A thousand apologies my readers D: There cannot be any excuses for my absence... (Yet I'm going to give one ;) With my writings, its got to be perfect. That, or nearly. And since OARW was my first, (forgive the analogy) virgin story, AND has such awesome reviews, it HAS TO BE PERFECT! I WILL EXPECT NOTHING LESS D: but lately, I've not had that -HEY! HEY! HEY YOU! YES, YOU! YEAH! GO WRITE OARW! YES, NOW, WHADDYA THINK I MEANT, NEXT WEEK? NOW, YA LAZY PROCRASTINATOR!- voice in my head-( yes, I DO get that voice, or something like it.. My imagination kicking my brain in the face and telling me to stop watching here comes honey boo boo and go do something PRODUCTIVE. (That show FREAKS ME OUT.) so... If this chapter seems not as well written as the others, OOC or stuff, I apologize again... Its being written without a burst of inspiration to fuel it. Please, READ and REVIEW!

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Altaïr paced along the wall, clenching and unclenching his fist, working the muscles in his injured arm and side. He would need to keep the tendons moving, so that they knitted properly. He remembered nothing during his fever, only that he had lost to the Raven, and she had spared his life. His wounds had become infected however, and it was only by the skills of the informers that he managed to keep his arm at all. Altaïr resolved to be more compassionate in his dealings with them in future missions. He gazed out at the courtyard below, where the bloodstains were still visible, black smears against the ground. He clenched his fist again, this time in anger.

I lost.

His blind hunger for vengeance nearly killed him. She toyed with him as easily as a cat plays with a mouse before it kills and devours it, and had he been any slower, he too would be nothing but a corpse on the ground; an irremovable stain on the stones of his home. Altaïr gritted his teeth as the muscles in his side and arm protested the abuse, but didn't loosen up.

Ravena.

The demoness had a name. Somehow it humanized her, made her seem more vulnerable. He would use that against her. She couldn't be invincible; she bled, just like he did. And with a name...

"Ravena. Ravena, Ravena...Ravena."

Altaïr tested the name, gingerly picking at it and examining it thoroughly like an unfamiliar weapon, or a piece of unsavoury fruit. It was easy to pronounce, but Altaïr frowned as he committed it to memory. Giving the Raven a name gave her a soul- a lost, twisted, tortured soul, but a soul nonetheless. And Altaïr did not want to equate that monster who killed in cold blood and then returned to bathe herself in the blood of the warm with anything that could be redeemed in the afterlife...

"Altaïr!"

He glanced up. An informer was beckoning him. Altaïr sighed.

Bedtime...

Slowly he walked back to the sick hall, feeling like he was willingly imprisoning himself, and slid back into his bed. The informer bustled around, like an overprotective mother bird, tending to his bandages and washing down his forehead to ensure the fever did not return. With the majority of his wounds closed and mending the informers were positive that Altaïr would heal up without any complications— that was if he refrained from running, and jumping, and climbing ridiculously tall buildings and then leaping off the same buildings into not-so-soft beds of hay—basically everything he was itching to do again, he was not allowed to do.

Altaïr fidgeted in his bed. "How much longer?"

He croaked, his voice rough from being unused. The informer just sighed, rolled his eyes when his back was turned, and thanked Allah his shift was nearly over. "Two more weeks. Then you can go back to work." Altair let out a growl of frustration. Two weeks! Two weeks of mindlessly staring at the ceiling, counting the fruit flies that buzzed around his food, then counting the ones he caught and killed... He would go mad by then... "Is it possible you miscounted? Maybe its only a week and a half. Or one week. Or—"

The informer sighed again, this time in irritation, and turned to face his charge, cutting him off mid babble. "You will be able to return to work in two weeks. No more, no less. We did not miscount. If we did, it would only be detrimental to your recovery, and you would be bedridden for longer." The assassin only glared at the ceiling. "I'm so bored." As the informer gathered his belongings, he shook his head. "Use that as time to think, Altaïr. This is a blessing in disguise. Your mind is just too clouded by anger to see it yet."

Altaïr childishly mimicked the informer as he left, then flopped back onto the pillows. If only he could have killed that Ravena. He wouldn't be lying in bed like a dead fish, that was for sure!

Altaïr growled again and closed his eyes, remembering.

The Raven stood over him like a wolf to its kill. Victorious. He expected at any moment to feel the biting sting of her sword, or the liquid flame-kiss across his throat from those damned claws. But she just stood there, breathing, relishing. And then, he heard, as if in a dream, her voice. "This Assassin will live to fight another day!" She wasn't going to take his life after all?

She stood over him, her black hair whipping in the wind, appearing as a demon or god to his wavering, blurred vision. He tried to call to the vicious creature of both light and darkness, as it turned away but his voice stuck in his throat and all he could manage was a harsh rasp. "Wait..."

She returned, her hood up, now safely concealing most of her features. "You should rest." In his exhausted state, she seemed almost tender. "Wounds from these..." She passed her bloody claws before his face once again, and stifled a laugh as his eyes tried to follow them. At least... He thought she did..And then he winced as she tapped his shoulder. "Won't heal unless you get plenty of rest."

He again struggled with his thick tongue. "Why... Why did you let me live..?" He saw her pause and turn again, looking small and unsure. Or that was his imagination again? But the expression that passed over her face when he tried to check her true intentions was not in his imaginations. All the hate and callous anger, the cunning and cruelty and the shells that she had built up around herself stripped away, and her eyes glowed, almost involuntarily. He took advantage of her momentary weakness. "You could have killed me. Why.. Why didn't you?"

Almost instantaneously, he watched her reform her shields, watched her yellow eyes dull and darken, and the mask reappear. "I didn't feel like it." He tried moving, and it sent sharp claws of agony up his side, arm and chest. "When I'm recovered, I'm going to hunt you down and kill you." A mocking smirk crept up one side of her flawless face. "I'm surprised you haven't said this sooner. Vengeance. Darkness quite becomes you, Altaïr." She stood. "I suppose I'm supposed to be afraid, but, well I never was one for archetypes." She grinned. "I look forwards to our next meeting... petit aigle."

And she walked away, the last thing he saw before falling unconscious.

Altaïr opened his eyes. It was all so strange. She could have killed him, but she didn't. And now, because of that..

He was conflicted.

She had a soul. It was twisted. It was bruised and ragged and blackened by hardship and experience, but it was there. He had seen it.

Altaïr shook his head at his thoughts.

Stupid conscience... What does it matter? She's a monster and a demon, a linear, thief and a murderess...

But she let you live.

Altaïr gritted his teeth in frustration and anger. Two weeks couldn't come soon enough...

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I apologize again for the inadequate excuse of this chapter.. have had no inspiration lately, nothing to fuel my plot bunnies- a term I fell in love with. I will write more.. But I don't know. I'm losing OARW to that demon known as disinterest. I don't know where the story is supposed to go, and that bothers me.

BUT I WILL PERSERVERE UNTIL THE LAST WORD IS WRUNG FROM MY SOUL!

... A little dramatic, but it gets the point across.. As always, REVIEW PLEASE!