This was actually a kinkmeme prompt... one of the AC guys goes back to somewhere and finds everyone/someone gone due to a Middle Ages trolling.
Missing
Jerusalem was maddeningly hot on this particular day, Altair thought as he stood off to the far side of the busy marketplace. He hung in the retreating shadow of a nearby merchant's stall, close enough to soak up some measure of coolness from the shade. He had been there for several hours now. Soon, the middle of the day would be gone and it would be less miserable to run across Jerusalem's rooftops- less chance of collapsing of heat stroke, in any case.
Altair shifted and clasped his hands behind him. Malik would never let him live it down if he fell into the bureau in such a state. True, they were something-like-friends-but-not-quite-maybe, but Malik was never afraid to laugh at the young Grand Master for any small mistake.
Altair puffed out a deep sigh, narrowing his eyes at the beggars that edged a little closer to him. Some eyed the pouches on his belt-ha! Like they would pickpocket him so easily. Altair straightened and scowled, somehow perfecting a severe countenance even with his clothes wet with sweat and rumpled from uncomfortable shifting. The beggars moved off to find easier pickings, and Altair slouched against the wall. The hot stone burned his back and he jumped back to attention once more.
He was truly beginning to hate Jerusalem.
Altair scanned a lazy eye over the bustling marketplace as he let his thoughts wander. Normally the Grand Master did not travel, but Altair had no intention of mimicking Al Mualim and locking himself away in Masyaf's grand citadel. He was still young and itched to explore, to travel, to climb, and to leap with a faith inspired not by God or Allah or what-have-you, but by something more primal and-
Altair took another step to the left, falling back into the shadow. The merchant at the stall eyed him nervously, but said nothing.
In any case, Altair had had no choice but to come to Jerusalem. He had been trading letters with Malik since the man had returned to his bureau after the battle at Masyaf nearly four months ago. At first, it was just asking for advice (which Malik gave readily and at great, sarcastic length), but as his stress began to build up and the paperwork made less and less sense, Altair requested Malik to return to Masyaf as his second-in-command. When Altair realized that Al Mualim had had his fingers in the assassin's treasury and the taxes from the village were not as they ought to be, his request turned to outright begging.
Malik, in Malik-fashion of course, had denied the request. Altair supposed he could order Malik to his side, but he did not wish to damage their fragile maybe-friendship. Altair continued begging, and Malik's last letter had told him that if Altair asked one more time, Malik would no longer write to him.
Altair hadn't believed him. Malik was a rafiq, he was obligated to write the Grand Master. Altair pleaded again in his following letter.
Malik didn't write back. So he was bluffing, Altair had assumed, and had written again. And then again, and again, over the course of a month. Malik never responded.
And so Altair, having left Masyaf in Rauf's well-intentioned-but-probably-not-qualified hands, was in Jerusalem.
Altair peered through the weave of his cowl, seeing a group of guards standing nearby. None were facing him, so he leaned forward, then ducked down the alley adjacent from him. He was not followed, and as the sounds of the market died away, he found a stack of old crates to climb up on. A leap to a bar, delicately balanced for just a second, and then he jumped to the rooftop.
He had hoped that, with the lowering of the sun, it would be cooler above the city, but in reality it was no less miserable than a few hours before. The stones radiated heat and the wind was gone that day, leaving the air dry and stagnant. It settled in his lungs like dust.
Altair sighed and shook away his discomfort. He had wasted enough time waiting around. With an easy-going pace, he moved from rooftop to rooftop, ducking down when he saw archers patrolling. The heat had probably made them apathetic to his presence, however, because he was certain one had seen him but hadn't even bothered to string an arrow.
Altair breathed a sigh of relief as the familiar rooftop of the bureau came into sight. He could strangle Malik for not writing later- first he was going to dunk his head in the fountain to cool off, dignity be damned.
As Altair approached the bureau, however, he noticed something distinctly...off.
The entrance was shut. It was the middle of the day, when assassins would be moving in and out of the bureau, and Malik had the entrance shut. Altair leapt from the neighboring building to the lattice, feeling it rattle loudly beneath his feet. There came no irritated reprimand from the dark entrance of the bureau, and Altair could see through the lattice that there were no rugs or pillows out in the garden. The potted plants were gone, and most disturbing of all, Altair could not smell the familiar sandalwood incense Malik constantly burned.
"I'm being ridiculous," Altair breathed to himself, moving to the hatch. It was locked, so Altair took out his pick and set to work. "He is probably out cleaning the rugs."
In little time at all, Altair had sprung the lock. He dropped down into the eerily-silent bureau, making sure to land with a significant thud. Nothing was said, so he turned to the fountain behind him. The bubbling, trickling water was the only sound in the bureau, and it was hardly comforting. Quickly, Altair splashed his face with water and refilled the water pouch on his hip, then moved to the doorway.
He froze dead in his tracks.
The reception of the bureau was empty. Breath hitched, Altair took in every single detail- or lack thereof, in any case. All of Malik's books were missing, his maps on the walls were gone, and all his cartography supplies were gone. A circle outlined by dust indicated where Malik's incense burner had been sitting. Even his shatranj board in the corner was gone; the cushions where they had both sat last time he was in Jerusalem, plotting de Sable's death, had been snatched from their spots.
Altair gaped openly. Oh no. Oh no. Malik had not replied to his messages for a full month. What if he had been taken by Templars? Him and every bit of information the bureau contained? A chord of panic thrummed through his body and he lurched forward, pushing open the small gate that separated Malik's personal quarters from the rest of the bureau. On his way over he froze- a crate lay overturned behind the counter, books spilling out all over the floor.
Altair threw open the curtain. Malik's quarters were as bare and silent as the rest of the bureau. The old scmitar that hung on the far wall that Altair sometimes caught glimpse of from the reception room was gone, leaving a curved mark where there was no dust. The wooden platform where his sleeping rugs would have laid was still there, but there was no sign of his other bed things.
Altair looked back at the books scattered on the ground. There was no dust on their covers, so it couldn't have been a whole month since this happened. Maybe they hadn't gotten far... maybe...
Altair straightened with a snap and went back out to the garden. Malik would never allow himself to be captured without a fight, and the smell of blood was one that Altair knew too well. He could smell none here, so he quickly splashed more water on his face and scaled the wall.
He would go to the emergency bureau. If Malik had heard even the slightest whisper that the regular bureau had been compromised, he might have packed everything up and switched locations. With this encouraging thought in mind, Altair tore full-tilt across the rooftops, no longer concerned about heatstroke. He drank huge gulps of water from his pouch as he ran.
He paid the archers no mind, and they returned the favor- in the intense heat of this day, they were as interested in a rooftop chase as he was.
After almost an hour- in which he had drained his pouch completely- Altair reached the emergency bureau. It too was silent, and the fountain inside was dry as a bone. Altair tried the hatch and swore when it turned out to be locked. Not only was it locked, but the hinges were so badly rusted from disuse that Altair knew in his gut that nobody was inside. Despite this, he picked the lock and threw the hatch open. The hinges squealed in protest, but Altair ignored them as he fell into the small garden and practically ran into the bureau.
Empty, and so full of dust that he sneezed and had to back out. Altair retreated to the fountain and crouched down in the shade it gave off, trying to think clearly. His skin was practically burning, prickling with dried sweat.
It couldn't have been a whole month since this had happened. He would have heard something from someone. Clearly, Malik had not changed locations, for he would have sent a message- irritated at Altair or not, this was an Order matter and not a part of a petty argument. He had to have been dragged off by Templars (an ambush in his sleep probably. That was the only way they could have gotten Malik without blood being spilled) and recently too. There was no new dust cover in the regular buruea.
Altair rested his now-pounding head in his hands. He stared at a deep crack running along the bowl of the fountain, tracing it with his eyes as he rationalized to himself. If Malik had been captured in the past fewdays, he would have heard talk in the marketplace. Try as the guards might, gossip moved quickly through the city. The recent capture of one assassin and their bureau would have resulted in far more attention being paid to him while he had lounged in the market and moved idly across the rooftops.
Nothing made sense. Altair stood up, then scaled the wall once more. He would go back to the regular bureau and look for more clues. He would look at the only things seemingly left in the bureau: the crate of books behind the counter. Maybe there was something mixed in there that would point him to what had happened...
With that, Altair began to run once more across the rooftops. He was out of water, having foolishly drunken it all down, and soon his head was practically buzzing from the heat. His muscles protested under his own weight and soon, his throat and mouth were dry as sand, his tongue feeling slightly too big for his mouth. Altair ignored these warning symptons, not slowing for even a second.
By the time he made it to the bureau, Altair was almost stumbling over his own feet. He tumbled through the hatch he had left open earlier. He made good on his mental promise earlier and dunked his entire head into the cold water, relishing the feel of it against his burning skin. He was probably an ugly shade of pink from suburn now.
Altair dragged himself out of the water, gasping. His shoulders heaved with the effort of catching his breath, and his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost didn't hear the soft voice coming from the inner bureau.
"Aha-!" the voice said in triumph, and Altair froze, becoming as still as death. "...I knew that was not all the crates..."
And then Altair was all motion- not his usual, graceful strides, but a halting, stilted stumble. He went to the doorway, squinting through the dark bureau at the hunched over figure behind the counter.
"...Malik...?"
Malik shot up straight from behind the counter, a book in his hand and a bewildered expression on his face. Relief flooded through Altair, followed by confusion as Malik rounded the counter and moved towards him.
"Altair, what are you doing here? Why are you not in Masyaf?"
"...You're here-!" Altair waved his arms around to idicate the bureau. Malik eyed him unsurely.
"...Yes. Yes I am."
Altair pointed out the bureau again, aware in a distant sort of way that he probably looked like a flailing madman. It was difficult to get across his point when his head felt stuffed with cotton and the buzzing in his ears had intensified.
"Here..." Altair pointed to the bookshelves. "Empty."
"Yes, they are..." Malik said slowly, "...Altair, are you ill?"
Altair answered that by letting his eyes roll up in his head and crumpling to the ground. The last thing he saw were Malik's approaching feet before darkness crashed in.
"Altair."
Altair groaned, then sputtered indignantly when water was splashed over his face. He opened his eyes- Malik had dragged him into the reception area of the bureau and was leaning over him with his water pouch.
Which he then promptly splashed onto Altair's face again when the man didn't say anything. Altair coughed and sat up all the way. Malik splashed him again, this time with a bit of vindictiveness. Altair pushed the pouch away from him.
"Alright, alright," he growled, "...How long have I been...out?"
"You mean how long it's been since you fainted?" Malik asked, smirking, and Altair scowled at him. Malik answered "Only a few minutes. I had no intention of letting you laze around all day; my cart is waiting outside the city and I only came back to pick up this crate that was left."
"...Cart?" Altair said slowly, blinking at Malik. "...Where are you going? The emergency bureau was empty..."
Malik flicked him an amused look.
"Is that what you were doing, running around in this heat?" he asked, "You're a ridiculous man."
"You haven't written in a whole month," Altair growled back, finding his bearings as he slowly crawled up to his feet. He took the water pouch from Malik, and the other man went back around the counter, stooping to pick up the fallen books. Altair's legs felt like jelly and his joints like lead. "...Why haven't you written? Where are you going?"
"Honestly, Altair, do you ever think?" Malik looked up, somehow managing to look down his nose at Altair even as he was hunched over on the ground. "I told you in my last letter that if you begged me to return to Masyaf once more, I would stop writing you."
"Yes, but-" Altair floundered, not sure what point Malik was trying to make. Malik sighed loudly as he stacked his gathered books on the counter, then reached down and picked up the crate.
"Think, Altair. You are normally not this stupid," Malik dropped the crate on the counter and leaned forward a little. The smirk on his face was nearly unbearable for Altair to look at. "If I am in Masyaf, there is no need for me to write to you."
Silence, then it slowly dawned on Altair.
"You're..."
"...Going to Masyaf, yes."
"...Right..."
"Now. Yes. Very good, Altair," Malik stacked the books into the crate. "...It has taken me the month to find a suitable replacement here in the bureau. Although if I had known you were this frantic-"
"I was not frantic," Altair rumbled dangerously. Unaffected, Malik just snickered at him.
"Very well, Altair, you were not frantic. You were beside yourself with worry. Is that better?" Malik cut him off before he could deny that too, "...But in any case, I suppose it is well enough that you were so consumed with concern over my well being that you came. You carry this to the cart."
Malik patted the crate. Altair frowned a little at being ordered around, but slowly stepped up and took the crate. He followed closely on Malik's heels as they went out the door into the street outside.
"Was that really your thought process?" he asked, "...Your decision to come to Masyaf was reached through my requests?"
"...Yes and no," Malik admitted, "But then I woke up this morning to this ungodly heat and decided that if this is just the first day of summer, I would much rather be in Masyaf anyways."
Altair nodded as he followed Malik down the street, kicking up dust that settled in the hot air. He silently agreed that Masyaf was far more pleasant.
"And you will have to find your own horse."
"Yes, Malik."
"You're not riding in the cart. It's my cart. I'm riding in the cart."
"Yes, Malik."
..aaaaaand rest.
