Loving Hate

by Era-Age

He had thought that she would stay with him, that they'd start their own family. However, that was all to be mistaken, for she left. Now the two of them are forced to confront each other as well as new enemies. Violence, lemons, and language, Altair/Maria

14. Chapter 10, Part 2

Hildegard paced back and forth in the cellar, her arms crossed around her. There had to be a way out of there, there just had to be- especially after she threw bottle after bottle at the door.

"Hmmm..." Hildegard cupped her chin in her hand, standing a good 10 feet from the door. "The structure is in poor condition," she mused. The wine had soaked the wood, softening it. She walked over and examined its condition. "Perhaps I can break out by ramming into the wall..." She smacked it with her palm a few times and shook her head. 'No, that won't work...'

She resumed pacing to and fro, scheming up ways to free herself. 'The fate of the Rose is in my hands... The fate of seven people plus a dog. Oh, dear God, why must everything always come down to me? Maria, if I ever see you again, I will light your buttocks on fire and take pleasure from seeing you scramble about in search of water! Hmph!'

But then, the idea blossomed in her brain. Hildegard paused, brought her thumb to her mouth and bit the tip of it, slowly nodding her head as she agreed to her own thoughts. Shrugging, she said to thin air, "Well, it's worth a try." She trotted over to the door and cleared her throat with one hand to her chest. She took a deep breath and-

"FIRE! FIRE! LET ME OUT!" She bounced up and down frantically, her boots echoing off of the floor. She screamed the phrase over and over again, banging on the door as she did so. After what seemed an eternity, she heard footsteps making their way toward her. 'Ahh, so Assassins really are fools!' She beamed and assaulted the door once more. "FIRE-"

"Enough, enough, I heard you the first time. In fact, I think the entire fortress heard you."

Hildegard felt her insides shrivel from the man in front of her. What was his name? Ah, yes, it was Malik. He opened the door, his face weary and worn. "Honest to Allah himself, woman, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"How can I when there are no windows in this damn room?" She glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "I demand to be let out this instant!"

"That is exactly why I've come to retrieve you, woman." He blinked and looked completely unentertained from her stubbornness. "The Master wishes to speak with you again."

She gawked and shook her head vigorously. "Excuse me? You think you can shove me in a cellar and determine when you want to speak with me? I'm sorry, cripple, but I refuse to speak with men that think me such a woman! Hmph!" She whipped around and showed her back to him, her head raised high. "You can tell your Master that if he wishes an audience with me, he can come down here himself and talk, dog." She smirked when she heard him take in a quick angry breath.

Malik rolled his eyes and frowned. Why must everything be so difficult for the poor cripple? "I was afraid it'd come to this..."

She turned around and took a cautious step back. "Come to what..?"

"Alright, Brothers, she's all yours," he said as he took a step away from the door. In his place, several other Assassins with grey hoods covering their faces were standing in the doorway, making their way over to the blonde woman. She shook her head and walked through the small cluster of men, shouldering them out of her way. She stood in front of Malik, scowling at the man.

"I do not need more inappropriate treatment from the men in this God forsaken fortress," she spat at him. He chuckled and looked thoroughly amused. He gave her a nod, then a smirk, and began leading her to the Master's study.

---

Damiel's Journal #2

Where I was, I did not know. Who was holding me hostage, or what other horrors I was going to face, remained a mystery to me. It was dark and cold, my sweat cooling quickly on my skin. These men—whoever they were—did a poor job of bandaging my wounds from when I tried climbing the tower, not that I expected them to do anything close to a decent patchwork. The cell that I was in was only illuminated by only a flickering, almost dead candle. They were all around me, though.

That feeling—dé ja vu—encircled my entire being. This reminded me too much of when I was a slave. Talal, he'd... he'd beat us then strip our rags off of us, chaining us to the wall, and slowly drill a piece of wood into our stomachs and backs. It was all a game to him. Whoever would cry out first would lose, and the loser would suffer a painful death. And as for the winner? They'd have to go through the whole 'game' all over again.

But that was not the game that these men had in mind. I could barely make out the whites of their eyes, but I saw what cruelty that was in their leader's eyes. He stared at my semi-naked body, wishing to rid me of my own flesh and see my blood spill onto the floor. They'd already seen the scars on my back, how each blemish represented abuse from the whip. Talal's whip. No, they would not whip me. They'd perform torture far worse than what I've ever experienced—torture that would remain and haunt me in my dreams for life. I saw it... I saw the want in that man's eyes to see me scream until I died... just as he saw the hatred and anger in my eyes. If this is what had befallen my other comrades, damn these men to Hell.

Two days. I know I spent two days here, cold, hungry, and half bare in a cell. My arms and legs were chained together and I don't know what the Hell they did with Riva. I loved my weapon- probably more than I loved myself. If they had hurt her, I would kill them. I'll be damned if they claimed her as their own.

I couldn't sleep- didn't want to sleep. I wanted to know what they were planning to do with me. My body was already scarred and flawed, I wasn't worried about what I'd look like at the end of their tortures. No. I was terrified that I'd give them the information they wanted out of me, if any information at all, or if I'd see their vile leader smile in excitement from my screaming. I didn't want to show them my pain, but I knew better. I knew that I would scream until every last being in the world heard my cries of misery.

I lifted my head up when I saw the bars to my cell swing open, the fire from the flame casting long shadows down my grimy face. A rather large man bounded in the cell, grabbed me by my arms and hauled me onto my feet. He lifted me up and pinned me to the wall and smiled disgustingly at me. I cringed from his awful breath, but immediately regretted it when his fist pounded into my aching and broken ribs. I bit my tongue, biting back the scream as I did so, and drew blood in my mouth.

"Boss wants ta see ye now, rag," he said as he threw me out of the cell. I fell onto the floor on my stomach, the rough and fractured cobblestones scraping against my flesh. I groaned from the feel of layers of my skin being ripped, and I closed my eyes when I felt my warm blood slowly start to spread on myself. I kept my head down as I heard more footsteps making their way toward me. More guards came to join the bulbous man that had thrown me like a washcloth. I gritted my teeth when I felt something tug at the back of my head, merciless fingers curling themselves around my hair in a death grip. The hand made a sudden strong jerk, bringing my head up to look at the guard. I hissed through clenched teeth, praying to all the known gods that my chains would miraculously disappear and Riva would magically appear in my hands.

But I suppose this is what I deserve for disrespecting God and thinking Him and His followers fools.

"Yer gonna take a nice li'le trip, you infidel," he whispered maliciously as me. I narrowed my eyes and bared my teeth at him in defiance. Anger flashed through his eyes from my expression, and he brought his hand back to deal me a blow. Go ahead, try it, estupido...

If I had come from a mundane family, I would not have been able to succeed at what I had just done. His hand crossed my face, smacking me, but just as his hand past my mouth, I lunged out, using my legs as springs, and bit the flesh of his palm. I shook my head like a dog, biting down harder on the skin. He screamed, the other guards immediately coming to his aid. They used bludgeons and their own fists to stop me, pounding on me while I sunk my teeth into this man's hand more and more. When my upper and bottom rows of teeth finally met each other, my body screaming at me to let the man go and to turn my attention to my current attackers, I gave one final tug with my head, tearing the man's skin off of him. He howled in pain, clutching his bleeding palm, screaming at the men to kill me. But you wouldn't kill me, I knew that. Your orders were to keep me alive and in acceptable condition for the torture. You couldn't kill me, at least, not yet.

Another club slammed into my side. Slumping to the floor, I whimpered and bit my lower lip. I opened one eye to see two or so guards tending to the man I injured, wrapping his hand in layers upon layers of bandages. I took in deep breaths, trying to soothe my abused body. The guards each glared at me, some shaking their fists as they did so. I didn't care. I knew that whatever I was going to face would make me cry and wail like a banshee. They'd have their chance at victory, if not already.

I cringed and scrambled backward when they reached out to me. The round man from before growled, stormed over to me, and dragged me by my arm through corridor after corridor. We passed other guards, the men that were outside of my cell following behind. Each man looked down at me. Some gave me a pitiful look, others sneered, some laughed, while even a few of them closed their eyes in regret. Where was I going? I couldn't see anything, the fat man was in the way of my vision. Because of his largeness, I gave him Hell the whole drag to wherever in Riva's name he was taking me. I kicked my legs out, wiggled my shoulders violently, and even bit at his legs. He was annoyed, I could tell, when he gave a sharp tug to my arm, practically ripping the limb out of its socket. I writhed on and on, never faltering. I was only nine and ten years old and I had plenty of energy. I was cornered, which gave me even more of an adrenaline boost. And most importantly, I had a testosterone problem. I could go on and on with this tantrum, believe me.

That was, I could have continued with my struggle, had the fat man not entered a room lit by a roaring fire place, and thrown me into the center. This time I landed on my knees and somehow avoided cutting them. The tile—tile—in this room was smooth as silk, the walls a welcoming and warm orange color created by the fire. I gulped, knowing exactly well that this was all false. This room was not warm and welcoming. It was not friendly, it was not where I wanted to be. What was even more disturbing was the man in the middle of the room, his back turned toward me. He was shaking, and I recognized him to be the guards' leader. He wasn't shaking from fear or from shivers. No, he was shaking in anticipation—waiting to see my blood slowly drip from my person. He slowly turned around, a starved and crazed look in his eyes, and smiled unnervingly at me.

---

"Ahh, so the patient arrives at last," the man said to the aware boy whose eyes were darting around the room. It resembled that of a blacksmith's shop, complete with an anvil, tongs, furnace, hammers, and calipers. "I trust you've taken liking to my hospitality?" He flashed Damiel a smirk when the boy glared at him. "No? That's such a shame..." He sighed dramatically and snapped his fingers.

Immediately, two guards came into the room, grabbing Damiel by each arm. They pulled him away from the center of the chamber and towards the other side of the cheerfully lit room where buckles and straps were attached to a metal sheet on the floor. The leader nodded and pointed to the floor with his index finger. The guards slammed Damiel onto the floor and wrapped the leather straps around his torso, legs, and neck, holding him down. He struggled violently against their handiwork, snarling and growling at the men. He tried twisting his body out of the apparatus, but was quickly quieted by a foot coming down on the midsection of his pelvis. The boy grunted and twisted his face from the blow. His body let off another protesting howl from the pain, and he was vaguely aware that his chains were briefly removed from his arms and legs. Instead, he had his wrists and ankles cuffed to the floor, outstretched, as were his legs.

He gulped, not liking his position in the least. His heart pounded in his chest, almost freeing itself from his flesh.

The leader motioned his head to the side, the signal for the guards to leave. They all but eagerly left the chamber, bounding out of the door. What did the lone figure have planned for him?

"Perhaps... we can make you feel more at home?" The man flashed him a dazzling smile that was quickly replaced with a gruesome, anticipating smirk. The corner of his mouth turned up repulsively, revealing one of his canine teeth. Damiel turned his head slightly to the side, just as much as the leather straps and buckles allowed him to do so. He narrowed his eyes at the man, wary of his every action.

He walked over to the fireplace, gently gripping the tongs from the anvil, feeling the boy's eyes rake his body. He reached out with the utensil and toyed with a black and round substance that could fit in the palm of one's hand. With his back to him, Damiel could not see what the man was doing, but knew that whatever it was, it was going to hurt. "But, do tell me, where has your little friend gone? The woman: Maria?"

Damiel remained silent, his tongue curled at the back of his throat. He refused to tell this man anything of himself or of the Rose. A moment of silence passed between them before the man sighed. "Oh, dear, oh dear," he began, tapping the tongs against the heated rock. "Such a shame, I have to say," he murmured. He carefully closed both ends of the tongs around the stone and walked back over to the restrained boy. He knelt down beside him, shaking his head in mock sadness.

"Such a shame for a boy as young as yourself to..." His voice trailed off as he slowly and gently placed the burning coal onto Damiel's stomach. The boy immediately lurched forward, the straps restraining him from removing himself more than an inch off the ground. He bit back the scream that wanted to escape his lips as the coal slowly charred his skin, the sweltering rock imprinting itself on him. His muscles tensed from the contact of the blistering rock against his skin, his eyes watering and mouth set in a firm, painful line. "To endure something so... poetic..." the man finished. He gave the boy a regretful look, but he could see through the mask. Damiel's face was taut and his neck strained, his eyes huge as he stared Death itself at the man, wishing him to drop dead that very instant. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, as if he had just caught Damiel breaking one of the rules of the house.

"Tell me, Damiel," he spoke softly as he took the tongs and pushed the coal into the boy's skin, "where is Maria?" Damiel moaned and curled both of his lips inside his mouth, his stomach heaving from the applied pressure. "No? Still won't tell me?" The man sighed and dug the coal deeper, the only response being another moan from the boy. "Choose your options carefully, Damiel," he whispered. "You might even be able to walk out of here without too many new scars to your body if you speak."

Damiel shut his eyes against the agony and gave one firm shake of his head. He heard the man's retreating footsteps, giving him a brief moment to adjust to the heat of the coal. It was wrong, it was all so wrong! Humans did not deserve to be branded with rocks or tortured like this!

The Templar soon returned with another coal being held delicately in the pliers and was at Damiel's side once more. He didn't say anything, only applied the coal a couple of inches above the first rock. He watched with fascination as the boy's face twisted, the muscles in his neck becoming taught, the veins in his forehead protruding—beautiful! Absolutely picturesque!

Sweat glistened off of the boy's body. His breathing was labored; his eyes shut tight and lips trembling.

"Where is she?" he demanded once again. And once again, the boy remained silent. The man sighed and in a matter of seconds, another coal was placed on the boy's torso. Damiel's entire body shook, the rock melting his skin into a semi-watery substance. The flesh was forever damaged, as was his mind. He knew, deep in the recesses of his brain, that he could always lie to the man. But could he convince him? No, he knew he could not, not in his current state. And so he withstood the pain, the man's calm voice doing nothing to ease the heat and intensity of the rocks placed on him.

They were in a straight line, from his navel to the dip in his collarbones. He was crying now, the tears mixing in with the sweat pouring off of his face.

"Does it hurt, Damiel?" the man asked smoothly. Damiel gave one nod with his head, his nostrils flared and cheeks red with anger. "Oh, poor thing," he cooed. "A boy as young as you shouldn't have to withstand something so painful, should he?" The only sounds heard were that of the Templar's soft words and the boy's labored and staggered breathing.

"So young, so young," he mused. "Nine and ten years, is it? Only nineteen summers on you—barely even a man yet..." The man's hand slithered down from Damiel's side until it reached his hip, his hand resting on his torn undershorts. "Let us see just how far along your... development... has gone, hmm?" In a swift tug, the cloth was no longer around the boy's pelvis, but was loosely resting at his knees. Damiel's eyes flew open and he glared at the man out of embarrassment, anger, hatred, and loathing. The Templar merely looked at him with a soft expression, his mouth pulled in a gentle smile. It was sickening...

His hand trailed back up Damiel's leg. The boy's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth dangerously at him. Bastardo...

He smirked, and then let his fingertips glide over the length of his manhood, barely touching the skin. "So young..." He was about to snarl at the man and growl for placing his hands on him, when an ear-splitting scream shook the room as a coal was applied to his member.

Damiel shrieked, his pupils becoming the size of a quill's tip. His nails dug into his palms, his legs shook out of control, and his breathing stopped for a few seconds to allow him to wail on. He whimpered and cried, tears streaming down his face and dripping down onto the dirty floor.

"It really does pain me to see you in such condition, Damiel," he lied sweetly. "But if you do not confess anything to me, it will only get worse. Much worse." The boy swallowed, painful moans escaping his lips. He opened his mouth, his voice barely a whisper. The man narrowed his eyes and smiled in victory. "What was that?"

"Dije... MYRUHT KOUNEH! EEM BLIGES DZE-DZE! KAK OUDAK SHOON, TOON ESH! GULEER KELOOH! PERANUHT SHUNE KAKNEH! MYRUHT KOUNEM! SHAN TULA! EIM BLIGIS KO KURI VERA! DZEVERET KE KETREM, RAGATKOV GELXEET KE KERAKEM!" He swiveled his head back and forth frantically, spit flying from his mouth and eyes blazing with terror and hatred. The man looked absolutely furious, not understanding the language but understanding the meaning behind it. Two coals were placed on each of his underarms, the delicate skin set almost ablaze.

Damiel screamed once more, "LE MATARÉ! USTED MORIRÁ POR LAS GARRAS DE UN ÁGUILA, USTED CAGÓ! ESPERO DEMANDA DE MIL HOMBRES USTED EN CAMA, SU ESPOSA HACE UNA PUTA, SU HIJA PIERDE SU VAGINA, Y SUS HERMANOS JUEGAN CON LOS PECHOS DE SU ABUELA! BASTARDO, BASTARDO, BASTARDO!"

The Templar's eye twitched from the foreign words. He cleared his throat, and shook his head. "You should not have said that, Damiel..." He walked back over to the furnace, relishing in the fact that the boy was still crying out from the pain. Using the tongs, he handled a small, partially smooth-surfaced item and brought it with him as he stood next to the weeping boy once more. "Damiel, do you know what this is?" He crouched beside him and held the object in front of the boy. His eyes widened when he recognized it.

It was a marker—proof that he'd belong to them; the Templars. It was their icon, their symbol engraved in a circle.

"Good, you do know what it is," the man purred. "And it'll be in a place you'll always remember, Damiel. Your heart." The man pressed the insignia into the left side of the boy's chest on top of the sensitive, soft flesh. He screamed once more, his foreign curses filling the air as the nipple was forever marred and deformed. "The pain you're facing today, Damiel, is only the beginning. If you do not answer my questions, I will be honored to plunge you further in the darkness of your own blood."

Damiel closed his eyes, readying himself for the next onslaught of cruelty.

And he was right. The torture became worse. Much worse.

---

The buildings were still broken, the streets covered in rubble and debris. Loose cobblestones, dirt, beggars, and the homeless still wandered the ruined city of Acre. It hadn't changed a bit since she had last been there.

Houses were crumbling, the roofs still missing. The majority of the population was still Christian, yet there were more Middle Eastern races amongst the people than there were two years prior. But God, it was still lifeless. The sky was still clouded, sunlight barely piercing through the veil. The guards were still arrogant and felt that they were superior to all—still harassing innocent scholars or women.

The clothing was still torn and ripped; the very few children that came outside still wore their tattered garments. Their mothers did not care, though. There was barely enough food for themselves, let alone for the children. It was clear that the Devil had left his mark in this city.

She stood in the center of all of this, staring with saddened and frightened eyes. The Third Crusade was over, this should have been cleaned up by now... But it wasn't. No, there were far more important things to tend to rather than an already destroyed city. But this city meant so much to her... Acre was a piece of her life. It was where she was conquered, where she had admitted to herself and to a man that she loved him. And now... it was... dead.

Maria slowly walked the streets, her hood concealing her face. There were too many familiar faces here for her, too many guards that she recognized. And no doubt they'd recognize her if she was to remove her cloak. She was a traitor in their eyes. If she was found out, she'd be taken as a hostage and most likely beaten. Hostage... like what Damiel was...

She shook her head and tried blinking away the thought of him. He was wounded, blood soaking through his tunic. That much she could tell when she witnessed him being hauled away by Templars. She didn't know what they'd do with him or where he was, but she prayed to God that he was alright. She had already lost Hildegard and Benjamin; to lose Damiel would tear her apart. Those three were the ones that had kept her alive throughout the past year. Now, with all of them gone... she was beginning to wonder if there really was a point to her existence. What point was there? Altair had left her, her friends were gone, half her family hated her and frowned upon her while the other half was deep within the earth, and she was a traitor to the Templars. She served no faction, had no master. The Rose was dead, that she knew. They were defeated, picked off one by one. Damn Templars...

She found herself on the western side of Acre, standing on the docks. The port was opened up to regular folk now that Sibrand was out of the picture. And Lord knew how many people were just standing, some sitting, on the docks, looking out at the sea, as if the ocean held all the answers to their lives. She blended in perfectly by idling her time away, grey eyes staring at the water. What would she do? What could she do? She had spent most of the day searching for Benjamin's allies that he had spoken of. She had done her best, but she could not find them. She eavesdropped, she bribed, but the citizens knew not of anyone. It was as if it was all a dream, that nothing seemed to matter anymore. She'd let them down, she knew that. Her friends would never be seen again, she'd never return to England, she couldn't stay in the Holy Land forever, for she feared he would show up. That would be the icing on the cake for her. If Altair dared approached her, she knew she'd drop dead.

Maria sighed and plopped her bottom down on the planks. She crossed her arms and furrowed her eyebrows together. There had to be something she could do with herself. Becoming a whore was out of the question, she'd rather waltz naked with that damn Assassin than become a prostitute. She couldn't return to the Crusades, it'd be off with her head for her. She could always do community service, but for what? What would she gain out of that? It'd be a waste of eleven years of rebelling against her gender and standing up for women's rights. She could always return to Canterbury and maintain her uncle's estate, but what good would it do? He and her Aunt Emily were long dead, as well as her two cousins that she dearly loved. Being there would only bring back old, painful memories of her childhood. It'd also be too close to London for comfort. The Templars were probably renaming the city 'Templar Kingdom' for all she knew. But what she did know was that England was out of the question. Definitely out of the question.

She had plenty of money; she could always buy a small piece of land in the middle of nowhere and live there. 'Such a lonely existence, though... I wonder if Altair's life was as lonely before me?' She immediately shook the idea out of her head, but couldn't help wondering. What was his life like before he met her? His personality told her that he did not interact with people often, yet he knew how to speak fluently in other languages and knew how to control and hide his feelings. He was like a brick when she had first tried conversation with him. At first, he would not even reply to her. He just stood there, staring at her as if she was the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen. She probably was. After all, what was a woman doing in the Crusades? And what was a woman doing by mocking him and insulting him? At least, she thought he was staring at her like she had lost her mind. That damned hood of his hid his face from her. All she saw was the tip of his nose and mouth. And of course the man never smiled at her, so she had no idea if he was enjoying her pointless talk or annoyed with it.

'He's probably forgotten about me,' she thought bitterly. 'I was probably just some damn stress reliever for him. He most likelyhas women in every city and town swooning over him and waiting for him—dammit!' She sighed and bit her bottom lip. He was probably cracking jokes with his Assassin friends, saying how much of an easy woman she was and how she readily gave herself to him. It wasn't easy on her behalf, it really wasn't. She was nervous and afraid. What if he didn't like the way she looked? What if he expected a flawless beauty underneath her clothes? Flawless, no. Beautiful? Only a little, through her eyes at least. She had battle scars on her body, tanned thin streaks on her pale flesh. She thought for sure that he'd shake his head and dive off the tower and into the water below, committing suicide just from seeing her bare.

A soft smile touched her lips as she recalled their night together. Once he had ripped—literally—her clothes off of her, she crossed her arms over herself, hiding her breasts from him. Her hair wasn't long enough to do the job for her; it'd only reached about an inch or two past her shoulders. He had merely taken a step back, looked at her with a perplexed gaze, and then took her back in his arms, cradling her against himself as he whispered in her ear. He had, with some difficulty and with one punch that barely missed his forehead, brought her arms back down to her side and laid her down on the straw covering the cold stone of the tower. She snarled and growled at him, but soon gave up the struggle as his mouth descended upon her own.

She remembered that he had broken the kiss to allow his eyes to rake over her naked form. His hazel eyes memorized every centimeter of herself, every particle of skin. They started at her head, his hand brushing against her cheek as he noticed the blush spreading across her face. He saw how her curly hair framed her face nicely, how the strands of ebony cascaded down in smooth waves to her shaking shoulders. His eyes trailed down her shoulders to her breasts, a glint shining through his exotic orbs as he stared with hunger at the ample, soft mounds of flesh. How in Allah's name had she managed to conceal these from him in their travels together?

But he didn't care for an answer. All he cared about was that she was completely nude and underneath him, willing to be claimed by him.

His eyes roved down to her hips and to the sacred and secret region hidden behind two folds of skin. He wanted her. His arousal became more and more demanding at each passing second—so demanding that he did not know that she too was staring at his exposed skin with longing in her eyes. Her gaze settled between his legs. She stared at the prominent, thick, and swelled shaft, knowing that he was dying to break her barrier and find rhythm inside of her.

And she let him. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she had pulled him back on top of her, their mouths locking together and tongues meeting each other's in a struggle for dominance. His rough hands traveled up and down her anatomy, cupping her breasts and feeling the sensitive and hardening peeks with his thumbs, then soon traveled lower to unmarked territory. Her own hands felt each of his muscles, felt how they twitched underneath her touch and how they coiled together when she began feeling south.

Then, it all happened in a matter of minutes. He positioned himself on top of her, his warm and deep pools of brown and green asking her own wide and nervous grey eyes for permission. She gave no argument, only allowed him to spread her legs apart.

And then she was his, after much bucking and grazing, after they had each moaned to each other and kissed passionately.

'Stupid woman, forget about him. He's no better than that Joseph you married years ago.' She stood from the docks and marched her way back into the sorrowful depths of Acre, eager to erase the memory of him feeling the most delicate parts of her body and suckling on her from her mind. She couldn't do it, though. Maria Thorpe could not help but think of how he had shown her a completely new and different side to him. He wasn't the cold and brief man that she had aided in Cyprus, nor was he the mysterious and well defended Assassin she had sailed with. He was a man, simple as that. A man that could no longer control his desire of having her, as she was a woman who could not control her lust and need for him.

It had always been her. It had always been herself that she relied on, always had to be independent. Never could she allow herself to rely on another. She had relied on Robert to lead her troubled soul to the light, yet that had failed miserably, considering that everything he had told her was a lie. She had trusted her friends, only to have them taken from her. And then there was this Assassin, this murderer. He had never put any of his responsibilities on another, same as she. They both needed someone to lean on, someone to share their troubles with.

'Is that all I am? Just... just a pitiful therapist? A useless clown? Just some silly woman that he decided to lay all of his troubles on, and then walk away?'

She sighed and trudged over to a tavern. She could go for a fight or two with some drunks, after all, she could always imagine that each man was that blasted Altair and would gladly send them punch after punch. No, scratch that. She would gladly kick each of their testicles in and pretend they were that bloody Assassin's.

---

Altair stood at one of the bookshelves of his study, weaving through the selection of novels. Bayo sat patiently at his side, his furry mouth set in almost a grin as he stared at his master. They had not yet trained together yet, despite the fact that it was early morning, and he was eager for the man to be done with whatever it was he was doing. He seemed to just flip through a few pages of each book, and then place it back on the shelf. Was he looking for something? He probably was, though the dog couldn't be sure. The man was impossible for him to read. One moment, he'd have a slightly disturbing smile on, and then the next it would be gone again. Then a minute later, he'd be chuckling to himself. Bayo swore that he was going insane, though he knew he was probably thinking about Mistress Maria.

By all the bones in the world, he missed his former master. He missed how she would discipline him, how she'd carefully put a small chunk of raw meat on his nose and order him to not eat it for long minutes. He'd do anything to play fetch with her again. She always found a way to challenge his muscles and how she'd never baby him around. True, he enjoyed being pampered, but sometimes it made him forget what he really was. He was a warrior, bred to kill. He wasn't bred to have that one-armed man scratch him behind the ears and coo to him about what a 'good boy he was' when no one else was watching.

Though, he did have that occasional itch behind his ears that he couldn't reach, and the humans in the fortress were all too eager to pet the 'cute little doggy'.

His ears perked up when Altair nodded his head and walked briskly back to the desk, his finger holding the page open while he scribbled nonsense down on parchment with his other hand. Bayo followed the man and tilted his head to the side. What was he doing? What were those letters? Who was it for? Was it for Maria?

Bayo stood on his hind-legs and curiously peered over the desk at the paper. The Master of Assassins was frantically writing something down on it. It seemed that whatever was in the book was important. Huffing, the dog stood back on his four legs and circled the desk multiple times in search of something to do.

Altair glanced back and forth between the book and parchment he was furiously writing away at. Incredible! How could he have not known this?

He had briefly skimmed through the text of the novel, but was confirmed with what he had read. They had allies! Masyaf was not the only fortress of Assassin's—oh, no, there were more of them—specifically on the Iberian Peninsula. How strange; Al Mualim had never told him or any of his Brothers of more than one fortress that was home to the Hashshashin. Was the Old Man afraid that if they were to know of this, they'd demand to be reunited with their Brothers? If that was the case, then it made perfect sense. With more Assassins around, it'd only be a matter of time before one of them discovered their Master's true purpose; they'd have learned of his allegiance with the Templars.

He closed the book and placed it on the side of his desk. He would have to write to these new-found Brothers and learn more of their ways. Were they like the Assassins in the Middle East? Did they follow the Creed respectfully? Were there Templars invading their homeland as well?

Altair was aware that there had been many, many battles taking place on the Iberian. He knew that the Arabic culture was spreading quickly in Spain, due to many Muslim victories in the territory. Perhaps these Brothers used to be part of the Masyaf Fortress and spread their claim by moving west? It was indeed a wise tactic. They didn't have many ears near Europe, and if the Assassins were on the Iberian, well, then they most certainly had plenty of ears. No doubt some of them would even be in England and France as well, if that was to be the case.

The Master of Assassins was shaken out from his thoughts when he heard Bayo whimper. It wasn't the hungry cry, or the annoyed squeal, but rather a desperate sound. Altair frowned and noticed that the dog was sniffing the air. Did he smell food? They'd just ate though, how could the dog be hungry?

But when he followed the canine's gaze, he immediately understood why he was so anxious. Malik and a group of his Brothers were making their way up the stairs to his study with that blonde woman, Hildegard, in the middle of the small cluster. Bayo whined and stamped his feet impatiently. He could smell her, but he couldn't see her!

Malik led the men toward the Master and gave a small bow with his arm. "Master, the woman you've requested is—"

He was immediately silenced when Bayo had charged through the mob of men, white robes flying from the action, and launched himself directly onto Hildegard. The breath escaped her lungs as she fell over on her backside from the impact of the dog. He was glad, however.

Hildegard was here! That meant treats! Oh, he could practically taste the bits of raw meat she had stored in her pockets and the juicy bones she'd give him!

Bayo lolled his tongue out happily and began slobbering all over her, licking her face, neck, anything he could find. She laughed and tried desperately to shoo the dog off of her person, but he wouldn't have it. It had been far too long since he had seen anyone from his former life. And now here was Hildegard!

The other Brothers grumbled but gave confused stares at the woman and dog. Bayo? Was Bayo actually acting like the hound he was? Was their warrior dog actually being playful? And that woman—the one that had been so rude to the Master—was laughing?

What sorcery was this?

Malik floated his way over to the Grandmaster by the desk and leaned toward him. He said in a hushed tone, "Altair, do you... do you find this rather... peculiar?"

The man kept his face emotionless and ran his hand through his thick dark hair, removing his hood as he did so. "Not in the least, Malik."
The other man rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Do you mean to tell me you've kept yet another thing from the Brotherhood—from me?" he hissed.

Altair placed a hand on the man's shoulder before walking toward the squabbling woman and overjoyed dog. He remained stoic while he looked down on her, but he was just as bewildered as his other Brothers. True, he had known that Bayo knew Hildegard, but for him to react this way? Were they close?

Not in this pocket, not in that pocket... Where in the world did this woman hide the treats? He whined and nudged her with his nose, planting another wet and slobbery kiss on her cheek. She wiped the drool off and eventually stood to her feet, given that Bayo kept placing one of his strong paws on her and holding her down. Once she was no longer on the floor, she sighed and turned her head away from the other men present.

"We're familiar with each other," she simply said, shrugging. The Assassins slowly nodded, glancing back and forth between the now bouncing dog and the calm woman. "The little glut expects me to pamper him and give him meat."

Malik grunted and strode over to her. "We can see that, woman—"

"Oh, will you please start showing some respect, you blasted, good for nothing, womanly figured, brainless, pigeon pooping cripple?" she scoffed and folded her arms. "Honest to the Lord, I have never seen such disrespectful, rude—"

"Neither have we," Altair stated. His voice echoed off of the room, yet it was completely neutral. She looked into his hazel eyes and quickly averted his gaze. Although he appeared not to have been angered by her, those eyes could stop an army in one quick glance. They were so... distant.

The Master of Assassins gave one nod to his men, and they quickly bowed and left the Master's study. Once the three of them and the dog that was licking Hildegard's hand were the only ones left in the chamber, he turned back toward his desk. He browsed the bookshelves on either side of the table, not seeming to be interested in what he found.

Hildegard waited, if rather impatiently, for the man to finally turn his attention over to her. 'He sends his little henchman to collect me from the room, wanting an audience with me, and then he completely ignores me..! The fool will know what's coming to him soon enough...'

After painfully long minutes of standing there, looking around the room in complete boredom, she finally decided enough was enough. If he asked her to see him, it was downright ungentlemanly to keep her waiting there like a lost girl.

"I take it you wished to speak with me?" Her voice was sharp, her disdain for him clearly audible. He didn't even turn his head or give any sign of acknowledgment. He simply stood at his precious little bookshelf, running his hand up and down the spine of the novels. She rolled her eyes from the sight of him and began tapping her foot. "I said," she began with a snarl and narrowed eyes, "you wished to speak with—"

"I know what you said," he quickly spat at her.

"Oh, well, if that's the case, perhaps you should at least get on with what you need to say?" She glared at him and balled her hands into fists. Oh, she'd love to punch his exotic and handsome face and send it smacking into the wall...

He stopped and slowly turned his head toward her. She bit her lip from being under his gaze for a mere split second, but held her ground. He narrowed his eyes, taking in her nervousness, anxiety, and, of course, her anger and hate toward him.

"I will need you to tell me more of this 'Rose' you spoke of." Hazel stared into brown, and brown seethed at hazel. She took a deep breath, trying to control her retorts and tantrum that threatened to spew out of her mouth.

"And if I refuse?"

Malik chuckled and sneered at her, "Then you can expect to be thrown back into the wine cellar, woman."

She swiftly snapped her head in the cripple's direction and bared her teeth at him. "And maybe I'll lop that other arm off for you—even things out a bit."

Altair's eye twitched from the threat. He twisted his left arm slightly, the blade attached to his gauntlet gleaming off of the sun's just rising rays. Her eyes immediately swept to his arm and she gulped, remembering the metal that had almost pierced her throat. She averted her gaze to the floor, seething on the inside when she heard the one-armed man grunt in victory at her.

'Devil spawn..'

"I take it you'll reconsider?" It was not a question, nor a demand. It was what he knew. He knew that if she refused, then she'd be of no further value to him, Maria's best friend or not. And when one was no longer substantial to an Assassin...

She nodded and nervously clasped her hands in front of her. "What is it you want to know of us?"

"The foundation of the faction: your purpose, members, skills, victories, failures, current objectives—anything you are able to tell me."

Hildegard laughed lightly and shook her head. "There isn't much to tell you, I've already given you most of the information." However, he stared at her expectantly, his face hard and dark. She sighed, "Our purpose is to hinder and distract the Templars from their main goal: control over humanity in order to have world peace. We have seven members: three men, and four women, and we each have various skills. Olivia is an archer and a scout, Zaina a thief, Damiel a pike-man who also has the ability to annoy an entire army back to their home country, Benjamin a swordsman, informant, and respectable veteran, Maria a warrior as well and also my best friend that you left—"

"I find it amusing how you forgive him merely two days ago, and now today you are still as vicious and cobra-like," Malik said as he rolled his eyes. "Annoying woman..."

She once again gave him a menacing stare. "It's good to know that you were listening in on our conversation, cripple."

Altair gave him a brief disapproving look before gazing back at Hildegard. She quickly continued, "And as you know, I myself am part of the Rose. I'm an informant, a warrior, and something we like to call a double-agent."

Malik immediately sneered at her from the information, his lips turning into a rude and mocking smile. He narrowed his eyes, raised an eyebrow, and glanced back and forth between Altair and Hildegard. "A double-agent, you say? Then you are with the Templars after all—"

"No, I am not," she growled, her eyes gleaming brightly with annoyance. "I am a Lady, cripple, believe it or not," she added in when he rolled his eyes in disbelief, "and because of my status, I'm able to attend parties, feasts, meetings and whatnot that the nobles held. I was able to gain valuable information." She turned her head to frown at Altair. "Information that saved your precious' life quite a few times."

His face softened slightly at the mention of Maria, however it vanished as quickly as it had come. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. "You have only named six people, Lady Hildegard." His face remained blank and unreadable, yet she could tell he was trying to subtly insult her. And he succeeded, for her face turned red in anger and her fists shook in rage. "So, tell me, who is the seventh of your faction?"

"His name is Aden," she blurted out, "he's one of the finest swordsman we have ever seen, a remarkable sailor, a passionate friend, strong, big man, caring, considerate, polite, gentlemanly—"

Both men stared at her as she rambled on and on about this 'Aden'. Malik looked over at Altair and gave him a knowing look. So, she was taken with this man. Interesting...

"He is your lover?" The question was out of the Grandmaster's mouth before he could restrain it. He felt guilty for asking it so bluntly, yet the feeling was replaced with triumph as he saw her gape and look down at the floor, clearly embarrassed. It wasn't any of his business, after all, but if it was a way to shut her up, then he'd be glad to humiliate her over and over again. Dare he say it, she was worse than Malik when the market was out of kibbeh.

"He... well..." She bit her lower lip as she stared long and hard at the stone floor of the study. She didn't know what answer to give, let alone how to say it. Aden had feelings for her, she knew that, but did she feel the same way for him?

When she was in Halim's custody, she had felt something for the big burly man. It was... strange. She was not comfortable being anything but friends with men- her body proved that. But how could she refuse him? He was everything that the men she had slept with were not. He was respectful, if a bit too gentle with her. But she could easily request him to not treat her like a breakable doll. But what if that was what she was? What if she appeared fragile and delicate to her friends and they felt the need to be extra careful with her?

She closed her eyes and shook her head gently. "He's... a friend," she said slowly, carefully choosing her words. "A friend. We... we do not have anything special between us," Hildegard lied. She looked up at both men with a straight face. She whispered, "Just a friend."

The one-armed man remained looking at her with a bored expression on. He yawned and said, "Such a shame. I feel bad for the man knowing he has to put up with you."

Her fury instantly grew and thundered inside of her. She whipped around to bare her teeth at him. "How dare you! You ask me questions, I give answers. You listen to my answers—at least, I think you do—and then mock me! And when I try to defend myself, you," she pointed at Altair, "start showing that damn vambrace of yours and threaten to take my life! What justice is there in this? What honor?"

Altair frowned and was about to silence her for being so out of place, but he turned his head to the side when a rustling sound interrupted his actions. He walked away from her and stepped to the grand window where a light grey dove was perched.

She was absolutely on the verge of killing something. He just... he just... had the nerve to walk away from her! Unbelievable! Disgraceful! She cried out in frustration and stamped her foot. "Don't just turn your back on me, leader of the Assassins or not! I will NOT tolerate such behavior!"

Malik laughed and mocked her, "Oh? Since when do you, a woman who has no way of defense, has the capability to order our Master? Careful, you may lose that tongue of yours."

She crossed her arms over herself and jutted her hip out in defiance. "Excuse me? And since when do you, a brainless cripple, have the right to treat a guest—"

"Exactly. YOU are the guest, this is OUR home—"

"I do not care if it is God's home! You do NOT treat people like this!"

He rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw firmly. "And you do not speak to men, your superiors, like this!"

Altair was vaguely aware that the two of them were arguing behind him, and he was even less aware of the fact that Malik was close to strangling the woman with his own hand or that Hildegard was ready to unsheathe the dagger inside her shirt and to stab the Assassin with it. He was far too busy reading the letter the bird had delivered him. His eyes scanned over all the words and he frowned.

"...ignorant woman! I will teach you respect!" Malik marched over to her, his arm pulled back and ready to let his fist fly into her face. Hildegard took a step back, growled at him, and was about to pounce on the man.

'So, they've found something in Acre,' the Master of Assassins thought. He paid no mind to what was going on behind him as he scratched his chin and stared out the window. 'I am pleased to know that my Brothers are working to their best capability and that much effort is being put into this.' He turned around and bit the inside of his cheek as he saw the two near each other, ready to attack.

"Enough!" he commanded. His voice echoed off of the room, the bellow causing both man and woman to stagger backwards in shame. He narrowed his eyes at Malik, ashamed of his behavior. "She is our guest, Malik—"

"And I suppose you wish to speak to me again? Or do you plan on turning your back on me once more and ignoring me?" Hildegard strode over to him, her shoulders heaving and face twisted in a hideous scowl. "You are downright incompetent, you bastard."

Altair's eyes turned to two deathly slits as he glared Hell and Demons at the woman. She did not step down, but he could see how her expression changed from determination to fear. It was amusing to the man that this woman had claimed she was Maria's most trusted friend, yet they were nothing alike. Maria would have never shown fear to him and would have ordered him to treat her better right there on the spot, even in front of the entire Assassins if she had to. Remarkable woman.

"It'd be wise not to demand from the Hashshashin, Hildegard," he snapped at her through clenched teeth. "We just may lose our patience with the likes of you."

She furrowed her eyebrows together and swung her hand out at him, almost smacking his cheek, had he not grabbed her arm and twisted it back and thrown her to the ground. Years of training and dedication to the art of stealth had severely paid off for him. He had been smacked by a woman before—Maria—and he knew from experience that often it left a mark. And a sting. And an angry woman.

She grunted when she hit the floor, her chin scraping against the stone. She gritted her teeth together and pulled herself up, her eyes blazing with anger and nostrils flared. Bayo stood, confused. His master had just struck a friend... what was he to do? Should he even do anything? He whined and decided against it. He'd be a good dog, for now.

She whirled around to shriek at the man, but stopped when she saw him and his annoying friend conversing with one another. Or, rather, the one-armed man was reading a paper while Maria's bastard lover was speaking in a hushed tone.

'Master, I have done as requested and remained vigilant in Acre. My lookout has paid off. An ally, one of us, is being held prisoner in the Templar Stronghold that once belonged to William of Montferrat.

-Your Brother'

Malik raised an eyebrow from the letter and looked over at Altair, who was busy bustling to and fro his desk, placing books back on the shelves and shuffling through papers quickly. He cleared his throat, and said, "I take it, Brother, you will be leaving for Acre then?"

He nodded, not saying a word, and completely disregarded Hildegard. He briskly walked down the steps of his study, through the door in the hall, up another flight of stairs, through another corridor, up another flight, took a right, then a left, then a right, then another right, and then finally up another flight of stairs to reach his bedchambers. All the while, a confused Hildegard and anxious Malik were following him, along with an oblivious Bayo.

Malik stopped at the Master's door, as did Hildegard and Bayo. Hildegard was curious to see what all the commotion was about.

Altair made his way to the chest at the foot of his bed, practically threw it open, and began taking out its contents. His sword, curved knife, and throwing knives were all attached to his leather armor in seconds. He turned around out of his room and brushed past the three of them silently. They all followed him through the fortress and came to another stop when he was at the courtyard gates.

"Perhaps it is best if you bring another Brother or two with you, Altair?" Malik suggested. From what he'd heard from the other Dai, Acre was a place bustling with Templar activity. Master of the Assassins or not, every man made a mistake. When there was no response, he quickly asked, "I assume that you'll be neglecting your responsibilities as our Master by going off and leaving us?"

He ignored the question and said bitterly, "Malik, be sure that the woman is given a room to stay in." He walked through the gates and down the steep path that led to Masyaf's marketplace and village.

On the outside, it seemed that Malik was perfectly alright with his decision. Internally, however, he was furious and taken aback. Surely he could have sent one of their active Brothers? Why did he feel the need to handle this himself? It wasn't like they had never rescued one of their own kind before. Al Mualim had even trusted Malik to rescue one of their Brothers that Majd Addin, the executioner, was holding captive. Why did the Master feel too responsible?

He bit his lip and shrugged. He could not go against what Altair said. Orders were orders, and whether or not he agreed with what the man commanded, he still had to obey. Thus, he turned his head to look at the woman, and held back a sigh. At least he was able to hide his anger. She, however, was not able to.

Hildegard's eyes were narrowed, the irises barely even visible. Her face was scrunched up, a corner of her mouth turned up in a snarl. Even her fists were balled up tightly, knuckles white, and shoulders hunched with anger. Oh, Allah, preserve him.

She looked over at him, waiting for him to make a move. Malik gulped, nodded, and began leading her back inside the fortress to her new room.

'Of course, Altair. Run off and play little Novice again while I deal with your dirty work... So typical of you!' He frowned and walked up the stone steps to enter a new corridor. He heard her quick and heavy footsteps behind him, as if she was marching. She probably was, due to her circumstances. Though, Malik did not feel any sympathy for her. If he thought about it hard enough, it was his fault she was even here to begin with. Had he allowed Altair's letters to be delivered to Maria, he would never have met this beastly woman.

But, wait, no...

If Altair's blasted beloved had not abandoned him and set sail for England, none of this would have even happened! Hildegard would still be at God knew where, he'd have been able to sleep properly without hearing her screams in the cellar, and Altair would most certainly not have been ignoring his duties as Grandmaster. Hah! So, therefor, it is all Maria's fault! Of course! How could he have been so selfish to think that he was responsible?

He came to a gentle stop in front of a door and swung it open. He motioned with his head towards the room. "This is where the Master would like you to stay." It was all so confusing. First, he had placed her in a scarcely decorated room with barely anything of use, then he had her thrown and locked in a wine cellar, and now this?

She followed his gaze into the room and stepped in slowly, half expecting him to laugh and slam the door shut behind her. But he did not. He stayed in the doorway, watching her. It was slightly creepy and unnerving, but she quickly ignored it as she took in the furniture. The sight immediately calmed her down and set her in awe.

Everything was so intricate, so beautiful. The woodwork was made out of that of an olive tree, the light color suiting the medium-toned walls. It was all so complimentary. Everything looked so gentle, contrary to what Assassins really were. It was so contradicting, so ironic, that they would have such beautiful furniture.

Hildegard slowly walked towards the bed and sat down at the edge of it. She ran her hands over the sheets, admiring how soft and smooth they were. Was every room like this, or was it just the guest's room? Or was Altair trying to apologize for treating her so harshly by ordering this furniture be crafted just for her? Although he was rude and brief with her and always threatening, she knew that there was a side to him that not many people had the chance—no, privilege—to see. Malik, for example, was one of the few that had ever seen the human side of him. Others saw a coldhearted, merciless, paralyzing monster.

She looked over at Malik and gave him a small smile. "Thank you," she whispered. He gave a nod and stood at the foot of the bed. She frowned and tilted her head to the side in question.

He shook his head and waved her quiet. "At last," he began, "you show some qualities of a woman. I was beginning to think you were hit in the head when a child." He chuckled, but when he was not given a response, he cleared his throat and swallowed. "I trust that the room is to your liking?"

"Mhm," she said curtly. She bit her lip and raised her head to look at him. "Tell me, Malik, what did you mean when you said 'neglecting your responsibilities as our Master?' Surely that man was too preoccupied with his work over the year."

He sighed and returned her gaze with his own. "Perhaps over supper we may discuss this further."

She smirked, "Trusting me so soon?"

He rolled his eyes and shrugged easily. "If the Master deems you safe enough to leave the wine cellar, then I too must place my faith in you, woman."

"And if I chose to run away? What happens then?" She crossed her arms, but she was not at all challenging. It was a simple question, her face twisted in a curious frown.

He chuckled and ran his hand over his chin. "Well, that would be most unfortunate for you," he mused. "A woman so pretty as yourself, disobeying the Master's orders..."

She looked unconvinced and blinked. "If he is in love with Maria," she smiled as she saw him wince from the name, "then he would not take advantage of me, now would he?"

"Mmm, believe that it is the Master that would choose to have you and feel guilty afterwards... See how far that gets you." He smirked at her and walked out of the door, stepping to the side to let a particular dog enter the room. "Oh, and remember," he paused and called over his shoulder, "we will be meeting for supper. I'll have one of the servants come and show you the way. There's a change of clothes in the dresser." With that, he stepped out of the room and closed the door.

Hildegard smiled at Bayo and patted her lap, motioning him onto the bed. He happily sprang onto the mattress, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his mouth. He rubbed his head against his old friend's arm, demanding that she pet him. She laughed and complied.

"Isn't he a silly man, doggie?" she cooed. She had flipped the dog onto his back and was rubbing his stomach. He wiggled and righted himself and sniffed her pockets. Where were the blasted pieces of meat?

"He thinks he's so tough, doesn't he?" She lowered her mouth to the dog's neck and blew hot air onto it. He quickly drilled his nose into her forehead and growled playfully.

After several moments of reuniting with Bayo, Hildegard made her way over to the dresser the man had mentioned. Bayo was laying down at the foot of the bed, his forelegs crossed neatly over the other as he watched the woman.

She pulled a drawer open and recoiled her head back. These were...

She grabbed the garment and held it out over herself. This was not the type of clothing that the villagers had been wearing! By God, this wasn't even the clothing worn in this region! It was a dress, but it was an English dress. She even had an exact one back in her estate- before it was burned down, of course.

The length of it was a dark auburn color with loose white sleeves. She loved that dress, but she had forgotten to bring it with her. Did Malik do this? Or did Altair do this?

But this was Muslim territory. Christians weren't welcomed here, nor were Muslims welcomed in Europe. How had Altair known? Had he been feeling apologetic all along and had bought the clothes to her? Was he trying to say sorry? Or was he just trying to be on good terms with her because she was Maria's most trusted friend?

She shook her head in wonder, but laid the dress out on the foot of the bed. She would not change now. There was much of the morning left, and being in that cellar had drained her. The floor was uncomfortable, and the bed right in front of her just seemed lovely.

Without further ado, she collapsed on the sheets and sighed contentedly. How dare they deprive her of a bed as comfortable as this one...

---

He burst through the door, his entire body shaking with excitement. Oh, it was beautiful! He jogged over to where his ally was and practically jumped in joy. "Oh, Seer! You should have seen it! It was all so wonderful! His cries, his pain, his face... Oh, it was truly marvelous," he sighed. He kept a disgusting small smile on his face as he shook his head. His eyes seemed to be in a completely different world.

Seer did not turn his gaze over to the man. Tyler had caught him in a game of chess with one of the other guards, and he was not in the mood to lose because the man had distracted him. He grunted in acknowledgment.

Tyler huffed and crossed his arms. "You do not even care!" He rolled his eyes when Seer had remained unimptrddrf. "It's been too long since I've heard someone scream like that," he mused. "A fine pair of lungs that boy has..."

Seer sighed when the guard he was competing with suddenly clutched his mouth and raced away towards a window. After several moments of a dreadful hacking sound being heard, Seer addressed Tyler. "You cost me a match."

The man blew out impatiently and frowned. "And you're spoiling my fun! I just had a most wonderful time torturing a captive- that Damiel boy! And now you're not even congratulating me!" he whined. Seer blinked and cleared his throat in annoyance. "Oh," Tyler said dreamily, "it was all so lovely. It was as if it was a sonnet! His cries, all different, yet all the same! Seer, you should have heard it!"

"I did," he said gruffly, staring at the chessboard, "we all could."

Tyler's eyes widened in astonishment as he gaped. "Really? But that was four levels underground! How in the name of the Lord was he audible from up here?"

Seer remained silent and removed himself from the stool he'd been occupying. He simply walked away from the man, hoping he would leave him be. Torture was a coward's weapon, and he was no coward. However, his ally was not yet done babbling. So, Tyler followed him.

"He had hot coals placed on him today," he began, "and in a few more hours I plan to introduce him to The Chair. Surely those bindings he's in aren't comfortable..." When Seer made no move to reply, he pressed on. "Or maybe I should have him experience The Rack? Oh, Seer, my friend, there are just too many options in my profession," he moaned.

"Of course," he wondered, "I could have his fingernails ripped off or have rats feast on his rotting flesh- what do you think, Seer?"

The war-experienced man stopped in his tracks and slowly turned his head to the side. "I think," he growled, "that you are not interested in what information he holds dear. Rather, I believe that all you want is to hear screams." In a moment, Tyler was pressed against the wall, the collar of his tunic being clutched by the bigger and stronger man. Seer hissed at him, his forehead pressed against his in fury, "If that is the case, then I would be obliged to allow you to hear your own screams when I slice your stomach open and let the acids spill out."

Tyler shook in fear, but quickly recovered and scurried away from Seer. "Remember whose side you're on, Brother," he stammered. He held himself with his arms as he stared in shock at Seer. "One may think that you are not pleased with the Templars."

"The only thing that displeases me, Tyler, is you." He turned on his heel and walked briskly away from the quivering man. He did not care what plans he had in store for that Damiel rat, only that he kept his fantasies to himself and his disgusting hands off of him.

---

She found herself sitting down at a long table made out of the same wood as the furniture in her room. A red tablecloth had been spread across the length of it, steaming dishes and bowls of all shapes and sizes placed on top of the linen. Skewered lamb, chicken, mutton, salads of all sorts, pilaf, kibbeh, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and pork- pork!- were all being served- and for only two people. It was ridiculous! Was he trying to insult her by all of this? Or was he just trying to show her that this was how their kind ate?

Hildegard glanced over at Malik who was seated at the other side of the table. The servants had just finished placing trays of food in front of them and the man was looking rather pleased with what he saw. Of course. Men. They all love food.

"Please, help yourself." His voice was kind. Too kind. She narrowed her eyes slightly but did as he said. She took one of the salad bowls and placed a small amount of romaine lettuce, cranberries, strawberries, and cucumbers on her plate beside the meat and rice. He watched her, even as he helped himself to the food on his plate. She kept her eyes downcast, not wishing to meet his gaze. If he would be a disturbing person, then she would not give him satisfaction of being aware. So, she simply ate the food on her plate.

It was silent, the dinner not being quite as fantastic as the food offered. Yes, everything was delicious, but she wished dearly that he would stop staring at her so intently and say something. Anything!

She gulped and risked looking at him. Her eyes widened and mouth flew open as she saw him take a bite of pork. He saw her expression and chuckled once he had swallowed the meat. "I take it you are confused?"

She could only nod, which earned another chuckle. "The Hashashin, Hildegard, do not follow ordinary Muslim customs."

Was it really all that simple? Was their Creed their religion then? "I do not understand," she stammered. She poked at the chicken kebab with her fork and waited for an answer from him.

"We do not consider ourselves to be like ordinary Muslims." So it was arrogance! "For if we were ordinary, we would not take lives. The Koran does not suit us all that well, which is why we have our Creed. It summarizes everything that book has to say, thus we live by what we, the Assassins, have created."

"But is the Creed not a method of combat? To be discreet?" she asked.

He repeated all three tenets and stared at her afterward, waiting for her to make the connection. She was dumbfounded. He sighed and placed his fork back on the table. "Never harm an innocent. It's quite clear what it means. The definition can be manipulated in many, many ways, physical or emotional. Hide in plain sight. We stay where ones least expect us to stay. It is a way of protection and prosperity. If we were to be obvious, how would we keep what we hold dear? Never compromise the Brotherhood. For us, the 'Brotherhood' is our Order. To harm one of us is to harm all of us. And what is it we fight for? We fight for peace with all things, human or not. We harm one of us, we harm our goal: we harm peace. We refrain from doing such a thing. Do you see now, Hildegard? Everything can be interpreted in many ways."

She nodded slowly, chewing on a piece of chicken. He gave a small smile and continued with his own meal. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

She raised an eyebrow at this and quickly swallowed her food. "What the Devil does that mean?"

"It means that there is no one correct way to see something. If I was to say that this tablecloth was red," he tugged on it for emphasis, "and you said it was a deep orange, which one of us would be right?"

"Did you purposely make it you to be right?" she growled. He sighed but ignored her quip.

"Then answer this for me: how can we prove something is right?"

Hildegard furrowed her brows together and bit the inside of her lip. "Right is just right. There... there is no proving... you can't..."

"Exactly. If someone had bad eyes that saw different colors, they may have seen this cloth as purple for all we knew. But it is purple to them. Are they wrong for seeing it differently? No, of course they aren't."

"So, enlighten me," she said. "Tell me how all of this fits in with your purpose as Assassins."

"We hunt and kill Templars to destroy their dream of peace through force. But we do not hate them. How could we? How could we hate someone for thinking differently? They did not sin, it was simply a disagreement between two factions. We do not kill out of rage—well, some of us do, but that is another perspective altogether. How can we blame them for having emotion?"

"So you are saying everything is... transparent? That it is all a mirage?"
He nodded. "Yes. The world is an illusion, Hildegard. Adapting is the key to survival, I believe."

"Believe?" She tilted her head to the side. "Animals are proof that you are right. If they did not hibernate during winter, they would freeze. Is that not adapting?"

"But some animals do not hibernate," he countered. " The deer here stay all year long. So who's to say that I'm right?" A smile slowly crept onto his face as she rolled her eyes. She found herself smiling back after a few moments.

"I see," she chuckled. The atmosphere had changed considerably, both civil and ready to get down to business. "And I take it you will answer my previous question?"

"Not before the ayran," he said. She opened her mouth to question, but soon shut it as a servant quickly entered the room and set down a pitcher made of pewter next to Malik. Once the woman left, he grabbed the pitcher and was soon pouring its contents into Hildegard's goblet.

"Mind telling me what the Hell this is?" she mumbled. He rolled his eyes and placed the pitcher back on the table once the glass was full.

"Ayran is a drink-"

"Oh, really? I thought it was a biscuit." She rolled her eyes and took a careful sip from her glass. "What's in this?"

"It's regular yogurt mixed with water and salt. Don't worry, it won't cause you to be uglier."

She scoffed and took a gulp from her goblet. It wasn't too bad. It was slightly sour, but it was delicious and thirst-quenching. He refilled her goblet when she had downed the whole beverage and poured himself a cup once he was back at his seat. "Now, you wanted to know why Altair has been irresponsible over the past year?"

"Does it have anything to do with a certain someone I know?"

"I blame her entirely," he grumbled. He shook his head and took a swig of the ayran. "Ever since she left, he's been moping around, sulking and crying in every corner he could find when no one was looking."

She smirked and chuckled. "I suppose you've never really had anyone to complain to about him?"

"He's always in the fortress," he shrugged. "Even though he's on the other side of the castle most of the time, he'll still hear me."

"And he wouldn't mind finding out that you've been disloyal to the Master of Assassins?"

"He is not just Master and I am not just his right-hand man. We are best friends. He knows that I do not mean him any ill by gossiping. Although, it probably is not healthy. He knows, though, that I am thoroughly on edge with him and that I would very much like to give him a good kick to his be-hind."

"And you blame his attitude on Maria?"

"Oh, for Allah's sake," he smacked his forehead with his palm, "do not mention her name!"

"So, he... he really does have affection for her? He's capable of harvesting feelings for another person?"

He slowly slid his hand down his face and stared at her with the most obvious expression ever. "No, he feels nothing inside of him because he is a big fat rock." She continued to look at him in astonishment. He rolled his eyes and bellowed, "Of course he loves her, you foolish female! What, you think that everything he said was a lie? You believe that night on the tower with her meant nothing to him?" He gave an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "Honestly, did you really think he held no place for her in his heart?"

"I...I don't-"

"Every night," Malik moaned, "I hear him saying her name in his sleep. Every day, he stares out the window of his study, hoping that she'd come riding in those gates. And every afternoon, he sits on his bed, staring at the floor, his face obviously showing who he's thinking about. And after midnight, he goes into the bathhouse, and little does he know that his voice echoes off of the walls. The novices and I hear him, moaning for her and mumbling her name over and over again, saying that he wishes he could hold her once more, to see her beautiful face, to seal her lips with his own, and to have their bedtime rolly-polly story together! Allah! We've even caught him holding a pillow to himself during the night with his lips smoldering the poor thing while saying her name! You mean to tell you think he does not care for her?"

She sat, completely in shock at what he said. She was even clutching both armrests of her chair and was recoiled. She was wide-eyed and tongue-tied. He... what? He... WHAT?

"O-oh.." she whispered. She didn't know what else to say. How could that man who had been so cruel and rude to her hide something like this?

But, it all made sense. Before Maria, he was rude and cruel to anyone. But she had changed him, had made him an actual person with feelings and emotions. And he had loved her for it and for who she was. It was all clear now. He chose not to show his thoughts for her freely because he was afraid. He was afraid of the emotion, yet he was addicted to it. He was addicted to loving her, but he did not have her. It drove him mad, day and night. It wasn't just fear though. He was protecting her. If the Assassins knew what their Master was doing, that he was brooding, then they must have known the reason why. It'd occurred for a year, they must know. And since he did not outright say to anyone that he loved Maria so much that he would give his life for her, no one knew for sure besides the ones he told. But what was he protecting her from? They were all Brothers, did he not trust them?

Then it hit her. They were loyal to him, yes, but they were not loyal to Maria. They would see her as an intrusion not only in his life, but also theirs. He was meant to rule them, not be tied down to a woman. As long as people still saw women as useless weights meant to birth them healthy sons, then their being together would be a sin to them. And if it threatened them, who'd be to say what would happen? Altair was just one man, and though he held much power as being at the top of the food chain, it was impossible for one man to take on an army of Assassins. They would probably restrain him and set off to find and kill Maria and any who defended her. It would eliminate the threat to Masyaf while also destroying any chance of humanity for the Master. He was protecting her all this time. No, he was protecting her and her friends that would be ready to sacrifice themselves for her. How could she not have seen this?

It was because of that man that she herself was still alive. You could run from an Assassin, but you could never hide. They'd find their target, one way or another, even if it meant spilling the blood of thousands. But wouldn't that destroy their Creed and taint their ways if they were to kill innocents?

No. He wasn't protecting Maria, or those she cared about. It was all part of a bigger picture. He was protecting humanity. He knew the full Hell his kind was capable of unleashing on civilizations. He knew all along. He had stayed true to his purpose: to have peace be embraced upon the people. He had taken it all upon himself to see his dream come true one day. He was dying, slowly, on the inside from her absence. And all for what he believed in.

It was remarkable. Honorable, definitely. He was struggling to hold himself together, to not leave Masyaf and find his habibi. And all she had done was drag him down and claim that he did not love her and that he had no feelings for Maria. How foolish she was! How could she have been so blind to not see that he would always, even in death, love that woman?

"What are you thinking about?" Malik asked. He had finished his drink and meal and was staring at her deeply. Her face was so peculiar, as if it was taking in all the knowledge in the world. Wide brown eyes were staring hard at the table, widening even further after each realization she made. They seemed ready to burst from their sockets at any given time.

"Everything," she mumbled. She finally blinked and looked at him with a worried face on. "He's withering away, Malik. Soon he will not even be fit to lead, and then... and then..."

"The Assassins will target Maria and put her down," he finished simply. "Now you understand. I do not hate that woman; I am annoyed that one person is able to bring down our whole clan. Altair seemed so fit to lead us in the beginning, before he had left for Cyprus, mind you. He was ready to turn us in a new direction, to face the disagreements from our Brothers and to take all the responsibility of each Assassin into his own hands. We spent a month reading through our previous Master's documents, deciding what we needed to change and add to the guild. It was so strange. He'd be up all night, writing on parchments and jotting down ideas. I'd more than once had to come into his room and practically throw him and tie him down in his bed to make sure he'd get proper rest. But he would never listen. As soon as I'd leave, he'd sneak off to his study just like a child would and bury his nose in another book. But, of course, we never finished. There are still many pages we need to look through, so much more documents and ideas to create." He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Does this mean I am to apologize to him?" She didn't like the idea one bit. She was stubborn by nature and would have loved to receive an apology from him first, even if it was a brief 'sorry' with no meaning behind it. Just him taking the time to say the words to her would satisfy her slightly. But she doubted that'd be the case.

"What do you think?" He smirked and closed his eyes. "You were awfully rude to him."

"Need I repeat what I've been through while staying at this lovely spot?"

"No, no, please. I've heard it from you before. But now you know why we were such a way to you. We do not give information out, Hildegard. You must learn it here. Information learned is more valuable than information given, is it not?"

"So it was not a matter of trust?"

"Oh, it was, it was. But the fact that you did not run with your tail between your legs when you first saw the Master proved to us that you were serious about what you wanted. He doesn't exactly have a welcoming presence."

"I can guess that's why he's perfect for Maria," she chuckled. He grunted and rolled his eyes beneath his lids.

"So, you will treat him with more respect?"

She pondered over her answer. What she had learned over the past few minutes had definitely changed her perspective on the man. She adapted to the information, and if she did not, she would not be able to cope with herself. She'd always be having a 'what if' war inside of her brain. And she survived because she adapted. Was Malik trying to give another example?

"I will... reconsider my choice of words around him. But I will not bow down and kiss the floor he walks on."

Malik chuckled and shook his head, opening his eyes again. "We will only force you to lick the floor if the servants are not cleaning it properly."

Hildegard laughed, but the giggle soon died down when the man remained silent. She cleared her throat nervously and asked, "You are jesting, correct?"

Malik merely smiled and chose not to speak.

---

It'd be another two days before he reached Acre. Shihad, who was formerly called Farug, was in a cheerful mood, happy to be galloping with his master on his back. Altair was thankful that his Brothers had taken the opportunity to restock his saddle bag with bandages and ointment if he wounded himself. It was an honorable faction he served, truly.

"Ada'tu tareeqi, Shihad," he murmured in the animal's ear. "She's always haunting me. I see her... everywhere."

The horse merely grunted and kept running. Altair sighed and closed his eyes, bringing his head to the side of the beast's neck.

Why couldn't she have just stayed? Why couldn't his letters claiming his feelings for her have been delivered? And why couldn't Malik have given him her letters that she sent him? What did they even say? Was she missing him? Was she in good health? Did she never want to see him again?

She wouldn't see him, if that was the case. But he would see her. And if he saw her in the arms of another man, he would personally make it clear to that bastard that she was already taken by him.

Was she not his? They hadn't married, but they had claimed each other. Before her, there was no one he had done it with, not even Adha. Yes, she was beautiful and quiet; the perfect wife for any man. But she was lacking personality and attitude that Maria had. And so he was willing to let her take him.

He was the one who broke her barrier. He was the man who had felt her warm and curvy body underneath his. He was the Assassin who had kissed her and suckled on that delicious muscle in her mouth until she moaned and begged for more. Although he did hate referring to others as property, she was his! Simply put. Yes, it was awkward, but it was not desperate like they were both trying to find anyone to pleasure them. If he was that desperate for intimacy, he'd have picked up one of those beggars on the street and provided them with a proper bed. But he was not desperate. He was in love with her, wanted and needed her. They were two nervous lovers, eager to have each other, but it was all pure. The way her eyes looked into his told him that she felt something deep and warm for him, that she'd want to spend the rest of her life with him.

Did his eyes tell her that? Did he look at her softly? His face was always cast in a stern and unfriendly frown. It wasn't natural for him to have soft and kind eyes. But were they for her? Maybe he had glared at her and that's why she never came back. Maybe he had hurt her?

Well, yes, she did bleed down there, but didn't every woman on the first time? He'd heard conversations in pubs while eavesdropping about men 'rocking the bed', as they had put it. So, yes, it was normal for a woman to bleed. Hymens naturally bled once they were torn.

Did she not like him inside of her? What if she didn't even...

Or maybe he had gone too fast too soon. How was he supposed to restrain himself though? Hormones were more powerful than will. And it was not like he forced her. She had written him that letter that practically screamed that she had seen him as more than a comrade. He was her lover, and he wanted to pleasure her. But what if he did it all wrong?

He would have loved to blame the fact that he had lacked experience in that field, but he couldn't complain about it. If he gave himself away to a different woman, he probably would have felt so guilty and ashamed of himself when he had loved Maria. It'd be as if she wouldn't have him completely, only a small fragment of him since he would have had already lost his virginity.

He didn't like this feeling of uncertainty. It was weak, and being unconfident wasn't exactly something he was familiar with. He had pride, maybe too much, but he had learned to bottle it and to use it respectfully. But dammit, why couldn't he have known what she was feeling that night?

What if he was the only one that had reached the height of pleasure and emotion? What if he had reached the top of the peak alone, and Maria was bored to tears? That would explain why she was crying a little.

He didn't even have the chance to say the three words he had wanted to tell her the most. But actions were louder than words. Surely she knew?

But what if she was not good at taking hints like that? What if she was waiting to see if he would have the courage to say it? Truth be told, he didn't know whether or not he should have said anything. Didn't she know that she was the only one he'd lie with? No, she didn't know that, because he never alluded to the fact that he had zero, zilch, and squat experience with women. It all led back to him not saying what he should have said. Dammit!

He should have just told her after they had regained their breath. He should have just said what he wanted to say to her instead of removing himself from her and putting his clothes back on. He just left her there, laying in the hay like some forgotten toy. She wasn't a toy though. She was his jameela, his one and only. And only when he had leapt off the tower and into the hay below and had touched solid ground with his leather-booted feet had he said the words. Said them to no one, that was.

He had drastically hurt their fragile relationship. What if she was now convinced that she was just a toy to him? What if she thought that he had seventy-two virgins waiting back at home for him to return? No, no, no! He only had himself to blame, but he couldn't stand that fact. He wished that he'd be able to tell her. He didn't care how he said it, as long as he said it to her. Even if it was all rushed and his face scarlet, he wouldn't care. He just needed her to know.

But she'd never be able to know. She was out of his life, gone and done with now.

---

Maria cracked her knuckles, and then shifted her head from side to side, sighing when the bones finally popped. "Now then," she said with a sweetly fake tone, "the next one who comments on my bust size will end up like him." She kicked at a man on the ground clutching his private regions and groaning in pain. She had to admit, taverns were a great way to release stress. There were just so many drunk men that wanted to put on a clumsy fight, and she loved showing them that women were perfectly capable of defending themselves. And she was not the type of woman to be meek and cower in the presence of fat ugly men. She was fearless, if a bit foolish.

When no one in the smelly tavern had given her an answer, she smirked and walked out of the door. She spent two days idling around Acre with her hood pulled over her head. The only thing entertaining she had found were the stupid men filling up the pubs. It pleased her to no end when she threw one of them over her head and at a wall, or how she'd punch their teeth out until they fell onto the floor. And of course, she imagined each man to be that dreadful Assassin: Altair Ibn-La'Ass-Head.

Two days had past, and it was still as depressing as ever. Clouds were still blocking the sun, the people were still homeless and plagued with disease, and, her personal favorite, the guards were still brick-headed idiots.

She walked on, keeping her head down. She had no luck in finding their allies, so she had figured if they were expecting them, they would find her. At least, she hoped she was correct. She may have been completely wrong and she didn't exactly have all the time in the world. Olivia would probably have her fingers chopped off since she was an archer, Aden would most likely be beaten, and Zaina-

Of course Zaina would not have been hurt at all. It made her furious. The girl was so weak and easy to manipulate. Just raising the whip and not even bringing it down on her would have her spilling information out about their Order in no time. It was ridiculous. Damiel was probably facing much more serious pain than a simple whip.

She didn't want to think what her friend was going through. Whatever it was, it was sure to scar him.

Maria sighed and ducked left into a narrow street. There weren't many people, maybe one or two outside of their broken houses, which was a huge relief for her. Even though her face was not showing, she still felt as if the guards knew who she was.

There was a hunched over figure making its way towards her. She wasn't sure if it was just passing by, or if it meant to start conversation. She was not in the mood to speak idly just to pass the time. And whoever this person was smelled awful. She could smell the stench all the way from where she was, and she was a good thirteen or so yards away from him.

Maria slowed her pace down, waiting to see what the cloaked man would do. Her muscles tensed and she was ready to burst into action if need be. She doubted that he caused any threat to her, but it never hurt to be too careful.

Well, if you were Sibrand, then it hurt.

The thing shuffled closer to her until it was standing directly in front of her, blocking her path. She looked down on it, making sure her face was still concealed in the hood. It was probably the most horrid sight she had ever seen. She refused to even call it human, for it was just incredibly ghastly.

It raised its head to look at her, its hood falling back, revealing greasy and oily skin. It had a beard that was unkempt and- were those insects?- teeth missing from its puckered and scrunched mouth. She gulped, waiting to see what it wanted.

First, it wheezed, and then it dug its hand into its pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. The thing did not say anything, only thrusted the paper into her own hand and walked away in a hurry, looking back and forth to see if anyone saw its transaction with the woman.

Maria stood with the grimy paper in her hand, not knowing what to do. After a few seconds, she looked back over her shoulder to demand that he returned and explain himself, but he was already gone. She shoved the paper into her own pouch and nervously walked at a brisk pace into an alley. Once she was sure no one had followed her and she was alone, she took out the paper and began reading it.

Dear M,

Meet me at the place you hate yet loved the most.

-D.

It confused her. She knew that she was the 'M', but who was 'D'? She searched her brain for those that she knew whose names began with that letter, and soon she had the answer.

'Damiel? He—he escaped? He's here, in Acre?' She smiled from underneath the hood and pocketed the letter. The letter was even in his handwriting; he had to be here! But then she thought of the location he wished to rendezvous with her. 'A place I hate yet loved the most?' She bit her lip as she realized what he meant.

The tower. He wanted her to go to the tower. This late, though? It was already deep into the evening, the barely visible sun going down. She shook her head and began walking southwest to the stronghold. Of course he would want to meet her there! He had only been in Acre a couple of times and was not familiar with any other spot other than the one that she had told him about. Of course! That must be why he suggested that place!

The sun was already gone from the world when she reached what used to belong to William de Montferrat. She stood in front of the stronghold, looking at its exterior walls. She remembered how she had looked at those walls with admiration and uncertainty when Altair had let her return to Acre. It all seemed so distant now. Had a year really past between their coupling?

She gave a soft smile at the walls and stepped through the raised gate leading into the interior courtyard. She stood in the center of the courtyard, taking in the view. It really hadn't changed at all, it seemed. There were still practice dummies made out of leather and hay stationed at each corner, crates and barrels still littering the stone floor. And of course, guards still patrolled the ramparts and base level.

What really caught her attention was how the guards looked at her with a devilish smirk on their faces as they walked past her in their small squadrons. Even though her face was thoroughly shielded, she did not feel at ease. It was as if they knew who she was and were taunting her. But what for?

'Nevermind that. Once you find Damiel, we can get the Hell out of here and... then what? What will we do?' She sighed and looked up to her right at the looming tower ahead of her. It was still the same as that night with him.

But she was not the same. She felt dread inside of her every time she thought of him, and now, staring at that tower, it tore her to pieces. She stared at it, wondering if he had come back to Acre just to do as she was. Of course he wouldn't, what was she thinking? He had no feelings for her, he never did. He had used her and seduced her just to pleasure himself. It was just a tower of brick to him, nothing else.

It was strange how this city had changed her life. It was where he had taken her hostage, bringing her to Cyprus with him as his way to weaken the Templars, and also where they had made love. How could it be that this place that hadn't changed in the least bit had rearranged all of her thoughts and feelings? When Altair was chasing after her as she ran as fast as she could to the tower, her heart was pounding. She had never felt so alive before- never felt so excited. And now, she felt miserable.

"Psst! Psst psst!"

The sudden sound caused her to perk her head up and shook her from her thoughts. She swiveled her head to the left where the noise was coming from. She squinted her eyes, trying to see through the dark shadows. She couldn't see anyone. Was it all her imagination?

But, no, it wasn't. The noise repeated itself, and she could vaguely make out the outline of a person.

'Damiel? Is that you?' She took a cautious step forward and she could have sworn she saw the outline motion her forward before it turned on its heel and ventured further into the shadows. Maria scanned the buildings bordering the narrow path that the person had just disappeared into. There weren't any guards on patrol on the rooftops there. She turned her head to the other side to make sure that none of the guards on the ground were near her.

The coast was clear, she was alone. She nodded in determination and followed the mysterious figure. She stopped halfway down the narrow corridor and focused her gaze to the right at a decorated door. Was this where Damiel had gone? She tried to pull it open, but it was locked from the inside. No, he wasn't in there. She shook her head and resumed her pace. Maria paused when she reached the end of the corridor. She stared at a wooden door that was wide open that led into the interior of the ramparts. Was this where he was?

"Psst! Pssssst!"

She nodded to herself and walked through the door. She gently closed it, but winced when it creaked slightly from being moved. Once it clicked shut, she took in her bearings. There were candles placed here and there that illuminated the hallways. It was a regular armory, racks of swords to the sides, chainmail plates on the walls, knives on cluttered and splintered tables, and quivered arrows resting beside them. Why would Damiel wish to meet here?

The sound repeated itself again and she grumbled to herself. "I'm coming, I'm coming..."

She took light steps, careful not to make too much noise and to not bump any of the equipment on the floor. She knew that metal clanged against stone, and just that could set the entire fortress into action and have her running for her life in seconds. The psst! sound guided her throughout the armory and down several flights of stairs. What the Devil was he trying to do?

The more she went, the more nervous she became. She couldn't help but to think that someone was following her. She risked a look over her shoulder but only saw black. The candles were being blown out one by one as she past them. Maria gulped, not liking her situation at all.

Part of her told her it was a trap. The other part told her it was just Damiel playing tricks on her. He'd pranked her before, she knew that. But to go this far to scare her considerably?

She breathed in and out of her mouth, sweat starting to form on her face. Her eyes darted about, but she could only see forward. The sound finally stopped once she entered a room. There was a grand bed fit for a king right in front of her that took up most of the space, lavish furniture with flickering candles on either side of the room. She was confused that there were curtains, yet no windows. Of course there wouldn't be windows. She was underground, after all, underneath the ocean that surrounded Acre.

The candles didn't do a wonderful job lighting the chamber up, yet it was enough for her to make out everything. She swept her gaze carefully around and frowned when there was no one else in the room besides herself. Maybe Damiel was trying to give her a fright. Yes, that had to be it.

Maria did not notice that in the doorway behind her stood another person.

---

"I said stay, yla'an!" Altair hissed as Shihad trotted in circles around him. They had arrived at Acre half an hour ago; half an hour of trying to get the damn horse to be obedient. He growled and grabbed the reins and yanked his head down to his level so that their foreheads were pressed together. Altair glared furiously into the animal's eyes before snarling, "You. Stay. HERE." Giving one final firm tug to the reins, he stormed away into a group of scholars to enter the city unnoticed.

Once he past the guards on duty near the gates, he set off at a sprint to the Assassin's Bureau at the southeast corner of the Poor District. He heard and ignored the usual "why's he doing that?", and the "he's going to hurt himself- and when he does, I won't help him." It was exactly the same as a year ago, if worse. There were more people homeless, more houses ruined. Ever since the Christians moved in and called Acre home, the place had been steadily falling deeper and deeper into the pits of Hell.

His sprint came to a gentle stop once he was standing in front of the ladder that led to the roof of the Bureau. Should he even go in? He knew his mission, he knew where the hostage was being kept and he knew the fortress well enough. He was the Master, after all, did he even need permission? He dug the toe of his boot into the cobblestones and frowned as he thought. Something didn't feel right. He wasn't sure if it was just because of being in the city that caused him to be on full alert. It was just a city, just like Damascus and Jerusalem. He shouldn't have been feeling this way.

But it was Acre. Acre. It was his and her city. It was their secret; their paradise. He knew that Malik would scream at him and throw a book at his head if he knew the decision he made. Grunting, he padded away from the building and ran south towards the stronghold. He didn't need a rafik to give him permission to carry out a mission he already had knowledge on. And if they had a complaint, he would hear them out and explain himself. But he would leave out how every hair on his body stood straight up and how his skin prickled with anticipation. He wouldn't tell his fellow Brothers that sweat was slowly trickling down the back of his neck or that he repeatedly checked to see if his hidden blade was still operable. No, he wouldn't tell them any of that.

He stood outside of the walls, staring long and hard at them. It was these walls that she had run off in and that he had chased her through. He slowly entered the raised gates. He let his feet do as they pleased. It was as if they were independent from his body- that they had their own mind. He was climbing up houses, leaping from raised platforms, climbing a ladder, and climbing... climbing...

Their tower. His body reacted on its own, he couldn't help himself. His hands found bricks jutting out of the structure, his feet keeping in rhythm with his small leaps to higher ground. He stood on a balcony, hoisted himself onto a lamppost, and continued his ascent. It was all so strange. He felt strange. It wasn't the way he had felt when he was going after Maria. His hormones had taken over him, clearly, then. This time... things were different. He felt a nagging at the back of his mind, screaming at him to get off of the tower. It was danger. But he couldn't place it.

No one was on top of the tower.

His feet finally hit solid ground and he breathed in deeply. It was only him up here. There wasn't even any hay left from their love-making. Nothing. Only him.

He slowly turned his head to the side of the tower that faced the ocean; where she had stood, waiting for him. No one. She wasn't there.

Altair took cautious steps towards where he remembered her last and wrapped his arms around the air. He held nothing, but he held everything. He did his best to picture his beloved cradled against him, her own arms snaking around his sides to bring him closer. It was painful trying to revive her into his life once more, but he could not stop. It was his closure, and if it hurt, then so be it. He did not think twice about his mission in Acre, only knew that he had to carry it out. He didn't think that he would be affected in such a way; that his mind would force him to do something as foolish as he was already doing.

Altair sighed and closed his eyes. He would do anything for Maria's warmth once more. To Hell with any mission he was given. She was his only target, his only gold light.

His eyes shot open and he whirled around when a peculiar sound reached his ears from the courtyard. He peered over the edge of the tower and narrowed his eyes. Although it was dark, he could make out a cloaked figure turning right and left, trying to find the source of the sound. After a few seconds, when everything was silent, he began doubting he even heard anything.

But then it sounded again!

"Psst!"

There was no mistaking it. The cloaked figure slowly made a left and proceeded to follow the sound. Was it a Templar? Was it an ally? Or was it just some common citizen?

His heart slammed in his chest as he considered another possibility. Was it.. Maria?

Altair quickly shook the idea out from his head. No, she was in England, far, far away from him. She had no reason to be here. But, what if..?

'Whoever it was, they're leading me straight where I want to go.' The Assassin did a thorough scan of the ramparts. There were guards, but he would easily dispatch of them. He pulled himself on the side of the tower and leapt into the cart of hay below, ready to take on his mission.

---

Maria sighed and rolled her eyes when she heard footsteps approaching from behind her. "Finally," she said as she closed her eyes and turned around, "it's good to see that you're alive, Dam-"

"It's a pleasure to see you as well, Maria."

Her heart froze and her eyes flew open as she stared with a pale face at the man before her. Due to the poor lighting in the room, she couldn't make out his features entirely, but he was certainly not Damiel. She held her ground as her former gawking blossomed into a frightful glare. She rested both of her hands on the hilts of Ebony and Ivory, ready to attack should the man prove a threat.

He chuckled and shook his head. "My, my, just as fierce as the brother," he mused. He took a small step toward her that caused her to take one back.

She furrowed her eyebrows together and bared her teeth at him. "Earl of Gloucestershire," she hissed at him. "I should have known you joined the Templar ranks." She briefly looked at his tunic that held the Templar emblem on it, just as hers used to.

Earl laughed and let his eyes roam over her body. She was standing in the direct candlelight now, and he could see how her strong yet feminine body swelled out from beneath her cloak and tunic. "Maria of London," he stated casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Or, should I say, Maria of Canterbury?"

"What do—"

"You've caused us a great deal of trouble lately, did you know that?" He clicked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval, as if she was a child. She growled at him and opened her mouth to retort, but he quickly silenced her with his own voice. "First you and that Assassin decide to partner up- and in ways more than one- and chose to kill off our Brothers. Then you return from your travels and decide to go into hiding for a year." His voice grew harsher after each accusation and his face shriveled into a disgusting snarl. "And then, you foil our attempt at marriage between you and Clarence. And now, you stand before me, wondering what I want."

"Then out with it, dog." She tightened her hold on both of her swords' hilts as he let out a menacing laughter. "If it's a fight you want, it's a fight—"

"I want you," he rasped out. He sounded desperate, as if he hadn't had release in ten years. Maria took another step back and looked absolutely enraged from his confession.

"The only thing you'll have from me," she ground out, "is my sword through your heart."

His look of longing and hunger vanished from his eyes. Instead, an arrogant and victorious smirk appeared on his face. "No, I do believe you are mistaken," he murmured. She turned her head to the side in question, but soon was answered as two burly and muscular men entered the room from behind Earl, dragging a beaten and bloody body with them.

One of the men lifted the person's head up by their black as midnight hair so that she'd be able to see the captive clearly.

She couldn't help but to gasp as she stared at a face she hadn't seen in over a decade. It was so similar to her own.

Earl nodded and tapped his foot, his smirk growing wider on his face. "Ahh, so he is your sibling," he purred. "But was there ever a doubt?" he asked himself quietly. "After all, it's so significant and extraordinary how alike you two look- not to insult your.. femininity."

Maria shook silently in rage and stared back and forth between Earl and the captive. "Let him go."

Earl laughed once more and slapped his leg. "You really think that that's a possibility?" He stooped down to the beaten man's level and grabbed his chin in one hand, the other resting casually on his own knee. "Jonathan Thorpe here has proved extremely difficult to capture. Oh, how many countries did we scour? Ten? Twelve? As an Assassin, it's his nature to hide from us. It doesn't matter now," he said quickly. "Tell me, Maria, do you value his life?"

"Yes," she growled.

"Do you love your brother?"

"Yes," she said with much loathing once more.

"Would you give your body up for his safety?"

It was silent for several moments, the tension practically tangible. His eyes bore into her as she trembled, not from his gaze, but from what she knew that was going to happen. Her own gaze was settled on her brother, her expression full of fear and uncertainty. She loved John. She loved what was left of her broken and confused family with all of her heart.

When she did not give an answer, Earl produced a knife from his belt around his tunic and held it to John's throat. Maria stared at her relative. He was only wearing britches that were torn and stained with his own blood. His chest, arms, neck, and even face were marred with cuts and bruises. Dried blood was everywhere on his skin. It was so sickening, so disgusting. She had not seen him in fourteen years, ever since she believed him to be dead. And here he was, barely alive, in front of her, his life on the line, and she was the only one who'd be able to save him. She never imagined that this would be the way she would reunite with him.

She took a deep breath and whispered, "Yes."

Earl's eyes lit up in anticipation from the answer and he slowly sheathed his knife and stood to his full height. He jerked his head to his two men and they hauled the man away, his legs dragging against the hard stones. "If you try to combat me," he hissed at Maria once the men were gone, "then his life will end in a heartbeat. Understand?"

She slowly nodded as he closed the door behind him, never taking his eyes off of her. "Drop your swords," he commanded. She did as he said and unbuckled her two blades from her side. She threw them off to the side, her hatred and enmity showing through her seething grey eyes. "Take your cloak off."

Maria untied the garment from her neck and let it fall to the floor behind her. He smiled as she obeyed his commands and crossed his arms over his chest. "Now your belt."

And soon her belt had joined her cloak. She balled her hands into fists and kept them firmly at her sides, her knuckles turning white. His eyes flared with amusement and his mouth twisted into a gruesome and perverted sneer. "Now your tunic."

She slowly grabbed hold of one of her sleeves and pulled her arm towards herself. The cloth fell limp at her side, and she repeated the process with the other sleeve, being careful not to show any of her flesh to him. He sighed impatiently as she bunched her bare arms inside of her shirt in front of her breast bindings and began pulling the tunic off and over her head. She halted in her actions when she heard him groan in irritation.

"You're too slow," he moaned. And no sooner had he launched himself at Maria and tackled her to the bed, ripping the tunic off of her with his now unsheathed knife. She gasped, but soon growled at him and bared her teeth at him in defense. It was a poor way to protect herself, to show her pride and defiance, but if she fought him off of her, John would be lost forever.

Earl crushed his lips against her own tightly sealed ones as he ripped her hair from the braid and bun holding it up. He darted his tongue out, trying desperately to separate her lips so he could have entrance to her mouth. But she wouldn't have it.

He growled and brought the knife to her breast bindings, running it down from her collarbone and to her naval. He applied too much pressure to the blade, though. It cut through the bindings but also sliced her skin in the process, leaving an angry line in its wake that slowly oozed blood out. She whined from the pain and tensed her body from underneath his.

He tossed the now ruined bindings to the side and let his hands feel her exposed breasts. She scrunched her face up and her eyebrows knitted together, the nerves in her forehead protruding.

Earl seemed amused from her being so rebellious and how she had not the power to hurt him. It was delicious.

He pulled her boots off of her and then tugged her britches to her ankles, snarling in irritation when yet another piece of fabric hid what he desired the most from her. The knife soon traveled down from her hip to hack away at the undergarment. Once it was sliced in two, he pulled it off of her and ferociously broke his unsatisfying kiss. He let his knees rest on either side of her and stared hungrily at her naked body. He gazed at the soft mounds in front of him and at their peaks. He licked his lips as his eyes ventured lower to the dark tuft of hair hiding her most prized possession from him. He would have to fix that.

He smirked at her and quickly shed his own clothing. He soon knelt there wearing nothing but his own skin. Maria turned her head away from the sight of him. The only man that she would ever gaze at while wearing nothing was her eagle.

The thought of him brought a pang of sorrow to her heart. If he had only chased after her, she wouldn't be under this man, and instead be under him. He would have never treated her this way while being intimate.

Earl's face darkened as he saw her turn away from him. He growled and threw himself on her once more, assaulting her lips with his own. She dug her nails into the sheets and curled her lips inside of her mouth, not letting his tongue taste her own.

He shrieked from her behavior and brought his hand down to the juncture between her thighs. His fingers curled around and clenched the hair there, and in one swift and strong tug, he had torn a handful of it from the sensitive skin.

Maria screamed from the pain and tears slid from her eyes as something wet and disgusting entered her mouth, moving against the muscle there. Her eyes blazed with anger and she bit down hard on his tongue and allowed him to bring his head away from her own. He howled and set his face in a mask of hatred. He cupped her chin in one hand, holding her mouth open and restricting her from chomping down on him, and entered once more. She groaned and shut her eyes, not wanting to see his satisfied smirk.

His other hand parted two folds of skin between her legs. He let his fingers explore this territory, pinching and fondling the sensitive nerve there. She screamed once more from her defenseless state and from being taken so easily.

He ran his knife up and down her body, leaving cuts on her stomach and legs. He let the tip of the blade glide against her underarms and to each of her wrists, relishing from hearing her whimper and scream from the agony.

Maria bucked her knees up into his stomach, earning an oof! from him. While he was temporarily stunned, she brought her legs back together, making sure his hands would not be able to feel her bud anymore. Earl snarled once more, frothing at the mouth, and dug the blade into her thigh. She shut her eyes and cried out and strained the muscles in her neck, trying to will the pain away. She opened her eyes once more to see an incoming blow to her face. His fist connected with her forehead, and then another punch hit her square in the jaw. Her head lolled to the side. She struggled to keep her eyes open as her blood loss and abuse from his hands caused her vision to blur and falter.

He beat her until she gasped and her eyes remained shut, her shallow breathing the only thing audible. He spat at her face and separated her legs, the knife still embedded in her thigh. He crouched lower to her and positioned himself over her opening.

---

Altair let his instincts guide him through the darkened interior of the stronghold. He slowly walked as his pupils dilated, guiding him through the black abyss. He had normally stood still while using this sixth sense, but over time, he had learned to multitask the unique ability with his movement. However, he had to pace himself extremely slow. After some time, it took a toll on its muscles, and he was in the enemy's territory. He couldn't risk collapsing unconscious in dangerous territory.

The place was empty, save for a few guards helping themselves to a drink or two. Some were even so drunk they couldn't walk. He quickly made short work of them and continued to search for the captive. White strands of light shown from each doorway, the shimmering strings soon dissolving into nothing.

The farther he went, the more paranoid and fearful he became. Fearful of what, though?

Finally, after descending staircase after staircase, he had reached a door that had gold ribbons shining off of it. He slowly smirked, but soon frowned when he heard strange noises from coming in the room. He quietly padded closer and turned his head so that his ear was facing the doorway.

Was that... screaming? Was someone being beaten in there?

He narrowed his eyes and slowly turned the handle and entered the room. He was thankful that the door did not make any sound that would have given away his presence. The Templars must have been very careful oiling the hinges. He willed his gift to leave his vision and looked to the source of the noise.

What he saw confused him and had him recoil his head back.

There, on the bed, was a man atop a woman, readying himself to slide his manhood into her. Had he just walked in on a husband and wife coupling? He frowned and let the four colors that guided his decisions swarm back into his eyes. He stretched the fingers on his left hand when the man started producing a scarlet glow around his figure and when the woman began to have a gold shimmer around herself.

The captive was being assaulted!

In a heartbeat, Altair strode over to the man and let his hidden blade plunge into his back and through his heart.

Once he gurgled and his eyes dimmed to a lifeless stare, Altair pushed the man off of the woman and down on the floor, letting his blood soak up the stones. He immediately made his way over to the side of the bed and inspected the victim.

Her blood was everywhere: her arms, legs, stomach, face, hair, everything. He whispered a silent prayer for her and brought his index and middle finger to her neck. There was the faintest of heartbeats. Altair sighed in defeat and gently stroked the curly black hair, thick with blood, away from her red and swelled face. He shook his head and craned his neck down. Letting an innocent target die was always a defeat. He had failed missions before while he was still a youth, but to butcher a mission while being the best of the best? It was heartbreaking. But he knew that she at least deserved to be cleaned and to have a proper burial. No one deserved to bleed to death and have their body left like hers was.

He tore a piece of his robe and dug a vial of water from one of his pouches. He poured the liquid on the cloth and dabbed her face, wiping away the blood and sweat. 'Peace be upon you in the afterlife, friend.'

Altair cleaned her face of the red liquid and frowned when he was finished. She looked strangely familiar. Did he know her? The thought of knowing the dying woman in front of him pained him. He peeled back one of her eyelids and gazed into grey pools that were almost diminished of life.

His heart skipped a beat when he realized they were so much like her eyes—if not identical.

'Could it be...? NO.' He wiped his face with his hand and shook his head. She was in England. She wasn't in Acre.

'But, what if...'

He tenderly lifted her head up by the back of her neck pushed away the hair away from her. He let his free hand trace under her left ear, where he knew a scar should have been if it was her.

His index finger felt smooth yet puckered skin and he took a closer examination. Right under the lobe of her ear was a curved, faded line that resembled the letter 'J'. It reached all the way to the top of her jaw. Altair instantly recoiled his hand back as if he had been burned. His heart pounded in his chest and his breathing was strained. Allah...

He cupped her face in his hands and brought himself as close to her as possible, their foreheads and noses touching. It couldn't be...

"Maria...?" he whispered.

---

Translations:

Dije = I said

MYRUHT KOUNEH! = Fuck your mother!

EEM BLIGES DZE-DZE! = suck my penis!

KAK OUDELIC SHOON, TOON ESH! = Shit eating dog, you donkey (ass)!

GULEER KELOOH! = Penis face (dick head)!

PERANUHT SHUNE KAKNEH! = The dog should shit on you!

SHAN TULA! = Son of a bitch!

EIM BLIGIS KO KURI VERA! = My penis on your sister!

DZEVERET KE KETREM, RAGATKOV GELXEET KE KERAKEM! = I'll rip your nuts off and fling them to your face with a slingshot!

LE MATARÉ! = I will kill you!

USTED MORIRÁ POR LAS GARRAS DE UN ÁGUILA, USTED CAGÓ! = You will die by the talons of an eagle, you shit!

ESPERO DEMANDA DE MIL HOMBRES USTED EN CAMA, SU ESPOSA HACE UNA PUTA, SU HIJA PIERDE SU VAGINA, Y SUS HERMANOS JUEGAN CON LOS PECHOS DE SU ABEULA! = I hope a thousand men take you in bed, your wife becomes a whore, your daughter loses her vagina, and your brothers play with your grandmother's breasts!

BASTARDO, BASTARDO, BASTARDO! = Bastard, bastard, bastard!

Habibi = dear/darling/sweetie

Jameela = beautiful (female)

Ada'tu tareeqi = I'm lost

yla'an = dammit (*rough translation)