Part Two

Chapter 2

Four pairs of eyes turn our way when we finally enter the house. Alexis, Mother, Father, and even Ezio are gathered in the living room, seated on the various couches as they no doubt wait for us. Steeling myself, I wait for the onslaught of questions to begin. With the way I ran out of the house, I'm actually pretty surprised that they haven't already tried to hunt us down.

Yet no question come.

Instead, all but Mother turn their attention back to the Television quietly blaring out the nightly news.

"You're home," she says. The relived 'finally' goes unsaid but you can tell it's there as she stands and pulls me into a tight hug. "Come, let's get you into a warm bath and some clean clothes."

I don't fight her.

I don't want to.

This is my mother, my best friend and closest confidant (besides Kenny). I want nothing more than to curl up into her arms and cry my eyes out yet again. So I go easily enough as she drags me through the house and into the bathroom.

Once the water is steaming and bubbly and ready she leaves me be. Quiet music filters out of the small speaker by the sink, soothing and comforting. As I sink into the water, I know I should take my time in here. After days spent on the road, I should linger in the water until my fingers are nice and pruny.

But I don't.

I'm scrubbed clean and out of the tub before the first song even ends. Even though the warm water promises to ease all my aches and pain, I don't want to linger. I don't want to be alone. Even with the soft music and the splashing of water, the bathroom seems too quiet. Too big.

Too lonely.

I towel off just as quickly and pull on fresh clothes even though I know I'll regret wasting such a nice bath tomorrow. Once clean and dressed I all but race out of the restroom, mind set on going straight to bed.

Or at least it is until I catch sight of the stairs and hear the soft murmur of voice quietly discussing in the living room.

"What happened?"

"Altaïr..."

I don't linger to hear the next words out of Ken's mouth. I know what they are anyways and I'm silently thankful that I won't have to explain any of this myself. So instead I climb the stairs, slowly, almost hesitantly.

It hasn't escaped my notice that Altaïr isn't down there. That he wasn't sprawled on one of the couches, waiting for my arrival. With the way I reacted, he probably hasn't even made the jump.

He's probably still in Masyaf.

A giant little part of me wants to jump back through. It wants to run back to him and dive into his arms and beg him to forget everything. It wants to pretend none of this whole Adha business ever happened and I didn't run from him.

That part, the one that withers and twists and throbs and all but yowls inside my chest, wants nothing more than to go back to how we used to be.

But I don't.

I can't. Not when another part of me is still dead set on setting him free. Of giving him over to Maria, his rightful wife. So rather than racing back into his arms like I want to, I don't head towards the attic when I reach the top of the stairs.

Instead, I pad down the hall in the opposite direction. Bare feet relishing the feel of the cool wooden floor, I head to the room at the end of the hall. The door is cracked open just a bit, letting out the light that shines inside.

Mother sits on her bed, thin, pale legs crossed, as she thinks. One hand runs over her quilt, tracing the pink, flowery designs of it while the other cups her chin, elbow preached on her thigh. Her face is blank, passive but something like a sad smile crosses it when she catches sight of me.

She says nothing as I cross her room and climb onto her bed. Curling up into her side, she begins to run gentle hands through my hair, carefully pulling the tangles from it. I ease into the comfort, shifting until I'm sitting in front of her to make it easier.

"Tell me," she says, voice soft and in no way demanding as she combs her fingers through my hair.

And I do.

I tell her everything, from the beginning of our trip to Masyaf, to its disastrous end. I tell her about riding Epona through the villages and across wide open fields, and about spending the day with Malik sipping hot chocolate and some god awful tea, and I tell her about walking through the Market that felt strangely like home.

She says nothing, fingers never once faltering in their gentle tugs. She works out all the knots, silently, while I talk. Even when I get to the part about Abbas and the ambush, she does nothing more than hum. Albeit it's a bit strained.

Though, when I get to Adha and Altaïr's lost love, she pulls me into her chest as my voice cracks just the tiniest bit.

"I'm fine," I tell her, voice shaking as I once again fight the lump in my throat. Throwing my hands over my eyes, I try to fight back the tears prickling at the back of my eyes before they can fall. "I can't keep crying about this."

"Why not?" she asks, voice soft as she rests her chin on top of my head. Her arms tighten around me, holding me firmly against her chest. "If it hurts, then cry. Holding back the tears will only make it hurt more. So go ahead and cry, hun, I have you."

It seems her permission is all I need. The tears stream freely past my hands even as I choke down the sobs threatening to break free.

"I have you, hun."

The whisper is soft and soothing in a way that only makes me cry harder. The tears seem to be never-ending as my heart throbs and twists and churns in betrayal it has no right feeling. At least not towards Altaïr. It's not his fault he loved Adha. It's not his fault he married Maria. Hell, it's not even his fault he dropped out of the sky and into my life.

It's not his fault that I fell in love with him.

No, the blame lies solely on Minerva and her conniving, manipulative ways. But even knowing that doesn't lessen the pain. It doesn't ease the hurt or stop the tears. It doesn't make everything okay.

It doesn't make me love him any less.

So instead I sit here, furiously trying to hold what's left of my heart together as it slowly breaks apart.

As I mourn for a love that can never be.

"I can't tell you what to do," Mother says, voice still soft as she holds me. My tears haven't stopped falling and I don't even know if they ever will, but the sobs have finally stopped trying to crawl out of my throat. "And I don't want to see you suffer."

Warm hands go to cup my cheeks, grip gentle as she turns my face towards her. I let my hands drop then, no longer bothering to hide behind them as she pulls my gaze towards her.

"But I don't think you should give up on him."

The words stay with me long after my tears have dried and I've finally crawled into my own bed. They stay with me, circling in my head and keeping me from sleep even as I wrap myself in more blankets than is strictly necessary.

So of course, it's as I lay there, swallowed by a cocoon of blankets that I realize I won't be able to sleep. Despite all that has happened in the past few days and the exhaustion I can feel in my bones, sleep won't come.

Not when my bed feels so big, so empty and cold. I've gotten too used to the warmth of being held, of falling asleep to the rhythm of someone else's breathing. I've gotten so used to having someone next to me and the security of having someone within hands reach. Sleeping alone, now, seems impossible so I crawl back out of bed.

Slow and unsure, I slip out from under my mountain of blankets. The cold night air greets me almost as soon as I push aside the blankets, raising goosebumps across my skin as I pad to the dresser and pull out a fresh pair of leggings and a tunic.

I question my decision even as I pull on my boots. Thoughts of whether I should really do this now, so soon and on so little sleep, circle around my head as I head back up to the attic. Whatever the answer may be, I carefully pull Uncle Mario's red, leather journal out from under a stack of papers. Taking only a few of the translated pages, I run them quickly through the computer and retranslate them into Arabic.

Once the pages are done and freshly printed, I staple them together, if only to make sure they don't fly away as I stand before the swirls. Even dressed and ready to go with the pages held tightly to my chest, I still can't help but ask myself if I should really be doing this.

The answer is no.

I really, really shouldn't.

But that's never stopped me before.

The touch down is softer than I can ever remember it being. The hay envelopes me so well that my already aching muscles don't protest the landing. Crawling out of the hay is a whole other story though.

My arms strain and wobble and throb as I pull myself out of the hay and over the edge of the cart, pages still clutched to my chest. My exhaustion runs so deep that my knees buckle as I jump off the cart. Only my grip on it keeps me from falling onto the floor.

Taking a second to gather my strength, I pull in deep, long breaths. I'm pack-less this time. Weaponless too. In my tiredness, I'd forgot to get any supplies what so ever. Other than the pages in my hands, I've brought nothing with me, not even my camera glasses. Not that I care. To my slow, sluggish mind, none of that matters.

Not, right now.

The trek up the hill to the fortress is much the same as when I was hungover all those weeks ago. Minus the nausea. So it's slow going and much stumbling and I few odd stares before I reach the top. Once I do though, I just stand by the gates, unsure if I'm even welcomed anymore.

While I technically didn't 'defect', I had run from Altaïr.

Uncertain of my next step should be, I lean against the stone walls and watch others go about their lives. My mind is too sluggish to come up with an answer, my thoughts moving too slow and jumbled to really come up with a course of action.

So I stand there for longer than I mean to.

"It is Jennifer, is it not?"

I do nothing more than hum in agreement as I turn towards the voice. I don't even bother to panic because I already know who it belongs to. I spent many days trying to weasel my way out of his training sessions after all.

"Are you searching for Altaïr?" Rauf asks, curious brown eyes locked on me. He's dressed in his usual mentor robes and I little part of me wonders if he isn't looking for Altaïr himself. Too tired to figure out how to make my voice work, I just nod. "He has been up in the tower for a long time, would you like for me to call him down?"

"No," I croak out as best as I can. Pushing off the wall, I give him the best smile I can. It no doubt comes out small and sleepy and strained, but I try. With another nod, I push off the wall and take Rauf's attitude towards me as a sign that I'm still welcomed here. "Thank you."

It's not until I'm standing before the ladder leading up to the Flanking Tower that I realize I should have probably taken Rauf up on his offer to call Altaïr down. Climbing that won't be easy, but at this point, I no longer care.

I need to see him.

With that thought, I try my best to shake off the exhaustion. Rolling my shoulders and stretching my legs, I carefully tuck the pages beneath my tunic and under the waistband of my leggings. Once they're secured, I begin the climb. Ignoring the protest of sore muscles, I haul myself up and over the ledge, blood plumbing.

It's the blood racing through my veins that finally eases the exhaustion away. At least for now. So with renewed strength, I search around the rampart of the fortress, determined to find him. Even if it means climbing but the second ladder and into the actual Flanking Tower.

I don't have too, though.

He stands in the middle of the rampart, between the two flanking towers, and right where Al Mualim stood when Robert de Sabe laid siege on Masyaf. He leans forward, arms resting on the stone rail, as he watches the people below. His chin sits on top of his folded arms, body slouched in what I can only describe as crushed.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as I move to his side. Resting my own arms on the stone rail, I fight the urge to curl up into his side. "For overacting like that."

"I love you," he whispers, voice sounding tired and just so defeated. I only just stop myself from flinching at them. Though I can't stop the way my eyes water yet again and my heart throbs at those words. "Why do those words hurt you?"

Because of course he would notice my distressed without even having to look at me.

"You have a wife," I answer him truthfully. I'm not here to lie to him. I'm not even here to manipulate him—that's Minerva's job. I'm here because, even while knowing all about his wife and future children, my heart still stupidly yearns for him. "Or rather you will. In about a month's time, you will meet the love of your life and I can't keep you from her. I won't."

We lapse into silence then. I don't know what else to say, I haven't really thought of what to say. Not when my mind still refuses to work at full capacity to come up with something. I'm at a loss of where to even begin on how messed up all of this is.

Of how Minerva manipulated us both.

So instead, I watch the people walking below us and try to figure out where I've picked up this knack for people watching. Probably when I first managed to get my butt stranded here.

"What is she like?"

"Who?" I ask, distracted as I lazily watch the wind rustle the leaves of a nearby tree. A few kids run about under it, chasing each other to and fro in what appears to be a game of tag. Or at least they are until one of the guards beckons them towards him, one hand offering something I can't make out. Whatever it is the kids take it quickly before scampering off.

"My wife."

"Hmmm."

The noise is out of my mouth before I can stop it. It comes out somewhere between surprised and thoughtful. My nails, though, dig into my palms threatening to draw blood as my hands curl into tight fists. I struggle to keep any of that from my face as I think of how to answer.

His wife?

What answer can I give that isn't drenched in ten pounds of jealousy and envy and dislike? Not that I actually hate her. If it wasn't for Maria, Altaïr probably wouldn't have even been able to get through his mission in Cyprus.

Add to that that he loved her—genuinely loved her—and I have no reason to dislike her other than jealousy. Especially since she loved him back, genuinely too if she was willing to turn her back on everything she'd ever known to be with him.

Put it that way and disliking her is just selfishness combined with greed.

"She's beautiful," I whisper, resting my chin on my arms as I struggle to sallow the jealousy before it can choke me. "Brave. Strong. Determined. She's perfect for you," I whisper ignoring the way Altaïr straightens up from his slouch and finally turns to look at me. "She's an English woman, a petite, brown-haired, little thing that can and will give you a run for your money."

Even though I know I have no reason to feel the tide of emotions currently wreaking havoc within me, I still do. Previously soothed by his presence my heart begins to throb again but I don't care. Not anymore.

Too tired to keep feeling anything but the desperate need for sleep, I ignore it as I continue to watch the people below. Slumping further against the wall, I uncurl my hands and rest them flat against the sun, savoring the warmth of the heated stone.

The sun shines brightly over us, covering us with its warmth. This high up, the cold winds are enough to keep us cool and ease the full force of the sun and its heat. Still, I savor it and the warmth that bleeds into my skin from the sun-warmed stone.

"What is her name?" Altaïr asks after a long moment of almost peaceful silence. I just hum again, not answering as I lazily open my eyes. I hadn't even noticed them shutting and probably would have fallen asleep if he hadn't spoken.

"I can't tell you that now, can I?" I tease, stretching as I finally realize it might just be time to call it a day. Regardless if I have to sleep alone or not, I'm at my limit. With the help of the sun's warmth, the exhaustion has come back, full force. "That would be cheating."

With those words I stand up, muscles begging to stretch. I let them, arms going up in the air as I finally lock eyes with Altaïr. He says nothing as I stretch though he doesn't bother to hide the way his eyes trail over me.

"You will have a wife one day and you will love her as deeply as you did Adha, if not more so," I tell him, surprisingly no lump builds in my throat as I say this. Nor do tears build in my eyes as I lay it all out for him. As I finally come to a decision. "But I still love you, I've always loved you. So I'm not going to make the choice, not this time."

Pulling the pages out from under my tunic I hand them to him. They're only a few of the codex pages. The ones from March 15th and March 20thwere I had decided both to give him to Maria and selfishly kept him for myself and others that had continued to pop up every time I had questioned if what I was doing was right.

This is risky.

I know it is.

The codex pages reveal too much. Probably more than I realize but I can't do this. Not by myself because this decision just isn't only mine to make. It's his too. He has as much right to know just what he will lose as he does to know what the future has in store for us.

"I'm tired of always being the one to decide," I tell him as he takes them, eyes slowly going over the first page. "I can't choose this time, I can't. I love you too much," I tell him eyes going back to looking over the city. "So I'm leaving this one to you. I want you to make this choice because I will always question if my decision was the best one for you or if it was the best one for me."

"Jen," he begins, hand going up to cup my cheek. I let him, savoring the warmth of his palm as he pulls me back to look at him. "Jen, I lo—"

"These pages are yours. They're from a codex you'll write one day but my presence here causes them to change every day. Read them," I tell him, cutting him off as I pull away from his grip. "Read them all and then, if you still feel the same. If you can still say it without any trace of doubt, then say them to me all you want. But please don't say them now. They hurt too much to hear."

With words, I turn away from him, fully intending to go back home and finally getting some much-needed rest. Yet, I don't even make to the ladder before he calls after me.

"I leave for Arce tomorrow morning."

Freezing in my tracks, I take a deep, steadying breath. It takes all I have not to run back into his arms and kiss him goodbye. Instead, I muster up a small, yet genuine smile from somewhere as I turn back to face him. There's a smile on his face, a sad one that speaks of unease as he still holds the papers.

"Safety and Peace, Altaïr," I tell him, smiling wider when the smile on his face turns fond at my words. My heart yearns to be buried in his arms. It wants nothing more than to curl up into his chest and never let him go.

Awe, fuck it.

I'm in his arms before I even realize I'm running towards him. His arms wrap around me instantly, pulling me tight against him. Taking just a quick moment to savor the feeling of finally being in his arms, I bury my head into his neck as I throw my arms around them

"I'll be waiting for you," I whisper against his skin, nuzzling into his neck. He holds me tighter, almost as if he fears I'll disappear as soon as he lets me go. It takes everything I have then to pull back, even more so when he's just as reluctant to release me. "So hurry home, okay?"

"Always," he whispers back, that fond smile still on his scarred lips and I don't want to let him go. I don't want to leave him. Standing under the warmth of the evening sun and overlooking the bustling city of Masyaf I can imagine if I don't.

I can picture our days together. Here in this mysterious, dangerous fortress surrounded by people who would probably prefer to have us dead (previously Abbas and soon Al Mualim) and I would never regret a moment of it. Not if it meant I would get to spend it with him. Even if it meant helping him run The Brotherhood because let's not forget he'll be The Grand Master soon.

I would spend forever with him if I could.

I really, really would.

One last kiss can't hurt, right?

I pull him into me before I can think of all the reasons why it could hurt. Smashing our lips together, I let all the desperation and jealousy and pain bleed into the kiss. He meets it with desperation of his own making the kiss all sorts of rushed and fiery and, well, desperate. Soon, though, the emotions bleed out. The desperation weans, turning the kiss sweet and slow and soft.

It's a goodbye.

This time the tears don't stay away. They come full force, slipping out from my closed eyes before I can stop them. It's only by a short-lived miracle that I manage to pull away from him before he can notice them. I refuse to let him see me again.

So, instead, I run away from him yet again.