Every second, dripping off my fingertips,
Wage your war,
Another soldier, says he's not afraid to die,
Well I am scared….

****

The pain had settled to a dull throb thanks to the medicines that had been administered earlier, but Altaïr still felt fire spread through his shoulder when he struggled to sit up. Looking around wildly, the assassin soon realized that he was still back in the Bureau. Malik was sitting beside him, head on his chest, sound asleep.

"Malik?" The rafiq didn't stir from his position, though his frown deepened into an ugly scowl. Altaïr reached out to squeeze his companion's shoulder, eyebrows raising when he didn't see any measured response. Had the man taken a drug cocktail of his own to help him get to sleep? Malik had been a light sleeper all of his life. Even as a master assassin, Altair had found it hard to escape the Bureau without the rafiq noticing and allowing him one last snarky remark before his departure. Such deep slumber was unusual.

"Malik." Another attempt, this time with a little shake for emphasis. Nothing. Altaïr sat forward, temporarily ignoring the throbbing ache in the muscles of his shoulder in favor of trying to wake Malik. He had removed the arrows from his body and bandaged his wounds. The least he could do was try and keep the rafiq from being late for his duties. Malik was on a schedule the entire day. Missing the novices that came through his city would enrage the man like nothing else, and would smear whatever perfect record he strove for.

Lifting the one-armed man's head from it's resting position on his chest, Altaïr looked for any signs of life in the dark face he had come to know so well. Nothing. Dark lashes drifted across sun-tanned skin, and the rafiq's mouth hung slightly open. Something was wrong.

"Wake up, brother, the sun is high in the sky and you have duties to perform." Altaïr muttered the words, running his hand across Malik's stubbled cheek and patting it gently, trying to evoke some sort of response. "Idiot, you are going to sleep in and then you will have my head for it." Panic rose like a bubble in his chest, and the assassin forced it back down with a few dry swallows. He needed water. He needed to keep his head from spinning so viciously.

He needed Malik to wake up.

An exasperated sigh, and the assassin propped himself up once more, chest spasming as his weak shoulder strained under the weight of his body. He wouldn't be able to climb well, not for a while yet. Exercise and stretching would be required to heal the scarred and mangled flesh. Laying Malik gently on the sleeping mat he had just occupied, Altaïrpassed silently through to the main room of the Bureau, slipping into the garden and taking a moment to look upwards.

The sun was indeed high in its daily arc across the heavens, and he could feel the heat beating down on his palm as he shaded his eyes with a wince. Water. Crossing the garden to the small fountain that gurgled cheerfully in its niche in the wall, Altaïr splashed cool water onto his face, palming a few handfuls of the cool liquid into his parched mouth before shrugging lopsidedly and dunking his entire head under.

The water felt blissfully cold on his scorched and dusty skin, and the man couldn't help but let a sigh follow the gasp that fell from him as he surfaced again, water running in tiny rivers down his neck and chest. Looking down in surprise, Altaïr frowned as he realized that the unusual lightness that he felt was not from the dizziness of blood loss, but the fact that he was lacking his assassin whites. The robes that usually graced his form had been cut away to make room for the removal of the arrows. He remembered muttering curses as the fabric had been shredded away with his own knife, as if a part of him was being removed forcefully. His hand drew back behind him even as his mind ran through the muddied events that he could remember from yesterday. Finding no hood, Altaïr's frown deepened. He felt….. naked.

Turning back to the dark inner sanctuary of the Bureau, a wavering bolt of fear whispered through him. What if he couldn't wake the rafiq? Malik was, for better or for worse, the only thing that could connect him with his life before he had been demoted, stripped of his rank. The man had spat on Altaïr, had raked his eagle claws across his back and pecked at his face. He had every right. Pride kept him from turning away from those who looked at the empty sleeve where an arm should have been, but that did not mean that it hurt any less. He had been demoted, same as Altaïr. His position kept him indoors, away from the action and glory and danger that was a life of an assassin.

Then again, that was why he had arrived at the Bureau with arrows in his chest and a deathwish upon his lips.

A deathwish that had weaved through his blood since he had been initiated into the Brotherhood, possibly before. And Malik had always been at his side, a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him from charging into that vast unknown with too much excitement.

The mother he had never had, the brother he had not been given. The friend he did not deserve.

Altaïr stepped into the musty silence of the Bureau's main room, small and cramped with all the many ancient scrolls and tomes that had been collected by rafiqs past. Picking up the map that had been thrown down in Malik's hurry to reach and treat his injury, Altaïr placed it gingerly back onto the teak countertop, trying to press the rip through the middle out of existence with his fingers. Finding the shattered inkpot still in its disgraced position between the wall and a nearby shelf, the assassin swept the delicate pieces of ceramic into his hand, looking around for somewhere to dispose of them before figuring he could throw them somewhere outside.

The climb proved to be much more painful than he expected. Altaïr almost cried out once, his aching back and side a testament to how much he had pushed himself in the past couple of missions. He was still injured. He shouldn't be moving. The nagging voice of the rafiq who still remained unconscious beneath his feet was almost palpable in his mind. A small smile, and then the assassin heaved himself up onto the roof, favoring his weakened arm by cradling it to his chest.

Pain. He was not immune to it either. Malik had bit deep into him when he had claimed as much. There was no way that even he could escape the physical burden that was his duty. He was an assassin. He bled and bled and bled until there was no more in his veins and he fell to the dust. It had been what he was born to do. There was no other option. Even now, with his rank corrupted by his arrogance, he still continued on the unerring path that had been decided for him. Through every cut and bruise and beating that his body received, he was enlightened. Pain was his friend, his ever-present accomplice through his journey.

There was also fear. He could not deny that his heart pounded a tattoo on the inside of his ribcage when he stood before the dizzying precipice of the world, preparing to leap into the earth's embrace. It was called a leap of faith for a reason. If he erred at all, it would be his death. Death did not scare him. Failure did.

Malik had always erred on the side of caution. Altaïr had always decided that caution was not needed in his profession. Perhaps, for once, he had been wrong.

Throwing the shards of broken ink pot onto the empty alley below, the assassin paused to wipe a sheen of sweat from his brow. The sun was making his skin bristle, and the lack of his usual outfitting made him feel ridiculous. The bandaging on his shoulder itched terribly, but he resisted pulling them off for fear of awakening the wrath of his companion. He would force rest upon him, and for all that he would complain, Altaïr knew that he needed it desperately. Even standing was an exertion, making his head swim and his vision blur. He could not travel in this state. Malik understood this. He would spend his time in the Bureau, under the watchful gaze of the Jerusalem rafiq.

He could think of worse punishments. At least the Bureau was safe and the water was clean. There was food available. The company, for all of its complaining, was a welcome relief. Malik's cursing matched those of the sailors on the Acre docks, but his touch was gentle and his scent was-

Altaïr shook the thought from his head, feeling a heat that had nothing to do with the sun creep up his neck and cheeks. His mind would not stray there. Not now. Once they had been close. Now it was a different matter. The assassin turned and began his painful descent back into the Bureau, landing in a disgruntled heap on the pillows that had been stacked for the purpose of breaking his fall. Entering back into the sleeping quarters where he had spent the night before, Altaïr found Malik in the same place he had left him in, head rolled to the side, mouth agape.

He made himself as comfortable as he could, and settled down to wait for Malik to awaken. If he ran off in the shape he was in, he wouldn't make it to the front gate of Jerusalem.

****

How does it feel out on the ice?
You speak to the crowd but nobody hears,
It's not a dream and you are no prize,
And you're not alone, come in from the fear…

****

Even in a room without windows, the burning sun still managed to slice its way through the darkness, itching at Malik's eyelids until he unwillingly let them drift open. He felt like he had slept for a thousand years. The aches in his neck acquired from hours of pouring over dusty tomes and maps had miraculously vanished, and the rafiq sat up with relative ease, working his remaining arm in a wide circle, pulling the kinks out and sighing contentedly. The dream had not jerked him into the world of the living as he had thought it would. He was instead allowed to sleep uninhibited, an occasion that he had not had the joy of experiencing since Solomon's Temple.

Not only were the aches gone, but the weight of so many emotions, sadness and pain that had only been mounting since his brother's death and the loss of his arm, seemed to have disappeared with the visions of the night before. Malik wouldn't help but let a flickering smile cross his lips, moving his legs in an effort to stand.

It wasn't until he had moved from the sitting position that he recognized the extra weight on his lap as not of his own body.

The rafiq stuttered slightly, the half-formed words he had been trying to utter falling to the floor uselessly. Altaïr had somehow found his way into the bed with him, resting on his uninjured side, bandaged arm draped protectively around Malik's robed waist. The assassin had not left. He had remained, and was now sleeping fitfully, a frown drifting across his face.

"Altaïr…?" A gentle shake was enough to start his companion into action, the man lunging forward and up, tackling Malik back to the floor with ease. A knife that the rafiq hadn't even seen hidden in his hand flashed from the darkness, singing through the air and coming to rest on his throat. A shuddering breath, and sleep-fogged grey eyes met his own wide brown. "Brother stop." Panic rose in his throat, and Malik couldn't help but hold his breath, watching as recognition slowly filtered through the other man's eyes as he hovered over the rafiq.

"Malik." His name was not even a question. It was an utterance, filled with pain and grief and an overwhelming need, like a plea. The knife disappeared back into the recesses of the blankets, and the assassin bowed his head, breaking eye contact with the still-shocked rafiq.

"Malik I'm sorry I didn't…. you surprised me." His tone was that of a scolded child, and Malik felt his heart ache for the man before him. Forgiveness had been a difficult path for him to follow, especially for Altaïr. They had been inseparable once, as younger men. Now they walked on eggshells, afraid of the harsh words that the other might let fall. Where had they gone wrong?

"It's… it's alright. You don't need to apologize for being alert." Altaïr's frown told enough, and Malik sighed, running a hand over his face and scrubbing at the stubble on his neck. "You have done nothing wrong. Don't blame yourself for something else."

A nod, slow and contemplating. The assassin helped the rafiq sit up again, pulling him into a sitting position before retreating again, resting on his haunches. "Are you… are you well, Malik?"

"What do you mean?"

'You… didn't seem to want to wake up this morning. I tried to…" Worry. It was etched across Altaïr's face, as readable as any map of Jerusalem. He had never seen the man so open, and it was as much surprising as it was chilling. Had the injury affected his mind as well? Proud, fierce, stubborn. Never open. He had always struggled with emotions, and here they were painted on his face as clear as day.

"What are you talking about? I feel better than I have in years." A sour note that the man did not intend had crept into his voice, and Altaïr sat back as if stung, hurt burning in his eyes.

"I am keeping you from your work, Malik. I should go." The assassin stood to move out of the room, his shoulders hunched as if against any more verbal barbs that the rafiq might throw at him. Malik sighed again, brushing his hair out roughly with his fingers before standing and following Altaïr out of the room.

"You are injured, Altaïr. You need to rest yourself or you will drop dead before you can even reach Masyaf."

"I know when I am not wanted, rafiq. Safety and peace." It took a moment for Malik to realize that the assassin really meant to leave the Bureau.

"Altaïr! Don't be an ass." The words were snarled, and the one-armed man walked briskly forward, grabbing ahold of the other man's uninjured arm, spinning him around to face him. Even without his hood, the assassin's gaze was smoldering, and Malik had to keep himself from stepping backwards, out of the sphere of danger. "I'm not trying to start another verbal war with you, brother. You are injured. You need rest. Even a man as great as yourself," Malik let his fingers ghost over the bandaged shoulder, watching as Altaïr registered pain briefly across his face, "needs to allow himself some time to heal."

"Malik…" The rafiq could feel the defeat in the way the assassin said his name, and frowned slightly to himself. He'd stack injury upon injury on himself, and he'd never forgive his own failures. There were words there. They remained unsaid. "Thank you for providing me with safe passage, brother. Your concern is more than I deserve."

"You have earned every emotion that I can create, Altaïr." Malik allowed himself a small smile, and pressed his remaining hand to the small of the other man's back, pushing him back towards the darkness of the room they had emerged from earlier. He had to protect this man. If he didn't, he would be worked into the earth as if he was a pack mule. No-one deserved the life that he had led.

It was only after the assassin had fallen back into slumber that Malik allowed himself to look fully on the other. The sleep was unbroken, and no nightmares seemed to plague his companion's dreams. Ghosting his hand over the injured shoulder, the rafiq moved up to feel Altaïr's forehead. No fever. He would recover fully, with the exception of a few scars. Holding his breath, the one-armed man smoothed two fingers over the coarse jawline of the assassin, coming to rest at his chin before dropping his hand to his side again.

Altaïr had not awoken, had not attempted to jam a knife into the rafiq's neck. There was trust again, as flickering and dim as a tallow candle. But it existed. Altaïr had not found reason to extinguish that flame, not yet anyway. And so Malik would follow suit. They needed to trust each other.

The one-armed assassin stood slowly, making his way back into the garden. The only sounds were the gurgling of the small fountain, and the distant shouts and conversation from the city of Jerusalem. Settling himself on the pile of pillows that sat in the corner of the room, Malik craned his neck upward, hand extended on his lap to catch the mottled lights and darks that the lattice-work cast on the courtyard.

So he was at peace now? No. Never. There would always be a small portion of his heart that would forever be lost to the sands of time. But…. Perhaps he could begin to look for a way to heal. Malik let the heavy rafiq robes slide from his shoulders, the dark cloth coming to rest around him like the murky waters of the Orontes. Tentatively using his remaining hand, the man touched the stump where his arm had once been attached, running his fingers over the bandaged shoulder. He had not bothered to touch the thing in ages. He couldn't even stand to look at it once. But now….

A small smile, fleeting and frail. Looking up once again at the blue sky beyond the Bureau's closed roof, Malik stretched out his arm, as if to grasp at the azure heavens and take them into his possession. A shadow, the ever-circling of a hawk through the skies. A promise.

"Thank you… Kadar."

Author's Notes: HOLY HELL THIS TOOK FOREVER. Sorry for the wait, everyone who is reading! I was originally going to stop here, but I might continue on and add another chapter or two. Perhaps Malik telling Altaïr of his dream/vision. As I write this, I realize that the plot of this fic is very similar to RavensRequiem's story The Cross He Bears. The similarity was not intended, I assure you. Go read hers, it's far superior to mine.