"Return and report to Al Mualim, Altaïr. He will want to know that there was a decoy set up by Robert to distract you." Malik skimmed through the book under his hand, but his eyes were not focusing on the words, instead following the pacing of the assassin before him as he wore a groove into the hard packed earth.

"No. I must ride for Arsuf, or this war will never end. I need to stop Robert from speaking with Richard, or he will surely persuade him with his words. And then the Brotherhood will be hunted, and the Creed will die." Altaïr made a chopping motion with his hand as if to bring the discussion to an end, before pulling his arm back to lace with the other and rest them behind his head once again.

"This is a fool's errand, brother. You cannot fight through both sides of this war in order to reach King Richard. You are one man. It would be suicidal to even try."

"You never seemed to have an issue with my missions and the danger I have encountered before, Malik. Why do you hesitate now, when there is so much at stake?" Altaïr turned on his heel to face the rafiq, his brows knitted underneath the hooked hood. His face was a mask of concern and anger, and his eyes flickered with hatred, not for Malik, but for people and ideas beyond the Bureau. He had encountered much on his path towards redemption, and it had left him a changed man, if not scarred and bitter.

The pacing resumed.

Malik sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and momentarily retreating into himself to think. Of course this mission was necessary. Robert had to be stopped at all costs. He was the crucial point, the remaining thorn in the side of the assassin who stood before him. If this war was to end, then sacrifices had to be made. He just wished that it could be someone else who was to take up the mantle and travel to Arsuf, and not Altaïr. Trust had just started to regrow the limbs that had been hacked from it brutally at the Temple of Solomon. He could not stand to see their hard work uprooted for a simple mission.

What had Altaïr seen, what had he heard, that had made him wish to disobey orders?

"I hesitate because these words are ringing true to the ones you uttered before and during our final missions together, brother." The one-armed man watched as Altaïr paused in his seemingly endless path across the Bureau floor, his head turning to warily stare at Malik as he leaned over the counter casually. They had not spoken of his disastrous mission for months. It had been appropriate to keep it hidden, a secret bond that somehow kept them closer. Once upon a time it had repelled the two like vinegar in water. Paths had changed, wounds had healed.

"You know that I am not that man, Malik. I cannot, will not make such an error as that ever again." The assassin held up his hands, palm up, as if to show that he meant no harm, that he was true to his word.

"I understand better than anyone else that the pride-glutted man I once knew and loathed has long ago vanished. But I also know that old habits die hard, and that you cannot easily change ways that have been engrained in you since you were a small boy." A knowing look passed between them, and Altaïr dropped his head to look at his dust covered boots, momentarily at a loss. The rafiq had known him for so long, and yet it felt like their childhood had died when they became full-fledged assassins. There was no time for games or foolishness.

"I have made up my mind, brother. I must ride for Arsuf. You may scold me all you like, as is your pleasure. But there are things that I have learned through my dealings with these… targets. It has left me with so many questions, ones I am not comfortable with. They have tested my allegiance to the Creed. I need them answered, and so far all Al Mualim has done is dance around them until I feel like a fool for even asking." Altaïr struggled to form the words, his face working through a myriad of different expressions as he tried to voice his thoughts. Malik nodded sympathetically, closing the book that had sat long forgotten under his elbow. His companion was a painfully closed individual. The fact that he was voicing concerns and not just charging into plans that only he knew about meant that the man was learning. He could trust the rafiq with his beliefs once again.

"I will not stop you, Altaïr. You know that I cannot, even if I tried with all my might. I am confident in your abilities, just not… your direction." At the glare he received from across the room, Malik quickly amended his statement. "I am not questioning your allegiance to the Creed and your brothers. I am simply warning that to go against your orders is to once again stir the anger of the Master."

"I know that he will be angry. It is in his nature to be. I am not a dog, I do not bow to anyone." The words were said quietly, but the rafiq heard the dangerous tone within, hidden to any untrained ear. He knew this man, and what he was capable of. The old pride had once again flared to life, and for once Malik was glad to see it. The forced missions in order to gain back his position were humiliating enough. To be used as a pawn, as Altaïr suspected, was even more so.

"Be careful then. Do not say that I didn't warn you though." The one-armed man sighed gently, and drew a feather from beneath the teak counter, placing it carefully before him and giving the assassin a pointed stare. "I mean it."

"I know you do." Altaïr let a small smile flit across his features before he plucked the white feather from where it sat amidst the stack of books and papers, putting it into one of the many pouches on his belt before turning to leave.

"Altaïr!" It was with much less grace than Malik had planned, and he internally winced at his tone. The assassin slowly stepped back into the room, his eyebrow quirked. Memories of the dream came back to him, and although the rafiq wanted badly to say something about it to the man before him, he simply could not bring himself to utter Kadar's name. Not at such a crucial moment. "Keep me posted on any events or troubles you may encounter. I will not send them along to Al Mualim unless you request it." The words were muttered, and Malik lowered his head to avoid Altaïr's gaze, finding the scratches in the counter vividly interesting instead.

"As you wish."

A swirl of fabric as the man whipped out the door, and he was gone.

It had been a hard ride to Masyaf. There had barely been enough time to pack enough food and water for the long journey. But the consequences of not acting as fast as humanly possible were as clear as day.

At first he had not believed that their master, the very man who had raised both he and Altaïr from boys, could possess the same goals as the Templars. Malik had thought that his friend's words were some effect of madness, and that the master assassin had somehow lost his mind during the course of his many missions. There had been times when Malik thought that the man would break under the physical and mental strain of the tasks he was set to perform. As strong as he was, he was only human.

He had worried then, had prayed guiltily to a god that he didn't believe existed, for his friend to return safely to Jerusalem. Altaïr had not let him down, though he often dragged himself into the Bureau more dead than alive. It was not the physical injuries that bothered him, however. It was the mental state of the man who had once boasted and preened like the eagle that he had gained his namesake from. Altaïr was a strong, proud man. His eyes, which once burned with a flame that seemed impossible to extinguish, now looked out from under his hood with such sadness and confusion that it was hard for Malik to bear. He was a wraith, who wandered from mission to mission and performed the duties he was assigned.

He looked for all the world like he had been condemned to death, even as his heart beat and his lungs pulled air in and out. Everything was a motion, an action, a formulaic construction that he need only solve and finish and then be done with. There was no life in those eyes any longer.

Altaïr had told Malik that the men he had killed had spoken to him before they had died. They had said strange things, concepts that were shrouded with confusion, haphazardly worded as death claimed their owners. At first he had ignored them. He had to. The words of a dead man meant nothing to an assassin. They existed purely in the real world, and performed tasks for the living.

Death did not bring any assassin fear. When they died, so did their mission and the beliefs that they as an individual held. The only words that meant anything to them were those of the Creed. The Creed alone survived the cold grip of death, lived on to inhabit the soul of the next assassin.

As time passed however, Malik saw that realization was beginning to dawn on Altaïr. Whatever he had been exposed, it was working through him like a maggot through flesh. The man struggled to comprehend what he was being told, juggled the words of his targets with the words of his master. He spoke less and less about the missions he was assigned to, as if he was afraid that he would be struck down for uttering blasphemy against his master. Al Mualim had been a father to them both. What place did Altaïr have to reject the teachings he had absorbed all of his life, to spit them back into the face of the one man who had seen him as something other than worthless?

It was Malik who had tried to encourage Altaïr, to keep him on the path of the Creed, to pull him back to the center where he belonged. It was Solomon's Temple all over, it seemed. It scared the rafiq, more than death. His friend, who had made such a grave mistake and had cost him his arm and his brother, was drifting away from the words of his master, flinching as if stung when his name was uttered.

Altaïr was no idiot. He understood when he was being played for a fool. And he had somehow found realization in the speeches of his targets. One glance upwards had revealed to him that the master puppeteer was indeed Al Mualim. He had tried once to convince Malik. The rafiq had turned him away, sending him back to report to the very man who was corrupting the Brotherhood from the inside. It was a mistake he regretted. Altaïr had not been the same since.

Turning his horse abruptly and then patting its flank to calm the beast, Malik glanced up at the walls of Masyaf, his face a mask of disgust. He had called this home once. He had felt safe here. This was where he had spent his childhood, where he had trained, where he had returned forsaken and had learned to cope with the loss of his arm. The old stone walls nearly overflowed with memories.

He had sent Altaïr away. He had sent his friend to extinguish his master's life and end the Templar hold on their Brotherhood. He had asked one more task of the man who had already repented so much and given away everything until he had no more to give,

And now he was going to give up his life to end that of Al Mualim. If Malik did not intervene, the last thread of the life he once had would slip from his fingers.

Urging his steed forward into a brisk trot, Malik directed the horse through the steep cliff passes that led to the Assassin stronghold, tutting and cooing in order to comfort the animal that shivered beneath him. The ride had taken its toll on them both. He had barely stopped to restock on provisions or rest, so intent was he to reach Masyaf in time. "I promise you rest and food, good friend," the rafiq muttered, running his hand over the sweaty flank of the horse and giving a few reassuring pats before tapping his heels into its belly and urging it forward. Looking back up to the castle's foreboding exterior, he frowned. "If you do not survive this battle, Altaïr…" He left the sentence unfinished.

If Altaïr never came back, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

Something was wrong. He felt it in his heart, and Malik's blood ran cold as he saw his brothers, the ones who he had fought for, being cut down without mercy.

His heart stopped when he saw that the man wielding the blade, now dripping with blood, was Altaïr. Had he gone mad?

Malik was about to call the other assassin's name when he heard movement behind him. Their hideout had been found, it seemed. The rafiq swore loudly and drew his own sword, brandishing it threateningly as their enemies drew closer.

Not his enemies. They had been his friends once. Even now, he recognized some of their faces. They had worked within the city, had performed assassin duties, had lost their ring fingers, same as he and Altaïr. But they had been turned against him; the expressions they wore were not of those of the living. They had passed on in spirit, and all that remained was their bodies, willed on by the power of the Apple.

Realization dawned on the rafiq, and his sword wavered in mid-air, uncertainty washing over him. Altaïr fought them because they had been brain-washed. He was not mad, he was killing his brethren in order to reach the source of the evil, so that a few might survive the attack. Another open wound to add to the already mounting list of psychological injuries that the man had suffered. It was a miracle that he had not plunged a dagger into his own heart in order to escape the immense pain of simply existing.

It was with a choked back sob that Malik took his first swing, side-stepping the fierce sword swipe that his opponent made and cutting deeply into the man's shoulder with his own blade. The wound was fatal, and the man fell to the ground, blood seeping through his assassin whites and out of his nose and mouth. But there was no sound. He didn't even utter a cry of pain or surprise. The rafiq shivered, and felt the bile rise in his throat. This was no way to die, without even the dignity to say their last words to their God. He had never been a religious man, but it just seemed right. They would receive a proper burial, when this was all finished.

Another man fell to his blade, and Malik took off after the third, who had begun to back away. A kick sent him falling over the edge of the cliff, onto the sharp rocks below. Although his mouth opened, there was no surprised gasp as his body broke on the unforgiving ground.

"What have you done, Al Mualim…" The rafiq shook the blood off his blade before sheathing it again and following the curving path down the mountain towards the main part of the village. He and the handful of assassins who had accompanied him, those who were not under the curse of the Apple, had found a way into Masyaf through a mountain pass, one that was overgrown with trees and rough grass. It was an effort, and the horses had to be left behind near the path's beginning.

Malik had been determined to keep the ever watchful gaze of the Master from their group, even as Altaïr took the front gate entrance. He did not need any more worries, especially since he was unaware that the rafiq was trailing his progress through the city. What they had not expected was resistance, and from their own people.

A grunt caught his attention, and Malik turned towards the source, watching as Altaïr fell to one of the assassin's blades, struggling to stand again as a sword was raised in a killing blow over his head. The rafiq felt as if time had slowed to a crawl, his eyes wide as they followed the inevitable arc of the blade, a strong cut downward that would decapitate it's target.

Altaïr.

Malik heard himself call the man's name, saw his remaining arm grasp at the throwing knife in his belt, and watched as if detached from his body as the blade sliced through the air, straight into the neck of its intended target.

The assassin crumpled sideways in a silent puff of dirt, sword clattering from his hands uselessly. The others who had been moving in to attack faltered, their dead eyes looking around wildly for the source of the attack. Altaïr had regained his balance, his head snapping upwards to the source of the voice that had called his name.

"Malik…?" Confusion, and then he saw relief wash over the tightly drawn face. "Why are you here?"

"For the same reason as you, brother." The rafiq patted the sword at his side, glad that there was distance between him and his friend; his hand was shaking from the emotional strain.

"I will not have you endangering yourself by fighting Al Mualim. This is my battle." That old pride once again, but this time laced with concern. Malik shook his head, pointing towards the castle that loomed ominously behind him.

"You have my word that I will not interfere, Altaïr. Me and the others will try and distract the remaining… obstacles, whole you make your way up there." Using any other word sounded sour on his tongue. They were not his brothers any longer.

"Safety and peace, Malik."

"Your presence will deliver us both."

It was with these words that Malik turned away, heading back through the underbrush, sword once again drawn. He wouldn't watch the man die. It was not within any strength that he possessed to watch the last shred of the great Altaïr's sanity destroyed. New resolve coursed through him, and the rafiq leapt onto the next hypnotized group of assassins he came across. He would provide the diversion that his friend needed, even if it cost him his own life.

He had thought that his training had prepared him. He had thought, foolishly, that he would be able to defeat any opponent. He was the invincible Altaïr, Eagle of Masyaf.

As a well-aimed boot kicked him to the ground, the assassin realized that he had been gravely mistaken.

A roll to the left was all that saved him from the sword that burrowed deeply into the earth where he had been a fraction earlier, and Altaïr stood with difficulty to once again face his foe.

Foes.

Al Mualim had used the Apple to his advantage, creating copies of his form to confuse the assassin. He was using all of his speed to deflect the blows that were aimed at him from all angles, but in the process was incapable of landing any attacks of his own.

Another kick sent Altaïr's legs sprawling out from under him, and he hit the ground hard. His instincts screeched at him to stand once again, and his battered body obeyed, albeit slower than he would have liked. A grunt, and he was up again, sword brandished before him. A cut on his forehead was dripping blood into his eye, blinding him on one side. His hood had been thrown back some time during the fight, and he now glared openly at his former master, gaze unhindered by the usual shadow of the cowl.

The old man was speaking to him, but he barely heard the words, anger buzzing like a swarm of bees in his head. He would not listen to the lies. He had been fed them long enough to know how bitter and empty they made him. Another lunge, and he dodged it, cutting down one of the clones and stabbing it fiercely through the heart.

Rage built in his heart, but he ignored it. If he let his emotions get ahold of him, he would become sloppy. It was one thing to let his anger influence him, but another to let them control his actions all together. A low hiss of breath as Altaïr slowly exhaled, trying to calm his mind and keep his hands from shaking.

He would let the emotions come later. They were not to be ignored. He had suffered too much to simply let them go like so much dust to the desert winds. The pressing matter at hand was revenge.

It was with the impossible vision of Malik with both arms, fighting beside him in his mind, that Altaïr dove once again into the myriad of copies, plunging his blade through as many of them as he could get his hands on. Al Mualim would suffer. He had destroyed everything he held dear, all for the sake of a power that had corrupted him.

Focusing on the last figure standing, Altaïr made his move, hidden blade sliding effortlessly into place in his hand and sinking into the neck of his Master with a crunch of bone. Al Mualim's face widened in surprise, even as he dropped his sword and reached up to touch the wound that now bubbled with dark, fresh blood, bringing his hand up to look at his stained fingers incredulously.

"Impossible… The student does not defeat the teacher…." He croaked the words before letting his legs buckle from beneath him, reaching desperately for the assassin's robes and pulling him down with him. Altaïr loathed to even touch the man, but allowed the movement, supporting his head and gazing coldly at him as he sputtered around mouthfuls of blood.

The Apple sat where it had rolled when Al Mualim fell, silently glinting in the weak sunlight. He ignored it, for the sake of his sanity. It had caused him nothing but suffering.

"Altaïr!" The familiar voice, and the assassin lifted his head from where he was gazing intently at his master's face, inspecting it as if to find the source of evil as a dark blemish on his person. He had not been corrupt, once.

Malik came sprinting into the courtyard, his sword wet with fresh blood and leaving a trail of dark crimson behind him. He stopped short as he saw Altaïr cradle Al Mualim's body in his arms, and the assassin could read the rage as it spread through the man's face and body language like fire.

"I will kill him if he lingers too long." The hatred in the rafiq's voice was almost palpable, and the blade that appeared at Al Mualim's throat said enough.

"No. He is dying. Let him be." Altaïr blinked hard before gently letting his master slide from his grasp, dropping him to the lush green grass. A few dry swallows, and the man used two blood-stained fingers to close the eyes of the man who lay gasping before him, punctured throat spasming wildly as it struggled to draw in breath.

"La shaiq' waqee mutlak bl kollin mumkin." It was all he could think to say. It was all that needed to be said. It was finally over.

A bright orange light burst to his left, and Altaïr turned towards it, shading his eyes against the intensity. The Apple came to life, its surface illuminated like molten iron. A map slowly filtered into existence, hovering in the air as if by magic.

"What is this sorcery…?" Malik muttered the words more to himself than anyone else, sword dropping from his hands and lying forgotten in the dirt.

"It does not matter, Malik." The assassin turned to face his brother, and a smile cracked his blood-stained features. "Because it is over."

Altaïr's eyes closed, and he crumpled sideways in a dead faint. The last thing he saw before the dark bliss of unconsciousness took him was the concerned face of Malik, hovering over his prone body. Then the world went black.