AN: Can you tell I was afraid to write the actual fight scene? They spend so much time arguing I think the Crusades ended. Also, random aside, but I love—really—how the fandom has blithely decided that Kadar was young and adorable when he died, game graphics be damned. All the fanart makes him look sixteen and that's…

That's so tragic. Kadar nooo.

With this chapter starts the last arc for the first part. Not that the fic is being put on hiatus or is anywhere near finished! Speaking of words, the last chunk of text here is actually a half-thought-out fantard rant regarding canon backstory vs head-canon backstory. Ignore it by all means.


Rules for Revenge

The wind gusting past is chilly, and the hay makes for a rough landing. But the beauty of a perfect leap is worth the minor discomforts.

Some weeks after Malik's visit to the prostitute Nura, he stands on the roof of one of Masyaf's sagging buildings and bends slightly at the knees. A good distance below him is a cart filled and forgotten with rotting hay, sitting in a little square divided by an old stone wall. This house was built right against the mountain, and is never fully out of shadow as a result, so there's nothing in the way of trees or grass. Only the hay gives some color to the grey of the little hidden courtyard—the hay, and the flash of red-on-white as Malik leaps for the cart.

He's gotten good at leaps of faith, enjoys practicing, enjoys the rush and the precision. Altair, for all his trickery, gets impatient with any move he can't instantly master, but for Malik half the fun of training is in picking apart every bad detail. It's because of this that he's learned how to perform his dives so much quicker than the rest of the assassins his age: again and again he climbs the old buildings, fingers catching at windowsills and pockmarked plaster until the tips are sore and bleeding. Again and again he plummets downwards at just the right angle, facing his landing, braced for the split second of pain as he hits a surface not meant to be struck head-on. But the pain is nothing, is part of the point.

An assassin easily dazed is an assassin easily killed. The Creed requires many things from its followers, but it does not demand long lives.

Today is a day sunk into a grey haze, and most of Masyaf is indoors. The market is quiet and the benches empty. This is a good day for leaps of faith, because usually when Malik jumps, he pops up for air only to find a crowd of curious farmers and merchants watching.

("It defeats the whole point if they see you," Altair scoffed once, and dived so cleanly the cart didn't creak when he landed. Malik, in a fit of pique, jumped too soon after, before the other boy had a chance to climb out. He landed practically on top of Altair, and it was only the relatively small distance that saved the embarrassing collision from turning into something bloody. As it was Malik found himself so tangled with a furious Altair that for a minute he couldn't separate his limbs.

For a minute they lay there, sprawled out in the hay cart, chest to chest. Malik almost commented on the sudden ache in his gut, but before he could Altair was swearing and smacking at him. "Get off. Get up, Malik."

"Sorry," he mumbled, and pulled himself free.)

But today there aren't any crowds to worry about, and when he surfaces from the hay it's to nothing but a loose piece of wood banging somewhere in the wind. High above comes the shrill cry of an eagle, one of many which nest in the surrounding mountains. Malik is used to them and to the way the Brotherhood finds so much imagery in birds of prey; still, he had to roll his eyes the first time he heard Al Mualim refer to Altair as the 'fledgling eagle of Masyaf'. Please.

He pulls himself out of the cart and bends to brush himself off. A shadow falls across his feet but he assumes it's from all the fog. It's only when the shadow darkens into human shape that he looks up and sees Altair.

"You have hay in your hair."

Malik reaches up and feels a piece of straw sticking between the dark strands. He pulls it out and lets it waft to the ground. "What is it? Come to mock my jumps again?"

But for once Altair doesn't rise to the challenge, his gaze measured and even. "We need to talk," he says.

"So." Malik shrugs one shoulder. "Talk."

"Not here. Somewhere more private."

"Altair, there's no one here."

"There are always assassins lurking around. There are a few guarding the main road right now, and the wind will bring them every word."

"Are you planning to betray the Brotherhood? What does it matter if they hear what you say?"

"Just come with me," the other boy insists. "I'll explain when we're alone."

Malik sighs. Typical Altair: everything with him has to be of such importance. He still won't talk about his adventure at the brothel, still treats it as if it were some mission to struggle through. And he hasn't gone back in the weeks since, either. Then again, neither has Malik; he leaves that up to Rauf, who goes once a week at least and has lost practically the whole bottom of his face to the beard he thinks adds maturity. Malik still hasn't figured out what, exactly, his own body was trying to tell him in Nura's embrace—though it was an enjoyable lesson, something about it felt off. He'll have to wait until his body 'wakes up', as Nura put it, or else there's something really messed up with him and he'll just have to avoid brothels forever. He wouldn't be the first assassin not to marry, for whatever reason.

(If there's something wrong with him, it's not inborn. Kadar has not only been asking Rauf detailed questions on what to try when, he's started a list.)

"Well? Are you going to come with me or not?"

"Calm down, will you?" Malik rubs at the back of the head again, considering. There's still straw stuck in his hair and thanks to all the climbing he's done his tunic is clinging to his chest with sweat, despite the cool weather. "I need to go wash off anyway. Let's go to the river, no one will be there in this weather. It'll be nice and private for you."

"Tamaam," says Altair, though his dour tone suggests he doesn't find the choice perfect at all. Malik ignores him and begins to walk.

Though Al Masyaf sits far above the river, there's a small path down the craggy side of the mountain that goes all the way down, ending at a narrow strip of rocky beach. The path is steep, the haphazard steps barely big enough for a footfall and worn smooth from innumerable years of use. Thanks to the height, the fog, the water below, the stone stairs are wet and slippery even on hot days, even when there hasn't been rain for weeks. Because of this, and because the start of the path is a crevice in the mountain across from the gates into the fortress, no one save for assassins ever uses it. Most villagers aren't aware it exists, and those who do know avoid it for fear of falling: one misstep would lead to a long fall, a failed leap of faith with a messy ending.

Malik is sure of his footing as he scrambles down the long climb only because he by now possesses the assassin's slinking poise. Treacherous as the path may be, his gait is steady and quick. Behind him, Altair follows without a trace of fear. They reach the little beach, water brushing at its edge, and if Altair is struck the same at being surrounded so, he doesn't say.

Probably only Malik notices how silly they are, scrawny figures hidden between canyon walls. The river could swallow them whole if it chose. The mountains could collapse and crush them both. It strikes him now as it has not struck him since his hungry, wandering days: the world around them is unaffected and unconcerned, by their deaths and lives and what suffering occurs between the two.

Altair doesn't look as though he notices any of this. Unlike Malik, he's always been so sure of his strength to mold the world around him. He's more taken to great heights, because from high above he can stretch wide his arms and pretend to own it all. Malik doesn't trust height quite as much, for all that he sometimes seeks it out. He doesn't trust himself not to fall.

He's still sweating, the cool air not enough to counter the strenuous climb down, and without much thought he strips himself down to leggings only, leaving his tunic and sash in a pile with his boots. His sword and daggers (six of them now, because he's shown such skill—throwing knives seems natural to him, seems a deadlier extension of the rocks Kadar used to collect) he leaves in their own pile, farther away from water's edge. Altair watches him undress, silent, arms folded. When Malik glances at him he pulls back behind the cowl, hiding his eyes.

The water is cool, but it feels nice against his flushed skin. He splashes in, and almost instantly his feet lose the ground. A few months ago an older assassin, who'd lived in the port city of Acre as a child, had shown him how to swim; Malik ducks under, not used to submerging so totally yet, and then pops up into an ungainly sort of backfloat with his limbs flailing about. He thinks of his swimming tutor, who'd rounded up some of the novices out of boredom one hot day in between assignments. As Nasr ducked Raed and Rauf dragged his half-drowned self from the bottom of the lake while swearing never to leave dry earth again, the assassin spoke to the A-Sayf brothers of home.

His family, he said while treading water easily, had fled Acre during one of the Crusader Army's many attempts to wrest it from the controlling Saracens, and though the blockade was later broken they chose to stay in Masyaf. "Acre," he said, "has hardly seen a day of peace in twenty years, it careens from siege to siege while the armies take turns at destruction. There was a busy market there once…merchants from all over. But the market was in pieces by the time I was born. We'd bury our dead and the infidels would dig them back up to desecrate the graves." He sighed. "But we did the same to their dead, too."

He described Acre as it exists today: a miserable place, always fog-drenched, always cold. A couple years ago the Crusaders had broken in—Malik remembers the excited novice-chatter of the world at war and what it meant for them. Later, though, most of the city was retaken by Muslim forces, in a drawn-out and bloody battle that left thousands dead. The assassin bureau survived only because there were enough assassins there to scare off the various rioting mobs. What of the city was left fell into the hands of a group of Saracen generals no less murderous or corrupt than their Christian counterparts had been. Probably the Crusaders will march in again before the year is out.

So, the assassin said, Acre is a fallen city. The once-crowded souk has been abandoned for years. The port has seen so many blockades there are hardly any boats left, though the Crusaders are eager to change that should they conquer it for good. Nothing is rebuilt to last: mosques are torn down and replaced with churches, which are burned down in turn, so that spires and minarets crumble into one another and the molding stone decays. The great cathedral in the center square, a distant relic of calmer times when the city could harbor multiple religions in relative peace, has lost one of its heavy spires. The poor districts are horrors, filthy and rat-ridden, a stinking mash of drunks and beggars and lepers with weeping sores. The last time the Crusaders came through, they brought with them half a thousand civilians as if to further claim the land; now there are Christians and Muslims trapped together in the wreck, killing each other when the armies aren't around to do it first.

There had been Christians living there before the wars, Christians and even some Jews, surviving quite happily in a majority-Muslim city. But by now those original Christians are long gone, or else long dead. Most of the original Muslims are as well, and there are hardly any Jews left in that whole section of coast. The English citizens following the Crusaders in have no memory of what Acre was, and no desire to be neighbors with heretics. The Muslims following the Saracens feel exactly the same. And so there are Christmas riots, and Eid riots: men preach hate in front of the great cathedral, garbage blocks the streets and befouls the wells, bodies are left to fester in the grime.

Acre, the port city…another place Al Mualim's Brotherhood has been unable to protect. Malik knew better than to ask if the assassin from Acre ever planned on returning home.

He bobs in the water now, looking up at the overcast sky. The river's current is mild this close to the shore, though further out it would overpower his feeble attempts at escape. Altair, still on land with his arms folded, prods at the water with one foot and frowns when it darkens the leather of his boot.

Malik calls, "Are you going to come in?"

"Of course not. Come out so we can talk."

"I can hear you fine from here." He does splash a bit closer, though, to the edge of the drop-off, his feet just barely touching bottom. "So what is it already? What's this great secret of yours?"

The other boy regards him without speaking. Malik's less-than-serious tone is obviously not suiting Altair's need to be taken as seriously as can be.

"Shoofi mafi? What's wrong with you now?"

Finally Altair says, "We're sixteen, we're journeymen, and I can disarm assassins twice my age."

"Lovely."

"And you're fast with those throwing knives. I've seen you use them. You don't even have to look at your target before you aim."

"Altair, what is your point?"

"The Master should send us out on a mission," says Altair. "We're more than ready. More than willing."

Malik frowns, pushing away from the drop-off to go back to treading water. "I would agree with you. But Al Mualim is the one who decides when we're ready."

"I know that. And I trust his judgment. But he's been busy lately, and there are a lot of novices. We need to prove ourselves to him."

"Which we'll do when he sends us out."

Altair bursts out, "But we could be of use to him now!" He leans forwards, speaking rapidly, hands gesturing his excitement, still careful to keep his feet from getting wet. "I've spoken with him recently. I've seen the stresses he carries. And no wonder, when most of his Order is useless. We're not useless. And if we help him now we'll…"

"We'll what?" asks Malik. "Receive his praise?" You're too strong to humble yourself, Brother. You of all people shouldn't have to trick the Master into giving you what you've already earned.

"I'm tired of polishing weapons for others to use. I know you are as well." Altair's eyes glint beneath the cowl. He hisses, "Why should I leave the fighting to the others, when I am so much better?"

"As much as it hurts me to admit this, you're right. But what does it matter? We can't control Al Mualim's decisions. We don't get to decide when to make our first kills. Look, maybe he has a reason. We're good at practice-fighting but who knows what it's really like? Killing a Templar must be harder than talking about killing one."

Altair looks at him again. Malik begins to think his words have actually broken through his friend's dense skull. All this moaning of missions and misuse is pointless. They can't send themselves out on assignment, after all.

Then Altair says in a calculating voice, "I know why they killed Dai Faraj."

The effect is instant. Malik stiffens, his open hands hitting the surface of the water with twin smacks that leave his palms stinging. "Shut up. I don't want to talk about that."

But Altair is insistent. "Al Mualim asked for me the other day. He likes me to watch his interactions with the other leaders since I'll probably be his successor," he says, and because it's Altair speaking it's arrogant but not a lie. "I heard what he said to the new leader of the Jerusalem bureau. The mission your Dai was on, it…"

Malik smacks at the water again. "I don't care! I don't care what he was doing, because he didn't do it and he died."

"Oh, stop sulking." And Malik is so taken aback he has no retort on his tongue. "What good will your anger do alone? Instead of being useless you could put that anger to good use."

"And how should I do that? Since you are apparently all-knowing, maybe you could explain."

"I heard them talking," Altair says again. "Faraj went to deal with a traitor but also to see what that traitor knew. He'd been befriending Templars, important ones, and learning their secrets as he went. The Master wanted Faraj to see what the Templars knew about…"

"About what?"

"I don't-…they were vague on that."

"They were vague," Malik mimics. "You don't know, you mean."

Altair snaps, "There was a list. I don't know what it consisted of, the Master didn't say. But he did say that he thought the Templars had it, and he thought the traitor might be able to say where they were keeping it. Whatever the list consists of doesn't matter. It's important for Al Mualim that we assassins have it back."

"So?" Malik looks down at his body, distorted and rippling beneath the water. "Did they have it? Did the traitor know where it was?"

"Yes. Dai Faraj was able to send word of its location. He would have gone to steal it himself but he was discovered before he could."

"Discovered? He was stabbed."

"Yes." Altair's face is impassive. As ever the Son of None avoids the emotion of personal ties. "He was killed. The list remains in Templar hands."

"How sad. What do you suppose is on this mythical list? Names of people to execute? Of villages to burn down? Perhaps the Templars simply want to keep track of what to buy at market!"

Malik rants a bit longer, using all the sarcasm he has, but it's hard to maintain the bile in the face of Altair's passive unconcern. Eventually, worn out, he pulls himself out of the water and sits dripping on shore, knees drawn to his chest. "I don't care why they killed Dai Faraj. He's dead. And Al Mualim has done nothing about it that I can see."

"Exactly."

"Exactly what? Stop talking in circles."

Altair kneels down beside him. "Malik, I know where the list is. The new bureau leader told Al Mualim as much while I was there. It's in an army encampment, just a few days ride from here if you take the right trails. We could steal it and return to Masyaf before anyone knew we were gone—less than three days' hard riding. Imagine how awed even the Master would be. How grateful. Imagine the honor…"

"You're mad." Malik gives a tight shake of his head. "We can't go on a mission without orders. Even Master Assassins have to wait for permission."

"It won't be difficult. You and I can handle this on our own."

"That's not the point! We can't just go sauntering around making up our own rules. That goes against the Creed and you know it."

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

'"And who are you that you should decide the fates of your Brothers? Only the Grandmaster has proven himself worthy.' Have you forgotten? They make you memorize that practically the first day."

"We aren't deciding the fates of the others. We're avenging the fates that have already befallen them."

"There's no difference. The Master would call it treason. He'd kick us out from the Order, unless he decided to kill us for traitors instead."

"Not when he sees we accomplished what grown men failed to do. When he sees we did what even a Dai couldn't, he'll be proud."

"If Dai Faraj couldn't steal this list, you can't," Malik says coldly. "He was far wiser than you."

Altair, still kneeling, leans forward and grabs him by the shoulders. He stiffens but doesn't pull away as the older boy lowers his voice, eyes alight. There's a taut eagerness in his position, in the way his fingers dig into Malik's bare skin, in the rare smile stretching his mouth.

He's enjoying this. Malik suppresses a small shiver and blames it on the breeze.

"We can do this," says Altair. "We can find that list and the Master will be impressed, not angry. Not when he sees how we've proven ourselves to him. How could he call us traitors? True assassins are so eager to assist they strike whenever they see the chance. Think of it, Malik. Think of how astonished your brother would be."

"Like you care what Kadar thinks." Malik tilts his head away from Altair's closeness, away from the hot breath spilling out across his face. He is suddenly very aware of the lack of distance between them, and the lack of clothing he's wearing.

"I don't. You do. Kadar would be so relieved to know how skilled you are. How capable you are of protecting him." There's nowhere else for Malik to go when Altair leans even closer in, their faces mere inches apart. Without meaning to, without wanting to, Malik lets his eyes meet Altair's: he rarely gets this chance to see them directly and he almost flinches back from the burning intensity in them now. They aren't the eyes of a sixteen year old assassin-in-training—they're the eyes of someone older, something meaner, the eyes of a vulture scavenging for carrion with outstretched and filthy wings.

"These Templars are the ones who killed Faraj," Altair says. "This is our chance to kill them. You can avenge your Dai, Malik. You can seek revenge for what you've lost."

There is, Malik A-Sayf knows, a rule in the Creed against seeking revenge. But there is also a fresh grave in which Dai Faraj's body rots. There is also a scarred spit of land, once a village, where the bodies were burned into too fine an ash for any graves at all. There's a little brother who can't remember what his parents looked like but has nightmares of their faces anyway. There's energy spiking through his naked flesh where Altair is holding him, staring at him with those feverish eyes.

There is a rule against seeking revenge. But Malik is angry, and because he is angry he agrees to Altair's plan.

-i-

They creep out from the fortress two nights later: the three of them, Malik and Altair and Kadar bringing up the rear. Altair had protested against telling Kadar at all, had complained that the younger A-Sayf's chatty mouth would ruin everything before it began, but on this Malik was firm. He wasn't about to lie to his brother regarding his whereabouts. Besides, telling someone else was unavoidable.

"Kadar's the lookout," he said. "Someone has to be able to cover for us while we're gone. Assuming you're right about where this list is, we should be able to get there and back in a few days. Three at the most. Which is good because, as I'm sure you've bothered to remember, after three days Al Mualim will know we've left without permission, since journeymen aren't supposed to be gone for any longer. Some people don't seem to care that journeymen have to ask permission before they leave…"

"Yes, yes," Altair had huffed, impatient. "We still don't need to tell him anything. We'll be back within three days, I told you already."

"You're usually wrong. If you're wrong about this then Kadar will be able to tell Al Mualim where we've gone. It's backup, Altair."

"I am not usually wrong. And your brother will tell half the Brotherhood two hours in!"

"He better not," Malik said, "because if the Master finds out what we're doing before we do it, we're dead." For this Altair had no comeback. He glowered instead.

Now, in the grey light of just-breaking dawn, Malik's emotions find themselves tempered by sober reasoning. They really are in trouble if they're caught sneaking out; to be declared a traitor to the Order is to forfeit more than just rank and weapons. Kadar's worried eyes as he follows them through the sleeping village attests to that. But there's no help for it now, Malik can't back down from a promise he's already made. It'd really be a disaster if Altair went by himself!

The shadows are thicker at this hour, and the wooden gates look almost threatening. The guards don't say anything, but still Malik feels uneasy as he saddles a horse resting just outside the stable. His mount is a brown gelding he's ridden before, one he knows can handle long distances on rocky ground. The white horse Altair is preparing is a skittish creature, not necessarily the best choice, but it's a gorgeous creature with a flowing mane. As per usual Altair cares more for dramatics, confident in his ability to manage anything. (Malik makes a silent decision not to rescue him if the horse starts bucking. Animals tend to tolerate Altair at best, and really he should know that by now.)

He gives the bridle a final adjustment and turns back to Kadar, who's lurking just past the gates so that the guards won't call him back in. "Wait, Malik," the younger boy says, eyes anxious beneath the cowl. "Are you sure you have to go? A whole army encampment…there must be a hundred soldiers there…"

"I can't let that idiot go on his own," says Malik. "And he'd go no matter what I did. It's fine. Al Mualim should have sent us out by now anyway."

"But a whole army camp!"

"The main Crusader armies are closer to Acre than here. It'll be a small group."

"If you say so."

Malik smiles. "Come on. You know I can fight."

"Oh, I know, I'm sure you'll be fine." Kadar smiles back. "You'll kill a dozen men and capture a dozen more."

"I like the sound of that. A dozen personal servants. Finally someone else can clean all that armor!"

"Does the Brotherhood allow for servants?"

"Probably not. Who needs 'em when you have so many novices around."

"I'm not a servant."

"Of course not." Malik reaches out, and knuckles his brother's shoulder gently, kneading at the skin a bit with his closed fist. "Anyone tries to order you around, come find me."

Kadar squints at him. "So you can hit them?" he asks. "Like when you hit Nasr? I can throw my own punches, you know."

"I know, I know. But Nasr's the closest thing we've got to a Templar around here, so—"

"Will you hurry up? Malik." Altair is gripping the reins and ready, leaning forward on his horse as if about to lurch into a gallop. The horse tosses its head and strikes a hoof at the ground, but Malik has to admit the assassin looks impressive up there, sitting steady in the saddle with the wind rippling at his tunic's hem. "Stop chatting," he says. "We're on a mission now."

"If you think you're going to be barking orders at me this whole trip, I'll throw you into the river." But Malik does climb onto his mount. Edgy anticipation courses through him: despite himself, he is excited. Finally he will confront the Templars and the bastards who support them. Finally he will be the one bursting from the dusty horizon, sword drawn, bearing down on those who would do him and his brother harm.

He rides to kill and he thinks he should be at least a little apprehensive. But he isn't. Not at all.

"Safety and peace," says Kadar, looking up at him now. "Be careful, Brothers."

"We'll be back before three days are up, so keep your mouth shut," Altair orders. "We don't need you sounding an unnecessarily alarm."

"I'll wait by the bend in the road up ahead. Where that bit of land sticks out over the water. They won't mind me leaving the village if I don't go too far. And I won't tell anyone where you've gone, either."

"See that you don't." Altair turns his horse away.

"Careful," says Kadar again, quietly. Malik shoots him a quick smile as he nudges his own horse.

"Safety and peace," he says. In front of him Altair kicks his heels and the horse bolts; Malik gallops after, losing sight of Kadar as they round the road's first bend.

-i-

The ground is rough and hilly for a while; then it opens up, though the next mountain is never far. They pass small clusters of villages, thin trickling streams, another old watchtower recently claimed by the assassins after a Saracen retreat. There are other travelers on the road, mostly by the houses, and the land doesn't look too badly battle-scarred. Malik allows himself to hope that perhaps the war is calming down. Perhaps the Crusaders will leave and the Saracens will rid themselves of their corruption and the assassins can stop playing guard dog to both sides and go back to their true aim, that of killing Templars. (Malik has no doubt that the Templars and their mysterious plans will linger even if the war was to end tomorrow. He's glad for this. From now until the end of time he will be able to avenge.)

For the first few hours Altair rides ahead, faster than necessary, unconcerned for anyone who might be traveling on foot. Malik, less interested in running down innocent bystanders, moves slower and enjoys the breeze. How easy it is to travel on horseback. How quickly he and Kadar could have found Masyaf if they'd known.

The pace slows, though, as the path peters out into a wide expanse crammed with houses and wooden guard towers. In the center is another stone watchtower, much the same as the ones the assassins have taken, with the exception of the guards at its base. They wear brown, not white, and instead of merely watchful they look bored and cruel.

Saracens have no love for assassins, but Altair lets his horse trot as if he means to brush right past them. Despite his better judgment Malik follows, fuming with the indignity: is he to die because Altair's so foolhardy he thinks he can rush a dozen well-armed men? They near closer and closer, two assassins with swords, on horses more expensive than anyone in this village could afford. Any minute now an arrow is going to come whizzing past his ear…

Malik decides that his friend has lost his mind, finally, and tries to decide between leaving him to his messy fate or knocking him off the horse before anyone sees them. Just as he's settling on option two (with an addendum that if the guards do notice he'll offer up the idiot as a bribe), Altair tugs the reins. At the last second they skirt the watchtower and end up in a narrow warren of shacks and people, the street not wide enough for them to ride without earning dirty looks.

Altair slides off his horse and leans against a crumbling wall. Malik dismounts in sullen silence. The villagers, wary of strangers with swords and dashing mounts, vanish quickly. Though the street is narrow none of the houses are taller than a single story, and he can see the watchtower rising up to his left.

"Hide your sword and keep your face covered," says Altair. "We'll walk the horses past the guards."

"Is that all we'll do?" Malik, still angry at the close call, fiddles with his horse's saddle so he doesn't have to look up. "Did you not want to charge right up to them and take them all on at once? Perhaps with your bare hands? Maybe we could climb the damn tower and wait until they run out of arrows!"

As per usual Altair is unmoved by Malik's snarling. "We'd win if we tried," he says, "but we don't want to alert the Templars to our presence. Wiping the area of enemy troops is difficult to do in stealth."

"You wouldn't understand stealth if you were a Master Assassin. They should never have made you more than a novice."

"We've only a few more hours until we reach the camp. We could move quickly there or we could argue and waste time."

"I don't think you realize how difficult it is not to argue with you."

"You didn't have to come."

"You asked me to come. Next time ask Rauf and save me the aggravation."

Altair's eyes flicker, or maybe it's just an errant shadow in the road. "Next time I'll ask you," he says.

Malik is so flustered he almost stumbles when his horse steps away to graze through a patch of weeds. "I-…by the way, how can there be a Crusader camp so close to a Saracen-held village?"

"Not just Crusaders. They'll have a Templar or two with them."

"That only makes less sense. The front lines are fifty miles north of here."

Altair makes a little grimace. "It isn't so simple. There are gaps…" He waves a hand. "Your village was in Saracen land, wasn't it? But the Crusaders came through anyway. There are Templars in Jerusalem, even if the rest of the Christians are having trouble getting inside."

Malik mutters, "Like rats. Like disease."

"So we'll end the plague before it spreads. We should keep moving, Malik. Raise your cowl."

(He is surprised to find, as they move out, that Altair is actually very good at stealth when he feels a need for it. That their robes are tinged with hours' worth of riding along bad roads helps; they drift from the village looking like ordinary apprentices, poor peasant stock off to train as blacksmiths or else just work in the fields and produce half a dozen kids apiece. Ordinary. Not worth attention, though hidden in their robes are swords and daggers cut deadly-sharp.

That Altair can pass for ordinary is the greatest surprise of all.)

-i-

The hours that follow are long. To be on a mission, a first one, an unauthorized one, should be anything but boring, and yet Malik's biggest concern at the moment is how stiff he is from all the riding. Altair is to his right, a few steps ahead, hunched over the reins with his cowl drawn low to block his face. Malik half-suspects he's sleeping.

The sun is low in the sky by now. The horses, even Malik's docile mount, are acting out their exhaustion by being skittish. The road is wide but empty here, no sign of life but for the bushes and stunted trees growing alongside. Strange, that so much of the world is so empty. All the time required to get from city to mission to Masyaf…all this time to ride in silence. The quiet of the world makes his thoughts louder in his ears and he marvels, how difficult must it be for an assassin to travel by himself? With only his memories and musings, and no solace from either should the thoughts turn sour? He almost shudders to imagine a Master Assassin, hands wet with the blood spilt over the years, body hunched with the great loss they all seem to carry, forced to keep himself company for weeks at a time.

How frightening. How lonely.

"Malik," says Altair suddenly. He's stopped his horse, and stands up in the saddle to peer at the road ahead. It bends, hiding whatever comes next from view, but without the horses to hide the sound Malik thinks he can hear voices.

(And he looks at his companion, at his urgent, narrow-eyed focus, and sees the eagle's grace in him, in his long fingers as they tug at the reins.)

"Come on. We'll go back and leave the horses where they won't give us away."

"It's them?" Malik whispers. "You're sure?"

"I saw where Al Mualim marked the list's location on his map. This is where the camp is. They mean to block off the area from Saracen patrols."

Malik frowns. "So close. Why has Al Mualim allowed these Templars to come so close to us? If he needed the list so badly why not send someone to get it? Any assassin in the fortress could make it this far in a day."

"Assassins don't question the Master's will, we only help him carry it out."

"Then what," Malik wonders, "are we doing here?" But Altair is leading his horse towards a gnarled tree with a thick ring of bushes at its base, and doesn't hear him.

-i-

They argue over the best plan of attack, and the argument turns ugly fast. Malik favors studying the camp with what daylight is left, memorizing it as best they can, planning escape routes and estimating the number of soldiers within. Hopefully by the time nightfall comes they will have some understanding of where the list might be; they can sneak in and steal it, avoiding much of a fight in the process, and then flee before the whole camp is roused. But Altair would rather not wait, and isn't troubled by the idea of being found out early.

"We'll hack our way through them until we find what we've come for," he says, and won't be persuaded to see the fatal flaws in this plan.

Stealth, Malik argues, and common sense. "Even if there are only a dozen men there—are we supposed to fend off six armed soldiers apiece? We don't need to put ourselves at risk with unnecessary killing…"

"They're Templars. It can't be unnecessary." Altair eyes him. "Are you afraid you'll have trouble killing them? Afraid to take a life? Tell me, Malik, did you come with me all this way only to let your teacher's killers live?"

"Fine," says Malik, when he can speak. "Fine, you idiot. We'll be loud as can be. But we aren't going until it gets dark and we aren't wasting time once we're there. Once we have the list we're going, I don't care who we haven't killed. Finishing his mission will be enough to honor the Dai."

"I'll beat the list's location out of one of the guards. It won't take long, and we won't alert every soldier to our presence even if you think we will. But we won't creep around as cowards, either."

Malik says, wearily, "Assassins are supposed to creep."

But maybe Altair is right. Maybe the mission won't be as difficult as it sounds: when they go to investigate their target, lurking from behind a large boulder just past where the road bends, they discover they aren't facing a full patrol. There are six or so tents, the greasy material patched and fraying, clustered about a much larger and cleaner tent set up right in the middle of the road. Some logs have been piled beyond the tents as a makeshift roadblock, though any trained warhorse could jump the barrier easily. (Malik wonders if that isn't the point. There aren't any Saracens on warhorses around here. Only peasants. And assassins. Are they trying to lure us in?)

Regardless, after an hour of watching they see only five men, all in uniform but all disheveled and dirty. Most are bearded despite the Christian tendency to go without, suggesting a recent hard march with little time or water for shaving. Beards are natural on Arab men, but against these pale faces the hair looks stiff and strange. Malik glances at Altair, trying to picture him with a beard, and has to stifle a chuckle.

"See," the assassin in question says. "I told you. Five men. Almost nothing. Templars travel fast and sudden, they wouldn't lug around a full patrol."

"Six, counting that Templar," Malik points out in a low mutter. The wind is picking up and it might carry their words; luckily the horses are too far behind for the scent to travel. Besides, it must be impossible for these Crusaders to smell anything but their own stink. Have they been going to the bathroom right where they laid their tents? "It could be more than one, even. They could have a whole herd of the bastards in that tent. They're the best trained of anyone besides us—if there are two we're in trouble."

Altair shakes his head, dismissive. "They usually travel alone."

"How would you know?"

"I've heard Al Mualim talk. Some of the Crusaders are suspicious of this mini-army in their midst. They're starting to realize they can't trust Templars any more than they can Saracens. And part of that is because Templars are always off skulking about by themselves. They don't form regiments or organized groups. They lurk—they creep like cowards." He finishes with a triumphant flourish but Malik rolls his eyes.

"The list is probably in that big tent, if it's so important. I still say it's someone's wife's order for the butcher."

"The sentries will know. If the list's not there, they'll tell us where it is."

"Only it's probably there. With the Templar. And thirty of his well-armed friends."

"Be pessimistic if you wish, but don't insult my own abilities. This will be an easy victory." Altair shakes his head again, and straightens up from the crouch he'd been holding. None of the soldiers have noticed them, even though the boulder isn't all that far from their camp. "The Templars have held their victory long enough. Al Mualim should have sent them this warning already, but if he won't then I will."

"Careful," says Malik, "or he'll think you're about to betray him."

It was meant as a joke but Altair whirls on him anyway. "Why would I betray the Master?" he demands. "He runs the Order. Of course I would be loyal."

"I never said you weren't. You'll give us away with all that shouting."

"It's easy for you to mock. To make snide comments as if you're so much better. It's because you don't see." He falls momentarily silent, frowning at his hands, balling them into fists against his sides. When he speaks next he sounds a touch uncertain. "Al Mualim called me into his library last week. He expects me to understand the Order's burdens, though no other journeyman is asked to…" This touch of humility makes Altair sound wise, but very young. His eyes flicker across Malik's face as if he's searching for some answer there.

"The Master has been more distracted lately. He acts as if he's expecting something. And when he called me to his side last week he spoke of what caused the war."

"Religion, land, power and kings. That's always what wars are about."

"No, it's more than that. He said…he explained about freedom, and choice."

Though Malik hides it well he is just the slightest bit impatient. Yes, Al Mualim sometimes calls for Altair Ibn La'Ahad the way Dai Faraj once called for Malik A-Sayf. No doubt Altair gains much from such private tutelage, coming as it does from the Grandmaster of all people. Al Mualim is the only person Altair ever shows any respect, and while the deference is at times sickening, it's not an act. There are sycophants in the Brotherhood, plenty of them—but Altair is not a liar, at least. To talk of this relationship now, though, is out of place. Malik respects the Master, honors his name, would kill to serve his bidding or protect his life…

But the village burned. Faraj is dead. Even Al Mualim is fallible. Not even he is beyond reproach. To hear Altair dredge up the man's name as if it explains everything, solves everything, replaces everything, is supremely irritating. They are here in defiance of the man's will, are they not? So why should the Son of None cling to another's opinions as if they will keep him safe? Where is Altair's bragging confidence?

Malik says, as snide as ever because hearing the confusion in the other's voice is too unsettling to be let alone, "While he was explaining life to you, did he recommend going on missions without permission?"

Altair does his usual hackle, shoulders stiff and eyes flashing. The normal reaction is a relief. "He spoke of that list, for one thing. Of how badly the Brotherhood needs it. That's why we should be the ones to bring him this gift, Malik. It would ease his stress a bit."

"As if you care for anyone's stress. What you like is the hero's welcome you think we're gonna get."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd been in the library that day. The strain was written on his face for all to see. Haven't you seen how his beard is going white like an old man's? He fights to end the war and now we can help."

"Except he isn't fighting the war." Malik sounds bitterer than he realizes. "He let Dai Faraj fight it instead."

Altair jabs a finger at him. "See? You always have to make nasty comments on everything! He's your master as well as mine, but I guess I'm the only one who remembers to be loyal."

"Really…? You think I don't know what loyalty is?"

"What I think is of the Master's needs. If I can make his burden lighter, I will."

And yet you're always drawing attention to yourself. Always strutting about. Malik thinks, You'd fight Templars even if they were unarmed and a crowd of innocents was in your way. I don't know why that doesn't bother me.

You'd shatter the Creed for victory but you'd never go against Al Mualim. Is that hypocrisy or something else?

Altair turns back towards the horses. He sounds more resentful than angry when he says, "You aren't as loyal as you think. We both know you'd protect Kadar before the Master, if you had to choose."

Malik wants to ask him why he sounds so damned betrayed, if this is about fidelity to the Order and the Creed. Did Altair mean to use his own name, not Al Mualim's?

They walk back quietly, the sharp reality of the mission looming ahead. No point in arguing over tactics or the intelligence of this quest, because the quest is upon them and there isn't room to avoid it.

But all Malik can think, despite how close he is to committing his first real act of violence, is, After all these years, how can you still sound so surprised? Kadar is my brother. I don't know what you are to me. But I know what you aren't to the Master. You aren't his son, Altair. You don't have any family to your name.

"What did happen when you visited the whorehouse?" he asks on an inspired whim. Somewhere in that question is the answer to the riddle that's existed since they were ten (and a half). The prostitutes, and Kadar, the other boy's weird jealousy…they're tied together, somehow. And that connection feels more important than anything. More important than the mission, than mysterious lists, than revenge.

Altair ignores him.

-i-

Despite all the warning signs, or maybe despite the suspicious lack of warning signs, the mission goes well. Almost too well. As they flee the camp Altair struts with his robes fluttering out like a peacock flashing its tail.

It starts well into the night, as they planned. They crouch behind the rock until they're sure there's only the one guard facing them and the two guards in front of the large tent in the center. In their heavy tunics, layered over grey leggings and marked with the cross, they look absurd standing on Syrian dirt. The others must be sleeping because there's no one patrolling out front besides that lone sentry, and he looks half-asleep himself. No sign of any Templars, either. It should all be warning signals but what Malik sees is Faraj's killers sleeping peacefully: how dare they? And Altair…

Allah only knows what it is Altair glimpses in the dark.

Bloodshed and glory, probably. The older boy hunches against the rock with his body straining, his lips already stretched wide in a grin. The expression is unnatural on a face usually drawn with harsh lines. Still, it's to be expected. It doesn't matter if it was these exact men who killed one of the assassins' own; the killing was done and now those responsible will pay. Altair twitches his talons and glances at Malik. Malik feels the weight of his sword at his waist and nods.

They leap forward. The dozing sentry hardly has time to fumble his sword before Altair is there to drive his fist into his gut.

The man doubles over, hacking. Altair sends his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick, and Malik puts his sword to the man's throat to keep him quiet once he's down. So easy, it's so easy to knock this soldier down and let him squirm. His face is scratched from where he fell and there's a bit of blood. Malik looks at the red smear and feels dimly hungry, dimly repelled.

"Where is your master?" demands Altair, who's drawn himself to full haughty height. He looks like a fearsome specter with his face hidden, his robes almost glowing in the light of the moon. The soldier stammers, staring up with wide eyes, and Malik has the sudden urge to laugh: they've been hidden less than a minute away for hours, and this 'fearsome Crusader knight' didn't see them at all! For all his presumed training the fool still thinks they're spirits risen from the fog. (It should be another warning sign. It isn't, not for Altair and Malik in all their eager triumph.)

This is what assassins are capable of, then. This is what Malik has inside himself to be.

"Your master," Altair growls again. "Tell us where the Templar soldier is or Malik will slice open your throat."

"Non, non," the soldier babbles. "Pardon, s'il vous plait."

"Your master! I won't ask you again."

"Quoi?"

Altair moves to kick him, and the man flinches in terrified expectation, but Malik throws out his free hand to stop the other assassin before he can land his strike. "He doesn't speak Arabic, Altair. Just French."

"Then he's of no use to us."

"Put your sword down and stop showing off. Killing those who have surrendered is against the Creed."

"How can he surrender? You just said he doesn't speak Arabic."

Malik rolls his eyes. "He looks pretty surrendered to me. Right?" He looks down at the man. "You give in? Ne vous, uh, capituler? Surrender and we won't kill you."

The horrid attempt at French, so long after the last lesson, leaves the man blank-eyed, but he must understand the Arabic word for kill because he starts up another frantic stream of slurred panic. "Non, non, assassin. Pardonner moi."

"He surrenders."

"So what? We're assassins. We kill our enemies, we don't take them prisoner."

"We kill according to the Creed. Do you want to be an assassin or a murderer?"

"This man could have been the one to kill Faraj. Would you let a real murderer go free?"

Malik scowls and bites the inside of his cheek. The soldier looks up at him in mute incomprehension, looking helpless despite the sword still sitting at his feet. Strange how he hasn't made an attempt to grab it. Strange how none of the other soldiers have been alerted by his cries…

Altair shifts, impatient. "Let's kill him and be done with it. He's a target, not a man."

"Dai Faraj said to never think of your targets as less than human. Besides, he's not our target, he's just some guard. We're here to kill Templars, not him." He reaches down and drags the man to his feet by his collar. "Go," he says in loud, bad French, pointing to make sure he's understood. "Move to run away from here and no you look back. If you do you can die."

"What are you saying?" complains Altair. "We're wasting time. And he'll give us away."

"Who is he going to give us away to? We didn't see any other patrols in the area." He points again, switching back to his rusty French. The soldier still looks blank. "Go to run! No you look here again."

The soldier gets it that time. He trips over his own feet in his haste to escape.

"Didn't fight at all," Altair mutters. His disdainful eyes follow the man as he rounds the bend, out of sight. "I thought Templars were tough to defeat."

"He wasn't a Templar." Malik looks around. They're blocked from view by some tents but still, they aren't exactly being quiet. Why has no one else come to see the cause of the commotion?

"We're knocking the next one unconscious." Altair moves forward quickly, without waiting for debate. "It's safer than letting them roam free."

Malik follows, silent on his feet as they dart past the first few tents. There must be men in them, sleeping, but no one appears as they push by. "He's roaming free in the desert. He'll die of thirst anyway."

Altair smirks mockingly. "But it won't be on your conscience then," he says.

"That has nothing to do with—"

But Altair is already moving away, through the rows of tens, leaving Malik to do nothing but grumble and chase after. The two guards at the mouth of the large tent are as unfocused as the first, and as with the first they see the assassins only when the opening punch is thrown. The shorter one collapses back against the tent after one punch and stays huddled on the ground, much to Altair's disgust. Malik's soldier actually manages to dodge the first blow and pulls his sword free for a wild swing—and from his cowering position the other soldier gives him a dirty look. Strange. Is he afraid of retaliation for actually fighting back?

Regardless, the sword swing is a terrible one. Malik grabs the man's fist and twists until he drops the blade, then sends the man sagging with an elbow to the face. One last knee-ward kick has the soldier moaning on the ground next to his friend.

"I'd think even guards would have some fight training," Malik comments, readjusting his belt so that the sword sits properly when he slides it back inside its holster. "I haven't seen someone use a sword that badly since you were ten-…" He trails off at the first thwock of boot against skull. Altair has not been listening.

And he has the audacity to give Malik a cool glance and say, "Relax. They're unconscious, not dead."

"They weren't unconscious a moment ago!"

"You care too much about people who would kill you."

"Listen, you donkey, they could be eaten by rats right here and I wouldn't care. But since when are our standards the same as theirs? If they were Templars I'd help you peel skin from bone but they're not. Just some poor bastards got sucked up in the Crusades."

Altair's eyes show no remorse. "They've killed innocents. You know how the Christians are, pretending to mistake toothless peasants for soldiers. Every Arab is a Saracen for them. Malik," he says before the real arguing can start, "There are other soldiers sleeping here who will wake up if we don't hurry. Leave these two for the rats, or their brethren, whichever. But they won't be able to alert anyone until after we're long gone."

"…Fine," Malik huffs out. "But you shouldn't be so eager to shed blood."

"No? What is it do you think we assassins do best?" Altair cocks his head. "Did no one tell you how cruel war is? Were the Crusaders merciful to your home when it burned?"

"The Creed says…"

"Al Mualim says to achieve victory. I aim to do as the Master commands." Altair points. "In there."

Malik tugs at the edge of his cowl. He doesn't like the way it hangs over his face, blocking sight out of the corner of his eyes. "They must have heard us, if they're in there," he says. "Which means there's probably a dozen trained Templars getting ready to run us through."

"Then let them try," says Altair. "We are the assassins. Let them fear us as angels of death."

Malik pauses for a moment. Then he cries, "You novice, you stole that out of one of Dai Faraj's books! Have you been waiting since you were ten to use that ridiculous line?"

Altair glares at him. He glares back, because the situation seems to call for glaring. Then, together, swords at the ready, they push open the tent flap and stride inside.

Even then, their luck holds. Even then. And it should be the clearest sign of them all…

No one in the tent. No Templars, no guards, no generals or slaves. The roomy expanse is even bereft of furniture and bedding. All they can find is an iron box, a heavy, ugly thing with a rusted lock. Below it is an old scrap of carpet, the faded pattern an Arabic design. Probably it and the box both were looted along the way.

"Where is everyone?" asks Malik. "We were watching them all afternoon but the guards outside didn't notice us. The rest haven't heard us despite all the noise we've been making. The Templar isn't even here."

"If the list is here than it doesn't matter," says Altair, although he looks disappointed. "Check in the box."

"Something so important, and it's not even being guarded?" Still, Malik does kneel down by the iron box to study the lock. "Not completely rusted," he decides after a cursory glance. "Might be easier to hack it off."

"And dull my blade. Use one of your throwing knives to pick it."

"Naam, Master." He slides out a knife from the little band of leather strapped to the underside of his wrist. The steel squeals against the iron as he sets to work. "It'll be easier when we have hidden blades," he comments after a while. "You could pick any lock in the world with one of those."

"Just hurry up before the soldiers start waking up."

"Now you're nervous? Why not just knock them all uncon—ah! Here we go." He jerks the blade in the lock one last time. When he twists his wrist the whole thing falls off, both the lock itself and the metal plate to which it was attached. Altair moves forward to lean over Malik's shoulder as he pries open the lid, lifting it slowly to avoid any creaking hinges.

The box is mostly empty inside, but for a few sheets of paper and a yard of wrinkled, heavy cloth. Mostly covered by the cloth is a tiny book, leather-bound with pages showing past the covers in an uneven line. "Strange assortment," Malik mutters.

"What do those papers say? Read them, your French is better than mine."

"Like you can read French at all."

"What do they say, Malik?"

"Hold on, hold on, I'm trying. It's hard to read this handwriting. Besides, the parchment they wrote on is too thin. See how it's all crinkled from the heat? Makes the ink bleed…"

"Malik, I don't care if they used paper or human skin. Which sheet is the list?"

"None of them." He frowns down at the five pieces of paper, sifting through them, moving his lips as he silently re-reads. Has he misplaced a word, a phrase? The handwriting is so bad. "This one's blank," he says, letting the thin sheet waft from his fingers. "The one underneath it is just a really bad map of the area. See?" He shows it to Altair. "They put the valley in the wrong place."

"And the others?" Altair's voice is a tense growl. His whole body is rigid with the need to accomplish what they should.

"Another blank page, a list of supplies for…well, more men than they're set up for here. I don't think Al Mualim cares about outdated Crusader supply routs. Look, it's dated from five months ago." The offending pages fall through Malik's fingers, coming to rest at the ground by his feet. There's a little pile growing there, and Altair glares at it as if it's being useless on purpose. "The last sheet's just someone's note to their mother. 'Maman, je voudrais…'"

"Then where is the list? Al Mualim knew it was here. He said so to a whole group of Rafiks. He said that his spies had been keeping an eye on a specific band of soldiers and what Faraj discovered told them exactly where to look. Did they move it after Faraj was discovered? Stubborn bastards! Now we'll have to—"

"Found it."

"—and if we're late your stupid brother will think we're in trouble and-…what?"

Malik grins, clutching the leather-bound book in both hands. "It isn't just one list, idiot," he says. "It's a bunch." He flips through the book, letting Altair see all the writing scrawled across all the creased pages. The insides are thick and smooth: it feels more like expensive vellum than paper, but whatever it is has kept the ink black and clear. In multiple hands and multiple languages are scrawled long lists of names, of places; block paragraphs of descriptions, of both the land and its occupants; several maps, much better than the loose one, of Acre and Jerusalem. Little red dots have been marked on both, though there's no key to say what those dots represent. Malik wonders briefly on how accurate the maps themselves are before turning over the page.

"Look," he breathes a second later. "No wonder Al Mualim wanted this so badly!" For on the next page is a list of eleven names, one crossed out and illegible. But the remaining names are all foreign, a mixture of English and French. Robert de Sablé, reads one.

"Templars?" asks Altair.

"Or generals. Probably both. Enemies too powerful to be overlooked." Malik holds the book a little tighter, relieved despite himself. So this mission hasn't been a fool's errand. So they have made the right choice. Surely the good fortune that comes with the Brotherhood having this book and those names outweighs the disrespect of leaving without permission.

He glances through the book again, catching brief glimpses as the pages drift past. On the very last one is a speech written out in passable Arabic, marred with cross-outs and words squeezed in the margins. It looks like a victory speech of some kind, perhaps scribbled out of boredom by whoever its writer was. We must push for light at any cost, says one bit towards the end. Forward, brothers. May the father of understanding guide all the Templar Order.

Malik closes the book and turns it over in his hands. On the back cover is stamped, in flaking gold, five words in a language he can't read. Latin, maybe? The alphabet is familiar, anyway.

"Can't believe there's no one here to guard this," he says. "It must be full of secrets."

"Our secrets, now." Altair glances at the still-open tent flap. "We should leave and bring our good tidings to Masyaf."

So they leave, as easily as they came. The sun is rising as they slip from the tent, the still darkness replaced by a faint and gritty daybreak. There aren't any sentries to avoid and Altair is able to do his peacock strutting. In his own mind he's clearly risen a rank or three. But then the night's odd luck turns. Just as they're saddling their horses, someone begins shouting from the Crusader camp.

"They've noticed us now," Malik calls, pulling himself onto his horse. "The book is safe, right?" Altair nods, patting at his belt where it's been stashed away. "Then ride, Brother!" He digs his heels into the horse's flanks and it bolts forward. The night air slashes against his face, and the warning cries are muffled by hoof beats. Altair rides at his side, hunched low in the saddle. Of course his cowl hides his eyes, but the wide grin is there for all to see.

Malik is grinning too. He's done it. In sixteen years of life he has drawn blood with a sword and dived from tall towers, stolen treasure from the Templars and kept Kadar safe. He's slept with a woman and learned to read.

Truly, he is a man.

Still grinning, he tugs the reins and leads his horse around the first wide bend in the road. Altair is still at his side, though his usual tendency is to gallop ahead. But not today, not now: not now when they are true Brothers, true comrades at arms. They've different blood but it might as well be the same, and Malik has the wildest urge to grab Altair, grab tight enough to leave bruises on the Son of None's pale arms. He wants to see that blood come to stain the surface of his skin.

In such a mood do the two assassins come around the second bend, where the road narrows between mountains. In such a mood do they see the path ahead blocked with what looks like half the Crusader army, and in front a Templar on horseback, sword already drawn and raised.


AN: Rant ahoy! Feel free to disagree and disregard.

I've been following Malik's backstory as it develops and, aw man, I know squealing about the details of a character in no way my own is the worst mark of a fantard, but—but. All this new information is…melodramatic yet boring (with the possible exception of Tazim). First off, what I got out of the first game was that Malik was a strict follower of the Creed—but I didn't get the sense that he was as strongly attached to its Master as the new canon might suggest. I know he had that one conversation with Altair where the later accuses him of being blind, but if anything Altair is the one who seemingly hero-worshiped Al Mualim and was shocked at his betrayal. Malik acted a lot less enthused. I always got the sense that in the Kadar's Dead Oh God Why equation, he split the guilt 50% Altair, 40% himself, and 5% each for Robert and the Master. (Look, numbers.)

Anyway.

I hope no one reading this is put off by the significantly different backstory. In my defense the 'canon' one wasn't out at the start of the story, and by the time it came out I…didn't like it? I'm not even talking about the paring differences—I really love the platonic but complex Altair/Malik interaction in the game. Yet nothing is said about Malik's pregame interactions with Altair in current canon save for 'Oh he was like jealous and stuff.' Why add in all this nonsense with Abbas when you have a great dynamic already there, being slobbered over by the fans? Malik has more fangirls than Desmond.

(Admit it, half of you didn't realize Abbas had a name until Revelations info started coming out. I didn't.)

In conclusion, the Abbas soap opera reads like fanfiction gone eh, my preferred soap opera probably reads similarly but I'm not the one with a book contract, and they need to put Malik in these games because the fans might invade Canada if they don't.

And no more Bowden. Please.