever-bright eyes darting around and assessing where he was before seeing their faces and relaxing. The report to the senior assassins was clinical and detailed, Altair's voice flat and soft. He dismissed the meeting almost immediately, and Malik shared a tense look with Maria before taking off after him.

"Altair!" he said, his footsteps light and rushed as he caught up to him.

"I am tired, Malik," the grandmaster said.

"Not tired enough that you're not going to look at that damned artifact," Malik accused.

Altair stopped, turning slightly, before resuming his pace. "I am sorry to drag you into this."

"Don't be sorry about doing me an honor," Malik berated, "Be sorry you were going to consult that stupid thing without me. How can I kill you if I don't know you're studying it?"

"I... As you wish," Altair conceded.

Together they walked through the narrow corridors and up an even narrower staircase to one of the parapets, where a small table and one of Altair's many journals lay open and ready. He had been planning this, Malik realized, had wanted to do it as soon as the disaster in Constantinople had happened. He sighed.

A week later he was still consulting the Piece of Eden. He had lost even more weight; Malik had to kick the artifact away from him in order to get him to come down to eat, and even then it was thin soup or millet, sometimes just a few cups of water, before he was back again. Malik passed word to the apprentices and novices about the change in locale. Various senior assassins paid their dues, expressing their concern and offering worried glances to their grandmaster.

Maria was, of course, a frequent visitor.

"Why can't I be here?" she demanded, irate. "What makes you so special when I'm his wife?"

"Please," Malik said, "It is private."

"He's my husband, I have every right to be here! Why are only you given the 'privilege'?"

The dai gave a deep, weary sigh, tired of the days spent watching his best friend. Slowly, he explained the promise: When Altair had begun studying the Apple, the artifact had nearly consumed him, driving him to a delirious fever and nearly killing Malik. Over time Altair had asked, cautiously, if the one-armed dai would watch over him when he examined the Apple, asking him to kill him if he showed any sign of betraying the Order. It was the greatest right - the right to chose how one died and by whom - the highest honor and the greatest show of trust. "It is also," he added, "extremely personal."

Her round face softened, slightly, and she looked at Malik with different eyes. "He trusts you with everything, doesn't he?"

He turned to the reticent grandmaster. "Not everything. He tells no one of what he sees in that thing. Sometimes he finishes with a look of awe, but most times he comes back with a look of horror. It speaks of the past and of the future, and it seems both are terrible."

"Does it speak of us? What will become of us?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"If it does, he does not ask it. He would rather make the decisions himself; he was never one for following anything resembling the Divine."

"And yet he studies that."

"Because it is not Divine," Malik explained, "It is a tool, nothing more, and he thinks that if he studies it enough he will understand what its purpose is, and if he understands what its purpose is, he can either use it or put it away for those who can."

Maria frowned. "He used it once before, on Cyprus."

"Yes," Malik nodded, "And he hated himself for a long time afterward. No one's will should ever be controlled like that, and he hated that he could find no other way to stop the imminent bloodshed. I think that was why he decided not to keep it there, in the Archive at Limassol."

"... I wonder when he'll ever realize that he's just as human as the rest of us, and that he doesn't have to hold himself up to such high standards."

"... I don't know."

Maria sat with Malik after that, the two growing close in their shared worry for a man they both admired and respected.

It was some days later that Abbas came up looking for the grandmaster. Maria had left reluctantly to look after the children, agreeing to give Malik a break that afternoon.

"You mean to tell me he is still with the Apple?" he demanded furious at the idea. "He hoards its secrets and manipulates all of us with his tightly held knowledge. Such corruption should not be allowed to run the Order!"

"He has not been corrupted yet," Malik said, frustrated and too worried to pretend to like this man. "Speak like that again without cause and I'll cut your tongue out."

The chief village guard growled. "You're just as possessed as he is."

Malik was perfectly willing to start a fight at that point, but a startled gasp behind him took the entirety of his attention, and he spun around to see Altair drop the Apple to the table, the silver curse rolling and dropping harmlessly to the floor. The grandmaster clutched his hands to his face, sinking forward and gasping.

"Altair!" Malik was by his side in an instant, his hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"... Malik..." the grandmaster gasped, dazed eyes peaking up at him from under the hood. "How long...?"

"Eleven days. We've been very worried about you."

"What did you see?" Abbas asked, his anger forgotten and an odd, almost hungry look on his face.

Shaking hands lowered and a haunted Altair gazed up, eyes unfocused. "... perversion... jihad..."

"A 'struggle'? ... Another Crusade?" Abbas demanded, suddenly intent, leaning forward and pressing his palms against the table. "Those Christians are going to attack us again?"

"... no... yes... no..." Altair whispered, shaking his head and struggling to regain his focus. He reached up and touched Malik's hand, somehow surprised to see it there. The dai could only squeeze and reinforce the sensation. "Two great pillars, architectural miracles piercing the heavens... they fell. Thousands died. The fire... the screaming... the smoke... the destruction... it was catastrophic, worse than any I've witnessed before. I..."

At last his eyes snapped to focus. His eyes locked onto Malik, gripping his friend's hand with sudden fierceness, and his mouth snapped closed. He turned to look at Abbas, pale and drawn. "I do not know what I saw," he said softly. Honestly. "I do not know what it means. It matters not, regardless, for it will not affect there here and now." He closed his eyes. "It will not affect the here and now. It is not here," he whispered, more to himself than the other two men in the room.

"Well," Malik said, trying to sound gruff and utterly failing. "I think that's enough for now, don't you agree? You've hardly eaten and the paperwork has been piling up. I'll have to work you twice as hard now just to catch you up on what's been happening for the last year."

"... Not yet," Altair said, reaching up to rub his eyes. "I think... I want to see my sons."

Malik could not begrudge him that.


Author's Notes: Ah... the Apple...

Though it's not stated overtly, Altair hints in a Codex page in AC2 that he witnessed the WTC attack on 9/11, and this was an hommage to that. Since those attacks the word jihad has filtered into American vocabulary, often translated to "holy war." In our research for this chapter we were surprised to learn that this is NOT the correc translation. According to wikipedia, jihad is most literally translated as "struggle," and its meaning is that a person of the Muslim faith does something to make his community better in some way, like volunteer work or helping a neighbor. We thought the irony of Abbas making the connection to the Crusades (a "holy war") would help define his character more. We also made Altair - a little unclearly but he did just witness mass slaughter - point out that the word jihad had been perverted in his vision. See? You're even educated when you read this fic!

Speaking of education, there's also a small blurb of research for the Fourth Crusade; Altair did try to set up a branch there when the Crusade started, and it seemed like the perfect time for him to be upset enough to consult the Apple. It's also a chance to show that Maria, who also suffers wanderlust, will on occasion go with him, leaving the godfather in charge of the kids, as is his duty, right, and privilege.

We also start to see Darim's personality, but there's more on him in later chapters.

Abbas gets a little time, too. He's hard to pin down, because he spends thirty years towing the line, and Altair nor Malik suspected a thing, so any argument he had (and we imaging he was always arguing) had to be perceived as logical, even reasonable or pragmatic, and lost in the voices of all the OTHER dissenters. Altair couldn't have been very poplar in the beginning; we imagine he probably did too much too fast, and Malik was left smoothing things over whenever that happened. I mean, poison? That can't have gone over well...

Extra Note: A very astute reviewer asked why Altair was so affected by the 9-11 attacked when he effectively just witness the sacking of Constantinople and all the burning, raping, and pillaging that occurred. We had that same debate, and while we could be lazy and say "The Codex says so!" our logic was this: The Apple's abilities are never fully explained, so we wondered just how Altair witnessed the attacks. Theoretically, it's possible that he could have witnessed it not as an individual, but as an entire world.

Er, let us explain that. Back in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries when Altair was alive, communication was about as fast as sea-winds or horses. It took days to weeks to months for word of the sacking of Constantinople to spread, and the concept of a "sacking of a city" would be pretty abstract because the people who hear it had, in all probability, never traveled there; didn't know what it looked like, didn't know anybody, etc. The further away from the city the news traveled, the less meaning it had. Similarly, the reason for the sacking of the city was very apparent: the Crusaders needed money to pay off the Venetians for all their ships and armaments so they could have their Crusade. The motives were obvious. Fast forward 800 years, however, and the speed at which information travels is measured in nanoseconds. There are photographs, videos, blogs, news channels, etc. So when the WTC was attacked, it wasn't just experienced by the people who live in NYC, it was experience by the entire world. Newspapers around the world printed it as their top story, people watched the news footage as it was happening, wondering what it all meant and what it was all about. Nobody knew why it had happened until later.

In that light, imagine Altair experiencing the sacking of Constantinople as a single individual. Perhaps tens of thousands died, fire rape and pillaging, and all he had to experience it was what he himself saw. Imagine, now, the Apple showing him 9-11 and showing him what the world saw, imagine the Apple making him feel what the world felt - with the added confusion of Altair not understanding how the whole world could witness it of even that he was experiencing "the world" instead of "the individual." We imagine that would be terrifying - and by that logic we imagine it was worse than living through the destruction wrought on Constantinople.

Any rate, next up are the kids.