Age 26:

The pain was excruciating; it was nothing like Malik had ever experienced before. No stab, slash, or broken bone even came close to the pain he felt then. It was even worse than the death of his parents, because at least he had had someone then, which was better than no one at all. Even the amputation of his left arm, and the wound that had caused it to be so, seemed dull in comparison to the loss of Kadar.

Nothing could alleviate the pain of the loss of his little brother. Not drugs, not alcohol, not unconsciousness. Every time Malik managed to fall asleep, he was haunted with nightmares of being forced to relive Kadar's last moments, or having Kadar stand before him, battered and bloody, begging to know why his older brother didn't save him. Even when he was awake, Kadar's lack of a presence was glaring, for every time he had been injured at Masyaf, Kadar had always been there for him, even if it was as small as a scraped knee.

He did not sleep well either. At most, Malik slept for fifteen minutes at a time, constantly jolting awake either due to his nightmares, his face damp with sweat and tears, or he would find himself unable to rest due to the terribly excruciating phantom pain of where his left arm used to be. The medics had told him that where his arm used to be would hurt a lot while the amputation was fresh in his mind and his body was still getting used to it being missing, but it wouldn't hurt so much as time went by, although he would feel the phantom pain through out the rest of his life.

The physical pain wasn't even what hurt the most. It was the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same. It was the knowledge that he had survived, where his younger brother hadn't. It was the knowledge that he couldn't protect Kadar like he had promised his mother. It was the knowledge that his body had suffered irreparable damage, and he would be crippled for the rest of his life. It was the knowledge that he would never become a Master Assassin, and he was utterly useless now. It was the knowledge that that one single mission had ruined his entire life.

The medics of Masyaf seemed to hover around him constantly, always bustling about trying to feed him, or give him medicine, or bandage what used to be his arm, and Malik hated them. He wanted to die, and they wouldn't let him. He wanted to die, now that the Apple of Eden was in safe hands, and tell Kadar how so terribly sorry he was and beg for his forgiveness. Not only did they insist on keeping him alive, but every time they came to rebandage his stump, which remained a constant and ever-present reminder of how badly Malik had failed, they would always have the same look of pity in their eyes, that Malik knew he would have to deal with for the rest of his life, that he despised already. He didn't need their pity, nor did he want it. It only made him angry, and it only made him feel worse.

Malik spent his time waiting for his fever to fade, staring blankly at the ceiling of the infirmary as his fingers clawed at his sheets in response to the phantom pain, wallowing in his own misery, grief, and hatred. Hatred of both himself and Altaïr. Altaïr may have been the catalyst, but Malik didn't stop him or prevent the outcome. Now both he and Kadar have suffered for the Master Assassin's stupidity and utter lack of regard for either of the Al-Sayf brothers.

One afternoon, after his fever had mostly subsided, Malik awoke with a particularly horrible fit of phantom pain, he gasped slightly and reached over with his right hand and grabbed his stump, just above the end. His hand clenched tightly, gritting his teeth, as painful spasms racked through muscles that weren't there.

Eventually it faded away into a dull throb, and Malik realized that he wasn't alone. He turned to his right, a heavy sense of foreboding settling over him, to see Master Al Mualim sitting on the bed next to him, watching him and stroking his beard. Malik sighed through his nose and looked back at the ceiling, figuring that the Master would speak to him when he was ready. He had been expecting this since he awoke to find his arm gone, and although he knew it was inevitable, he did not wish to speed up the process.

The Master eventually said, "Safety and peace Malik Al-Sayf. I would like to congratulate you once more on your victory beneath Jerusalem."

Malik's brown eyes squeezed shut in a grimace. "Victory? What victory? Sure the treasure the Master calls 'the Apple' is out of reach of the Templars, but is that damn piece of metal worth it?" he thought savagely. He didn't think so.

"Such bravery and sacrifice must be rewarded." Al Mualim continued, "If it weren't for your, ah, handicap, I would have promoted you to Master Assassin. You were only one rank away, yes?"

Malik, keeping his eyes shut tightly, nodded. He couldn't help noticing the Master's choice of words. "Were."

"However, you understand that this is impossible now, of course." Al Mualim added.

Malik opened his eyes, dull with pain and exhaustion, and turned his head back towards the old man of the mountain. For the first time in ages, Malik spoke, and when he did, it came out as more of a croak. "Yes." he said, the feeling of foreboding flaring to life once more.

"Therefore," the Master said. "I am promoting you to Rafiq. This is a great honor, and you should feel proud."

This wasn't what he was expecting, not that he really knew what he was expecting, but it didn't matter as Al Mualim's words slowly sunk in. This was his prize for managing to drag himself back to Masyaf with the Apple, half dead. He got to be a scholar, a man raised and trained to be a weapon against the Assassins' enemies, resigned to a life of paperwork. A keeper of a small building to be used as a halfway house for the real assassins on real missions. It was an insult to him, Kadar, and his family name.

However, Malik found his eyes drawn to the stump of his arm once more. He knew that he could never do what he had dreamed of since he was a child, he could never be a Master Assassin. He was a liability, he was an embarrassment to the Brotherhood. What was he now? A useless cripple resigned to a life of ink, parchment, and paperwork to serve the whole, functional assassins doing actual work, the work that Malik was meant to do, but could never do again.

"You are being assigned to Jerusalem, as Rafiq Nibras has requested a retirement." Al Mualim went on, "You are to report to the Bureau there in two weeks. Surely you will be healed enough to travel by then."

"Jerusalem!" Malik protested silently, "Please, Master, have mercy! Do not send me anywhere near that place again! Assign me anywhere else! I beg of you!" The last place Malik wanted to go was there. It was too soon to be so close to the place that had ruined his life and where Kadar had lost his.

However, Malik had been taught to hold his tongue, especially before the Master, and fell silent. He turned his head back towards the ceiling once more, his brow wrinkling, his eyes squeezing shut tighter and tighter. Al Mualim did not speak, and simply watched the crippled ex-assassin on the bed before him.

"I understand. Thank you, Master." Malik croaked once he found his voice again, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

Al Mualim stood. "Congratulations, Malik, and I wish you a speedy recovery."

"Wait!" Malik exploded, his eyes snapping open, and weakly attempting to push himself into a seated position with little success as the Master turned back and looked at him, "I would like to give... give Kadar a proper burial. A proper funeral. Can you send someone to retrieve his body? I can pay for all expenses. I- I apologize for being so bold, Master, but it means a lot to me." Malik couldn't bare the thought of his little brother's corpse sitting beneath that accursed city, forever, left rotting and eaten by parasites...

Al Mualim's face was stern for a moment before slipping into pity, but for once Malik didn't care as the Master spoke the words he was hoping for. "Of course." he said kindly, before turning and exiting the room.

Malik sighed, somewhat in relief, and flopped back down onto his bed. He rolled over onto his right side, his remaining arm tucked neatly under him, prickles of phantom pain once again hurting him. Malik grimaced, tears rolling unabashedly down his face once more, as he mourned all that had been lost.