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Chapter Text

They tried things Malik's way. Altaïr wasn't too happy with the idea but since Malik did nothing but nitpick and complain about Altaïr’s methods the entire way through the Temple of Solomon, he decided to acquiesce just this once. To be the better man. To give his comrade the opportunity to showcase his own skills before the eyes of his adoring younger brother. Altaïr had a feeling Malik was just envious of him for monopolizing Kadar's attention throughout this mission. So he was willing to let it go and permit Malik the chance to seize his brother's adoration back once more.

That went about as well as if Abbas were the designator of their operation. The blunder of their ‘stealthy’ encounter to steal the treasure away from the Templars led to the artifact being bounced around as the gold cask toppled off the pedestal. The smaller chest within fumbled out. While Malik parried the swing of a knight’s sword, Kadar dove through the legs of the next approaching soldier to drive his dagger into the enemy’s thigh. Altaïr used a nearby pillar to spring off of to leap behind the two soldiers that strode towards his position to reach the opened cask before Robert de Sablé could seize the relic.

He landed, rolling out his momentum through the dust and grit that clung to his white robes, staining them an unflattering pale ochre as he surged forward. His hidden blade lashed out at Robert's outstretched gauntlet. The massive knight withdrew with a snap of his fist as he prepared to strike at Altaïr. Another knight got behind him, cutting off his ability to withdraw.

The whistle of a blade flying past his ear to sink into the mail of the advancing Knight's shoulder drew a cry at Altaïr’s back. Malik diverted the sword stroke of his opponent with a seamless swipe as his left hand retracted from its throw to engage his hidden blade. Kadar was driving his blade into the shoulder of another knight while the previous opponent he took to knee was clutching at their bloodied leg.

Recovering from the close call, Altaïr scrambled forward, cutting off Robert's path to the cask. They fumbled it as the two men tackled each other with a collision of such force it clicked Altaïr’s teeth together, leaving the metallic taste of blood on his aching tongue. Driving his knee up into the larger Knight's groin to force distance between their bodies, Altaïr shoved himself back across the dirt as he steadied his balance on his elbows. A groan left the Grandmaster before the open palm of his gauntlet cuffed Altaïr on the side of his head.

The impact sent his vision into pops of white that swam through his pounding skull. Grimacing through the pain, he struck his leg out again to drive it into the larger man's stomach. Robert was prepared as he caught the curve of the assassin's knees and forced his leg down into the dirt, spreading both legs apart to pin him to the ground for good. Altaïr wasn't taken so easily as he leveraged his boots underneath him while reaching up to snatch at the knight's head. Robert shoved his arms away to keep the hidden blade away from his face, quickly capturing Altaïr’s wrists to pin them above his head. His heart was pounding inside his chest with a dull ache against his ribcage. 

“Enough of these games, assassin!” Robert chided him with the ghost of a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Altaïr noted the cocky twist, and the pitying scan of pale eyes roaming over his filthy figure covered in the dirt of his struggles. Robert wasn't so clean himself with sweat glistening from his brow, and the flush of exertion turning his cheeks an unmistakable cherry hue. Robert leaned into the tight grip that pinned Altaïr’s wrists together as his voice rumbled low in the dusty dry air between them. “Just submit to me already.”

“No.” Altaïr shoved his wrists higher above his head as they carved a trench in the dirt forcing Robert's arm to extend further than necessary. It set his posture off balance as Altaïr bucked his hips forward with a powerful thrust using the placement of his boots and the sturdy surface of his thighs to slam into the knight's flank, vaulting his bulky body over the assassin's head to tumble flat on his back.

With his grip relinquished in his state of alarm, Altaïr scrambled back to his knees to search for the relic. Two Templars were dead. Malik and Kadar were finishing off a third, and the wounded man who was bleeding badly from his leg had dragged himself towards the cask where the treasure was locked. Altaïr shoved himself to his feet and planted a firm kick into the knight's chest knocking him back then struck him once more for good measure to knock him out.

Prying the golden clad cask open to find the treasure, Altaïr seized the strangely colored orb in his grasp. Kneeling before the vessel, he felt the faint thrum of energy rush over him. As he was rising to his feet with the treasure in his possession, the words to call his brethren back to retreat balancing on his lips when a cloud of dust and small pebbles were thrown into his face by the boot strike of the knight. The dust filled the air as sand and soil pelted his cheek with the cheap shot. Altaïr was caught between being angry and being slightly impressed with the lowly assault. Clearing the debris from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, it was no use when he felt the massive knight’s oversized gauntlet overlap his hand to reclaim the relic. Fearful of losing his hard won prize, Altaïr kicked out at the armored man that dragged him back to his feet. Altaïr refused to let go. His fingers held on with the ferocity of a feral dog’s teeth, clamping down upon the orb with the determination to break bone before he'd give up.

Unable to see through the stinging pain of his eyes, as tears of agitation welled up with the interference of the dust, he attempted to parse out the vague shadows and pale silhouette of white clad bodies. Shifting to eagle vision to tell friend from foe apart, he tugged back on the orb with a cry of defiance.

“You shall not triumph this day, Templar!”

Robert hissed stubbornly in return. “Give up already, Assassin. This struggle is futile!”

“I'm not the one that is outnumbered here.” The assassin remarked with a haughty note to his voice. The shifting blue figures of his comrades closed in after finishing the remaining red body set before them. All that remained was the golden silhouette of their target to take care of. Bolstered by this fact, Altaïr tucked more of his body towards the orb, leveraging his strength against the knight as much as possible. Robert may be strong, but Altaïr was determined to make him shoulder all of his weight if he intended to take the treasure with him. His nails scratched the metallic curve, feeling the divets of geometric carvings beneath his fingertips as they scrambled across the textured surface.

The glow of his target started to get brighter. An unusual change that Altaïr couldn't make sense of. It shone with a blinding white gold aura that pulsed- no, it wasn't Robert that was glowing stronger it was the treasure, Altaïr realized too late. He felt the uneasy hum of energy and the pulsating warmth that rose from the orb, like golden cords of light that danced around their bodies.

Robert's grasp retracted from the relic with a hiss of alarm. The tension in their grasp as they quarreled and fought for control suddenly broke without warning. Altaïr fell to the ground with a thud that knocked the air out of him. He didn't let go of the orb, not when the whole room started to dance with the blinding aura like a blazing sun, and not when Malik and Kadar began shouting his name in panic. The rush of boots and the shuddering of mail and gambesons hastily approaching from the corridors were accompanied by the blurt of French laden accents and the bafflement of foreign exclamations. The shades of red and blue figures had burned away under the golden light. Even the disjointed darkness of his surroundings cast by the shadows of his second sight were cast in that pulsing throng he couldn't escape. It burned his eyes, searing through his skull as Altaïr cried out with pain.

“Altaïr!” Malik cried out. “Let it go!”

He wished he could. His fingers were locked so tightly around the artifact that it pained him. His hands trembled, unable to relinquish their cursed prize, as the pulsing power of the relic hummed throughout the whole chamber. A piercing sound, sharp and metallic, as it cut through the occupants and their chaos around him.

“Altaïr!” Kadar called worriedly as the blazing brightness started to subside. The sharpness of its light faded, and yet it was an ever constant aura like a fire burning softly at the edges of his vision. The chamber had befallen an uneasy darkness. Altaïr tried to cast off his second sight but the world around him failed to change. The tension that creased his brows, and the gentle pressure that accompanied its use was absent. Only the ever present pain that came from straining himself for too long that he was far too familiar with.

As the glow died down, the clash of steel clamored nearby. Then Kadar was at his side, speaking quickly. “We have to move, Altaïr.” A hand settled on his arm to draw him to his feet. More swords clattered as Malik hissed in pain through his teeth. Altaïr’s feet were moving, the treasure was held firmly in his grasp still as he rushed in the vague direction he suspected was an exit. His boot hit a protruding rock that forced him to stumble forward but Kadar's sturdy grip refused to let him fall.

At their backs were more shouts in French and the sound of collapsing stone as the tunnel gave out. Malik’s ragged breaths and hasty footsteps closed in behind them. “My hidden blade is broken.”

“Brother.” Kadar panted through his teeth. “Your arm?!”

“It's fine.” Malik assured. Altaïr felt Kadar's hand on his bicep as he steered Altaïr by his shoulders. Their footsteps started to slow as the flat ground turned steep and uneasy under foot. The soil gave way beneath his boots, startling him back. Altaïr squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the golden aura and its discomforting light for a few heartbeats. Malik’s footsteps continued, growing further away and slightly below them before he called back up.

“Come on, Kadar. What are you two waiting for?”

Kadar didn't let go of Altaïr. His hand steadied the assassin's shoulder as Altaïr chewed his bloodied bottom lip, feeling the swollen agitation of his scar where the skin was bruising from Robert's earlier strike.

“Altaïr?” Kadar's voice was soft in his ear, worried, confused even.

It mirrored Altaïr’s own terrified uncertainty. Drawing in a deep breath, he tried to open his eyes, hoping to see the world as it was meant to be. To find dusty dimly lit tunnels with the faint foot traffic of the Templars shuffling through the poorly constructed corridors. Instead he was met with that frustrating ambient golden light and the nothingness of a distant darkness shrouded within. Like looking into a gilded box.

“I can't see.” He swallowed hard around the troubling admission. A painful lump formed in his throat. An uncomfortable truth weighing on his thoughts as he waited for his comrade's response.

“What?” Kadar's breathless gasp stirred against his cheek. Altaïr felt shame and panic nestle in his gut. “Altaïr-”

Kadar cut himself off, shaking the thought away as quickly as it seemed to come. Instead securing his embrace around the older assassin as he assured him. “Trust in me, Altaïr. Let me guide you to safety.”

It was a big ask, but one that Altaïr felt he had no better alternative for. The terrain was tricky even with his sight, and downright dangerous without it. He had to be careful, to take no more risks. So he relented at Kadar's urging. He let the younger assassin guide him slowly down the steep slope. One small step at a time. He leaned on Kadar's sturdy frame as it weathered Altaïr’s weight with surprising ease. Once they had reached the bottom, Altaïr felt comforted to have his feet on flat ground again.

A questioning hum stirred in Malik's throat that prompted Kadar's hasty explanation. “Altaïr can't see, brother.”

It was a warning as much as it was a silent plea from the young assassin to his more knowledgeable elder. The silence stretched between them for a beat, before Malik’s voice directed. “Raise your head, Altaïr. Let me see a moment.”

He didn't refuse. Altaïr trusted Malik to have his wellbeing in mind. He was one of the few people he could trust to be genuine and forthright with his feelings. Honest and blunt, like a mace to the face with the same amount of tact at times, it was something Altaïr found reliable enough to lean on. Malik found no pleasure in pretty words and well dressed promises. With a cutting tongue that often got straight to the point. Altaïr relented, raising his head so that the elder Al-Sayf brother could inspect his situation. Gingerly, Malik's warm fingertips brushed along his jaw.

The flash of golden light cut sharply across his vision. Both brothers sucked in a sudden breath as Malik's fingers recoiled from his cheek but not before Altaïr’s sightless eyes were greeted with an unsettling vision.

Malik stood before him in an unfamiliar room adorned in the black djellaba of the Rafiqs and Dai. His left arm was missing, the sleeve was stitched into an abrupt fold over the remainder of a bicep that twitched as his right hand prepared a pot of tea. The soft puttering of steam from the spout rose up as he tipped the pot to pour its hot brew into the teacup resting on the wooden table top. Unlike the assassin who stood before him now, this version of Malik seemed older, more weary, with a dark beard that had grown in along his jaw. While the Malik he knew in this moment was a clean shaven man who took pride in the meticulous care of his appearance.

When the vision faded, Altaïr felt the warmth of the relic pulsing against his palm. It flowed in tempered waves throughout his body, washing over every nerve and muscle of his being.

“Malik, what is happening to him?” Kadar’s voice trembled from Altaïr’s side.

“I do not know what sorcery has befallen him.” Malik’s words failed to provide whatever comfort Kadar may have been searching for, and only served to worsen Altaïr’s own panic. “We must return to the Master at once.”

That was a decision they could both wholeheartedly agree on.

Malik was faced with the troubling reality of their present circumstances. This mission had not panned out how they had expected it to. While their actions led to the successful obtainment of the treasure, it was not without great cost. His left arm hung limp at his side, the feeling in his fingers having already gone numb with the absence of blood flow and sensation. The stench of his own blood mingling with the blood of the dead knights that splattered his clothes was cloying in the air. Altaïr was in no better shape. He stumbled clumsily about like a newborn foal with uncertainty in every movement with Kadar's guiding hand to steer and assure him of his path.

They had all witnessed what happened in the Temple cave. The golden light that had been imbued into Altaïr, the way his body glowed with the same strange markings of the treasure cutting their geometric patterns across his skin. It reached up to his eyes, blazing them with a sightless light that cut eerily through the dim cavern. It frightened Malik but he couldn't let that fear show right now. Not in front of Kadar. Not when he needed his brother to be strong for the three of them.

Once they had reached the fresh air outside the tunnel, he whistled sharply to call their horses. Two Arabians, a sorrel mare with a bright red coat named Zubaea that Altaïr rode, and a young black mare as freshly trained as the assassin who rode her, named Hilal, that had a white crest on her forehead. Both were borrowed horses communally owned by the brotherhood, though Kadar wished otherwise in regards to Hilal. Leading them was a golden coat akhal-teke mare that was Malik's own personal horse, Amira. A gift he cherished from his days as a novice, his beautiful desert princess with the tenacity and fire to mirror her rider's own. He raised his right hand to beckon to Amira and slow her approach. Zubaea had to be tied off to the back of Kadar's saddle to guide her in the absence of her rider's direction.

“Kadar, I entrust you to take over.” Malik called to his brother as he stepped up to the younger man. Bright blue eyes studied Malik with a nervousness that showed his doubts and uncertainty.

“Brother?” He worried, his dark brows knitted tightly. Malik cupped his hand over the back of his little brother's neck to draw their foreheads together. The sweat had plastered the grit of the cave to their faces in tarnished smears that scraped together when they touched.

“I have faith you’ll see us home safely, Kadar.” He comforted his brother with a weak smile that pressed faintly over his brow. Kadar's nerves were soothed for a moment as the younger man considered his words carefully. The fear in his eyes faded, replaced swiftly with the rekindled resolve he bore at the start of this mission. With an affirmative nod, Kadar assured him.

“Leave it to me. May fortune favor us swiftly.” That was exactly what Malik wanted to hear. He trusted Kadar to see them through this trial, as they mounted their horses. With only one arm to balance himself with, Malik couldn't shoulder the burden of Altaïr’s presence on his saddle so that fell to Kadar as they both climbed up on Hilal. Altaïr was able to relinquish his grasp on the treasure as the assassin hastily stowed it in the pouch on his hip. Neither Malik nor Kadar wished to touch it at the risk of worse befalling them, so the burden was temporarily weighing on Altaïr’s shoulders for the remainder of their ride.

With Hilal taking the lead, Malik urged Amira to follow swiftly in stride behind the two other horses, while he guarded their rear. Thus began the long, painful ride back to Masyaf. They couldn't rest for more than a couple hours at a time. The first time being just after sundown as the horses stopped to draw water and rest for a spell beside a stream. Kadar helped tend to Malik's wounded arm using his own sash to function as a temporary sling to ease his older brother’s discomfort. Altaïr sat a little more than an arm’s length from the two brothers. His knees drawn close to himself as the Master Assassin huddled up in his lonely little space. He looked deeply fatigued as his amber eyes were cast in the faint glow of a golden ethereal light. It unnerved the brothers as that otherworldly vision gazed unblinkingly in their direction.

“Altaïr?” Kadar called softly to the assassin from where he was kneeling between the two older men. With Malik’s arm taken care of, his brother turned his cautious care towards their next concern.

Sluggishly Altaïr moved his head. His attention swiveled slowly, a half tilt at most to direct his focus on Kadar's voice.

“How are you feeling?”

Altaïr was quiet for a time. His swollen lip pursed in a thin line where the Grandmaster's assault left dark bruises bleeding across the sun bronzed hue of his skin. The stark white pallor of the scar cresting his lips was that much more noticeable at a glance. Altaïr didn't say anything. His shoulders gave a weak hiccup of motion before he sagged back into his tight huddle. For the first time it felt like, his unnerving gaze blinked, offering them a fleeting reprieve from its passive scrutiny. Malik couldn't shake the unease it caused, as if Altaïr could see right through them both.

Kadar nodded silently to himself as he offered the thought, though the question was distinctly missing from the declaration. “A blindfold may help your eyes rest. I might have something to help in my saddle bag.” His brother rocked back up to his feet to fetch the item in question. Meanwhile Malik used his remaining arm to offer his waterskin to the silent assassin.

“Here, Altaïr. You should drink something.” He extended the waterskin across the short gap between them as he urged. “Give me your hand.”

Altaïr hesitantly obeyed. His open palm cautiously searched the open space between the two men to ensure he didn't accidentally smack or bump into Malik unnecessarily. Satisfied at the obedience of his comrade's actions, he placed the waterskin in the assassin's hand. Their bare fingers brushed in a brief moment of contact. A sudden pulse of energy throbbed between them as the golden light danced across his skin like a horrifying shiver. Altaïr’s hand recoiled just as quickly as Malik’s own reflexive retreat. Hissing through his teeth with an apology on his lips, Malik watched as Altaïr shuddered at his side with a miserable gasp. One hand clutched at his temple in an attempt to ward off the clear discomfort etched across his face.

“Altaïr-” Malik began but the words faded from his lips as Kadar returned to them both. Dragging in a raspy breath, the Master Assassin huddled tighter in his little ball as he shook off the unnerving pulses of light and nursed at the clean water within the pouch.

It baffled Malik as to what set off these moments of pulsing light. Was it physical touch? But Kadar had been handling Altaïr barehanded for hours now with no effect. Yet it was twice now that Malik has drawn out a startling reaction from the other man. He couldn't place his finger on any conclusive explanation, only that his touch was quickly becoming unwanted for the confused assassin.

With the spare cloth from his saddle bag, and the extra bandages from Altaïr's own saddle, Kadar was able to wrap a loose fabric around the older assassin's eyes to provide a modicum of possible comfort. Altaïr relaxed a little with the welcome reprieve to shield his sensitive eyes. He was able to rest a little easier while Kadar used the extra bandages to wrap Malik's arm better. Satisfied that both men were taken care of, that all three had rested enough to continue, and that their horses had a chance to get a proper drink, the three assassins saddled up to resume their journey.

A whole night of riding felt like torture with the constant sway and jostle of Amira. The pain in his arm would come and go with sharp jolts that crawled up into his shoulder and bit at the twinging muscles in his neck. On several occasions, Malik felt the muscle in his jaw jump and the nerves sing with a searing pain that took all of his extensive self control to bite back a cry from his lips. Amira could clearly sense his discomfort but her desire to ease her hasty strides on his account were countered by Malik's insistence that she keep pace with Kadar and Altaïr ahead of them.

He wobbled and swayed in the saddle, fighting to keep upright a moment more. Another bend. Another farm. Another sparsely shaded tree. Each milestone was a goal, and each goal that passed bolstered him with the knowledge that if he could go this far, he could keep going, keep riding, just a little further. Each measure was a testament of his will. His eyes glazed over as he struggled to focus on the cool grey shadows of his brother’s shoulders as they strode ahead. 

The sun rose. The scorching heat felt like blisters upon their backs. They rode until mid day when they came to a stream to rest once more. It was hard to say who was more miserable, Malik who was in pain, or Altaïr who wobbled and wavered where he sat on the ground looking like he was going to hurl what little was left in his stomach from being blindly shaken on saddleback all night long.

Kadar tended to them both, bringing them water and even foraging for wild mint along the bank to offer to soothe both of their discomfort. Altaïr gratefully accepted the fragrant leaves as he packed a couple against his cheek to chew and suckle on as he sipped the water from their pouch. The rest of their travel went this way with Kadar leading, making periodic stops to rest their horses for an hour or two, fetch water or provide medicine from what he could forage along the roadside or in the sparse greenery, then they'd continue on through the scorching heat of day, or the cool unsettling nights. They didn't travel as long in the dark. Optimizing the darkest periods for rest then disembarking once again shortly before first light. Malik wasn't sure if Kadar had taken the time to rest himself, but each new day that passed, his brother was lively and determined as he urged them both from their miserable spots to resume once more.

It was Kadar's unwavering perseverance and careful planning that saw them approaching the towering silhouette of Masyaf fortress on the morning of the fifth day. Malik couldn't even put into words the relief and pride he felt as his weary eyes drank in the familiar sights of their home. Tentatively, he spotted the little turn of Kadar's head as he steadied Altaïr with one arm and guided Hilal with the other, to peer back over his shoulder at Malik. Those bright blue eyes gleamed with triumph as Malik greeted him with an approving smile.

‘I knew you could do it, brother.’ He eased out with a contented sigh.

Chapter Text

‘Don’t puke. Don't puke. Don't puke.’ It was the constant mantra running through his head as Altaïr balanced upon Kadar's horse. Every shake and sway was getting to him as his queasy stomach rolled painfully over. He had tried his best to appease it by suckling on mint leaves with sparse sips of water, but all that did was give him the deeply uncomfortable feeling of an empty stomach with only fluid sloshing around inside it. His relief was immeasurable once his boots hit solid ground for the final time. He wavered, staggering sideways as his body acclimated to the firm footing once more. His head was spinning. The world swiveled around him as the assassin dropped to his knees in the dirt to try to ward off the nauseating sensation.

At his back, he heard Kadar and Malik speaking with one of the stable hands as Kadar guided his brother off of Amira. In front of him the rapid approach of footsteps pounded the dirt. Altaïr squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply to steady his coiling stomach. His fingers clutched at the belly of his robes as his guts knotted up painfully inside.

He shuddered as the tight sensation like a fist clenched inside of his chest pushed up behind his lungs. A shuddering breath stuttered as bitter saliva pooled around his mouth, and the recent wad of mint leaves he'd been chewing on for the past half an hour or so.

“Altaïr?” Kadar's confusion was echoed by Rauf’s similarly worried call in front of him. But someone else was much closer in their approach. Someone who's voice made his skin crawl.

“Not so untouchable I see, brother.” Abbas’ cruel smile was one Altaïr needed no sight to recognize as the smug satisfaction of the other man's voice relayed it perfectly clear. Altaïr stifled a groan as the sour bile of his guts heaved painfully up his throat as the hot fluids of his stomach hit the ground. Abbas’ disgusted curse was punctuated by the outraged squawk of disbelief regarding the filth now staining his boots.

It was Altaïr’s turn to harbor smug satisfaction as he used the sleeve of his robe to clear away the spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth. Abbas’ hand landed on Altaïr's shoulder, a painfully tight grip that caught the master assassin off guard. His hand shot up to catch Abbas’ wrist as his fingers encircled the sun warmed skin of the other man's hand to drag it away.

The action was interrupted as soon as contact was made. A startling shock of golden light, much like what happened with Malik previously, jolted across his dark vision. Not even the blindfold could protect him from the blazing rays that flashed over the backs of his eyelids crafting horrible visions. Visions of Abbas driven through by a blade, the stark white of his robes were stained with the scarlet splash of his own blood as his body slumped to the dusty ground of the training yard.

It frightened Altaïr as he shoved the man away from him with a snap of motion. He recoiled back, crashing back onto the seat of his ass as Rauf’s gasp collided with the sound of Abbas’ alarmed curse.

“Altaïr?” Rauf’s worried voice was a tentative thread weaving through the tense air between the three men. The hasty approach of boots at his back saw Kadar by his side once again expertly cutting the tension with a sharp directive. 

“We have no time to talk. We must see the Master immediately.” The youngest Al-Sayf brother guided Altaïr back to his feet while the crunch of Malik's unsteady steps meandered slowly at their side. The older of the two brothers demanded quickly in turn.

“Where is he?”

It was Rauf’s cautiously helpful words that guided them. “In his study with his books awaiting your return.” Kadar was already steering Altaïr in the direction but not before he caught Rauf’s much quieter inquiry to Malik behind them. “Are you both alright?”

“It's fine.” Malik assured curtly as he quickened his steps to regain the lost ground between him and his brother. Altaïr found himself struggling to keep his pace with Kadar as they climbed the sloped rise leading up to the entrance to Masyaf fortress. A part of him wanted to beg the younger Al-Sayf brother to slow down, his feet couldn't possibly keep up without tripping over themselves, but Altaïr knew time was short. They didn't have the luxury for his comfort yet. The sooner they saw the Master, the quicker he could be treated and cured of this affliction. At least Altaïr hoped there was a cure to all of this. If anyone had the wisdom and knowledge to do so, it would be Al Mualim.

The coolness and shade of the fortress entry was a relief for Altaïr. The climb up the numerous steps forced them to slow their progress to his pace as he cautiously climbed with Kadar's steadying hand holding his arm. Once they reached the top of the stairs there was no time for either he or Malik to catch their breaths. Al Mualim was already speaking the moment he heard their clumsy approach. Altaïr imagined the three of them looked like quite the shocking sight, battered and tattered as they were. This mission wasn't meant to be so hard but extenuating circumstances led to unpredictable complications. The explanation of such delivered by Kadar was hastily dismissed.

Al Mualim's only inquiry was whether they successfully retrieved the treasure or not. Altaïr smothered the urge to bristle at the dismissal but relented as Kadar relinquished his hold on the assassin's arm. He fished for the orb from the pouch on his hip. The soft pulsing energy had become a background sensation burning softly at the back of his mind like a single candle in a dark room. He had grown numb to its presence, quickly ignoring its existence except when it immediately pertained to his present interest.

As Altaïr withdrew it from the bag, he felt the energy in the room shift. Malik and Kadar had grown tense on either side of him, while Al Mualim let out a quiet breath of reverence. Kadar eased Altaïr closer as he took a couple tentative steps towards their Master's desk before the weight of the artifact was lifted carefully from his open palm. It should have been a relief for Altaïr to be freed from its burden, but all he felt was sick to his stomach with dread.

A moment later one of their brethren came charging into the room to announce. “We’re under attack! The Templars have broke through the gates!”

“What?!” Al Mualim's shock and outrage cut sharply through the air. The unspoken accusation being lobbed towards them in a brief pause of consideration left Altaïr feeling uneasy. He could feel the cutting scrutiny of his Master's gaze set upon him. The disappointment in his voice as he barked out. “Away to the infirmary with you three. I must attend to the mess you've made.”

Altaïr could hear the heavy swallow from Kadar directly at his side. A nervous gulp that came with the quiet promise of an inevitable punishment. Altaïr knew that uneasy fear all too well. He sympathized with the young Al-Sayf brother. Malik was already being led away for medical treatment as the chaos of outside faintly reached their ears. Altaïr tightened his grip upon Kadar’s steadying arm as he recalled the sacrifice of his father to keep the enemies that would harm their home at bay. Robert de Sablé was outside courting the slaughter of their brethren because of them.

As the highest ranked assassin on that mission, it was his responsibility. Every decision made was his to own. He would be the one made to answer for their actions and the ensuing fallout. He could not give up the treasure but Altaïr prayed to whatever higher power was toying with them as of late, that he could bargain with the man to give his brothers time. If he could provide the opportunity his father had, to save even a single life with his own. Perhaps it was a chance to make amends, to take the brunt of punishment so the brothers would be spared, or perhaps it was his desperate scramble to be freed of his current misery. Death's merciful kiss would certainly be kinder than this life he faced with the burden of his affliction. What use was a blind assassin? He had no family to care for him. No one to tend to him for the rest of his foreseeable life. It was a shameful future.

Kadar's hand attempted to guide Altaïr in the same direction Malik was taken to, but he refused. He didn't give Kadar time to reason with him as he directed sternly. “Take me outside.”

“Altaïr, there is a battle out there.” He could hear the worry and imagine the frown on the younger man's face.

“I know.” Altaïr assured him. “I wish to speak with Robert de Sablé.”

There was a reluctance to the younger assassin. A fearful hesitation that considered the sanity of this entire plan, before Kadar relented before his elder with a sigh. “So be it. I will guide you.”

The clamor of assassins had gathered below the watchful balcony of their Master. Kadar guided him through the dense crowd of their brethren that collected along the cliff's edge overlooking the training yard. One last gate was the only difference between victory and being completely overrun. They had made their way past the village at the base of the mountain and through the gates of the fortress before anyone knew what was happening. During the evacuation of the novices from the training yard, the murmurs of their brethren told that only two of their brothers so far had died. A messenger who had attempted to warn the fortress of the incoming attack only to get thrown from his own horse and stepped on, and Abbas whose body was said to still be lying in the training yard where he took a sword through his stomach defending the untrained novices while they escaped up the cliffs led by Rauf.

‘Abbas is dead?’ Killed in the middle of the training yard by a sword to the stomach. Just as he envisioned when he touched the other man outside the gates. ‘Are- are these visions true?’

He had a sneaking suspicion about it when he knew Malik’s arm was injured badly before he even had the confirmation from Kadar. But envisioning the worse for an injury he knew could turn badly was an expected and acceptable worry for his thoughts to stray to. Envisioning such a highly specific death for a man he had years of bad blood brewing under the surface with and it coming true was another case entirely. He could have thought of a hundred other ways for Abbas to die, including a failed leap of faith and a stampede of wild horses trampling him under foot. None of which had ever involved him being killed in the training yard of Masyaf. The place where their relationship as brothers died. Where he delivered upon Altaïr, the scar on his lip. A mark of shame and betrayal that he bore with contempt every day since.

The treasure was no longer in his possession but were the prophetic visions still possible without it? It was hard to say. Regardless, Robert de Sablé didn't need to know that. All he had was the knowledge that something had transpired between Altaïr and the relic back in the Temple. Something they all had witnessed with their own eyes. Golden light and strange geometric patterns that had stretched across his body illuminating every otherworldly line like cracks in a soot stained lantern. He hoped this farce would be enough.

Once they had reached the gate where their brothers had crowded around to witness the Master's efforts to dissuade this army, Altaïr spoke up to the attendant. “Lift the gate. Let us pass.”

“Altaïr?” A baffled reply came, as the energy of the assassins around them shifted with unease. He imagined he looked like quite the sorry sight with his eyes still wrapped in tattered cloth, and his face worse for wear after being struck by Robert's gauntlet. “We were not given orders to lift the gates.”

“I’m ordering you now.” He cut through their refusal with an ironclad certainty that left the assassins standing anxiously around him dwelling in doubt. He leveled the threat with the cold cruel blade of his tongue, leveraging their fears against them. “Lift the gate or answer for the deaths of those who come from your idleness.”

After a moment of consideration, he heard the old ironwork mechanisms groaning as the chain strained to hoist it up. It only rose a short height, just enough for him and Kadar to stoop beneath and step out beyond the safety of Masyaf’s walls. The gate closed, casting a distinctive sense of sudden dread over the entire castle. Not even Al Mualim spoke as a hush fell over them all.

Mustering his nerves, Altaïr calmed the slight tremor of weakness that quaked in his knees. He was grateful that his robes concealed the apprehension he himself felt in regards to his own plan. Walking to his inevitable death felt much more comforting if he had a blade in hand. All he had was Kadar's hand cautiously overlapping his own as they walked forward.

“Hear me, Templar.” Altaïr called once he was certain they were close enough to hail the Grandmaster's focus. Kadar made sure of that as the subtle signs of their unspoken language pressed against his forearm and palm, tracing symbols and warnings into his flesh for him to be wary of. Robert wasn't alone. He had an entire battalion of knights at his back. The silent warning of archers was accompanied by polearms a moment later. They had distance as well as numbers. As Kadar's observations were relayed to Altaïr, he knew the Templars had come with intent, and not without preparation. It was no fluke that they followed so swiftly upon their escape from the temple. This meeting was preordained regardless of their actions.

“Ah, Assassin.” Robert’s heavily accented voice greeted Altaïr amicably. “You show courage in the face of your Master's cowardice. I see, he thinks me so easily dissuaded by throwing a blind man and a boy at my feet.”

“He throws no one at your feet.” Altaïr cut in to correct. “My decision is my own. I come to you with a proposition.”

“Oh?” Robert almost seemed to lavish the sound on his tongue. “Do enlighten me, Assassin.”

“I offer you myself.” The words left his lips with much more confidence than he actually felt in this moment. Brazen as the offer was, he hoped it would be enough. That his suspicions were correct and Robert would take the bait. Emboldened by the knowledge that he really had nothing left to lose, he continued. “In exchange, you leave Masyaf and its people in peace.”

With so many soldiers directly at his back, Altaïr could only imagine how many more waited patiently for the signal from their commander down in the village. How many more men followed the Grandmaster obediently to this place expecting to die on its ridges in the face of glory? He feared for the people of Masyaf village, of the many innocent lives that may have been cut down on the way to reach this point. Of the children whose fathers and mothers may never come home to them ever again because of the cruel cold blade of warring dogs snarling at their door.

“You?” Robert chuckled. He sounded deeply amused at the idea. “A single assassin for the lives of a stronghold?”

“You and I both know what happened in Solomon's Temple. You felt it, just as I did. You witnessed it first hand, Templar.” Altaïr held out his right hand, his palm relaxed and open as he offered. “Is that so insignificant that you're willing to squander an opportunity for answers?”

A scoff from the knight. “This is a trick.”

“No trick.” Altaïr shook his head. He took a hesitant step forward of his own volition. Kadar was reluctant to release Altaïr’s left hand as he shuffled along at his side and cautiously aided him in his approach as closely as they could get without startling the horses or forcing the rest of the knights to draw their blades in retaliation. “I have no need to play games with you, Templar.”

After a few intense moments, his heart beat quickly against his ribs as he anticipated pain. He expected the knights to grow tired and restless of this charade, to cut him and Kadar down on the spot, but it never came. He heard the quiet bark of orders in French directed at the soldiers before Robert remarked now suddenly much closer to Altaïr than he was initially comfortable with. Altaïr stiffened in alarm, his eyes going wide behind the protective cloth as he forced his arm to steady and smother the anxious trembling of his outstretched hand. Robert's voice was a low rumble like a distant storm over the mountains, it stirred the air between them with an unexpected comfort in the moment. He couldn't tell if the knight was simply cocky or that self assured in his own skills.

“One wrong move and my men will darken the sky above your beloved castle with arrows, Assassin.” The Grandmaster warned coldly. Altaïr swallowed thickly. He could account for his own actions and possibly even Kadar’s, but if any of his brethren act out of line, then all of this was for nothing.

There was the rustling of mail then the knight’s warm palm came to rest in Altaïr’s grasp. His fingers twitched against the calloused skin of Robert's knuckles as the golden light washed over his vision. He heard Kadar suck in a surprising breath by his ear as the warmth of those vibrant rays pulsed throughout his body. It wasn't as powerful without the treasure by his side. There was no snap of vibration through the air, only a thrumming he felt solely in his own veins and muscles. Altaïr held his breath as the golden visage cast before him twisted into a clouded world of dreary skies mourning an ashen, scarred battlefield. Robert laid among the puddles of mud and churned up hills of earth littered with the corpses of thousands of dead soldiers, Saracens and Crusaders alike. The white mantle of the Grandmaster was tarnished by the filth of battle. His pale eyes gazed up at the livid sky unseeing as he bled out into the landscape around him. A dark wound pierced his throat, a jagged bloody streak across starched skin drained of its life. A tattered banner flown by King Richard fluttered gently in the wind where its standard-bearer had fallen to a hail of Saracen arrows.

The vision ended. Altaïr felt sick as the throbbing pain he had been nursing sporadically over the last few days had returned with a vengeance. He retracted his hand from Robert's touch to cautiously cradle his temple.

“What did you see, Assassin?” Robert's voice was unexpectedly quiet.

Grimacing to himself as he warded off the pain, Altaïr breathed carefully to rebuild his composure. “Your death.” He began as his stomach rolled. “In a battle at King Richard's behest.”

A speculative hum danced lightly in the air between them. “But not this battle?” He clarified. To which Altaïr slowly shook his head and immediately regretted the motion.

“No.” He could feel the unpleasant build of saliva gathering in his mouth as the queasiness he was desperately staving off before at the stable had returned with a vengeance. “Not this battle.”

‘I’m going to be sick.’ Altaïr couldn't shake off the sudden weakness that came over his body as if all of the strength he had just moments ago was sapped right out of him. His knees gave as he dropped to the ground with a shuddering gasp. Kadar knelt directly at his side while still dutifully holding the older assassin's arm as he attempted to comfort Altaïr. The Master Assassin clutched at the filthy front of his robes to cradle his stomach, adamantly willing away these unpleasant feelings and their inappropriate timing.

“I see.” Robert’s voice teased the air. “This is no trick. You’re being honest with me.”

Scowling to himself, Altaïr gritted through his teeth. “I gain nothing from lying, Templar.” A moment passed, then Altaïr asked. “Do you accept my proposal?”

“I do, Assassin.” Then raising his voice louder so that all may hear their agreement, he continued. “Your brethren will be saved on this day thanks to your sacrifice. But know that should this prove to be a trick, if you go back on your word, we will return and raze your beloved home to the ground. Am I understood?”

Altaïr nodded firmly in answer, projecting his voice so all would hear. “Yes.”

“Good.” Robert directed. A moment later the Grandmaster's hand was on his other arm, clad in its gauntlet once more as he urged Altaïr back to his feet. “Get up then.”

He was pulled away from Kadar but the young assassin refused to release him. “Kadar-” Altaïr began but Kadar cut him off just as swiftly.

“I'm coming too.” That got both Robert and Altaïr’s joint surprise as the two men shared similar sounds of confusion. “You cannot take care of yourself in your state, Altaïr. I'm coming with you. Two prisoners is worth more than one, yes? More incentive for good behavior?”

Robert didn't linger long on the consideration before agreeing to take both assassins. But Altaïr disagreed. “Your brother-”

“Would understand.” Kadar insisted. “Malik would understand that sometimes a sacrifice must be made for the good of us all. To protect the people we love.”

“Kadar, you clearly underestimate your brother's feelings on the subject.” Altaïr hissed between them. “He needs you here to take care of him.”

“He will be fine, Altaïr.” It occurred to him that Kadar did not understand the full scope of the severity of Malik's injury. Whether it was willful ignorance or a convenient misunderstanding, it was hard to say. He feared what would become of Malik when he finds out what happened to his baby brother, and how Altaïr stood by to let him throw himself to the wolves baying at their gates. He tried to explain, to find the right words to tell the young assassin of what he saw. What came to pass in his visions. A Malik without an arm, a man delegated to the simple duties of an assassin mentor. 

A Malik that was by himself in both visions. Perhaps this was the path for them. The sacrifice they were both meant to make. Altaïr relented as he and Kadar were disarmed by the knights. Their hidden blades, bracers and armor padding was stripped off of them in search of any cleverly concealed places they could think of, and tossed to the dirt at their feet. Once the knights were satisfied that they declawed their new prisoners, he and Kadar were split apart as they were placed on different horses. Altaïr felt a shudder roll through him when he realized the massive horse he was drawn up onto was Robert de Sablé’s own personal horse. The Grandmaster laid a sturdy arm around his midsection as he steered their course out of the courtyard of Masyaf under the watchful eyes of their Order.

While Robert had been expecting to leave Masyaf with the treasure, or not at all, this new and strange turn of events had sparked his interest. The assassin's proposal was an unexpected albeit welcome offer. Only a sacred few were privy to the details of the Apple's power. This assassin -Altaïr, he reminded himself- was an intriguing man. Bold and determined, even when sickness sapped him of his strength to stand on his own two feet. He bargained with a unique power, one that Robert doubted the Old Man on the Mountain was aware of, and one the knight wasn't going to turn away.

Prophetic visions divined by the treasure they were tasked with seeking out and protecting. To see the spry young man he fought back in the Temple wasting away before his very eyes felt like divine punishment. For a very brief moment, Robert was relieved he hadn't touched the treasure with his bare hands before he chided himself for thinking such selfish cruel thoughts. Altaïr was suffering at the whims of the treasure, a burden unlike any other, a cruel trade of power and knowledge at the expense of himself. While Robert was quick to assume at first that this must be a punishment for the actions of a heathen coming in contact with a sacred treasure, he had to carefully remind himself that every Saint suffered righteous martyrdom for their God. That the Templars themselves swore to a life of suffering in the name of their devotion. Perhaps this burden bestowed upon the assassin was not a divine punishment but the price he must pay for the gift he was given. Perhaps, in a strange twist of fate, he was meant to enter the Templar fold in this manner so that they could guide him and care for him through this trial in his life.

Any man willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of others was a man worthy of God’s mercy and Robert's respect.

He could only imagine the look on that Old Man's face when they rode out of the courtyard with Altaïr and Kadar in their possession. Was it one of outrage? A miserable contempt? Or unbridled envy? He was quite pleased with himself as they made their way through the village below the castle walls. The residents were hiding within their homes, cautiously observing the knights that lined their streets, watching vigilantly and awaiting the call to arms from their Grandmaster. Robert would give no such call. They were leaving. Disembarking back to Jerusalem with their new prizes in hand.

With one strong arm wrapped around Altaïr’s midsection, Robert directed his draft horse along the winding rocky road out of the mountains. The assassin’s body slumped back against his chest as Altaïr's head hung in defeat. The steady strides of his horse carried them down steep rocky paths that cut sharply around treacherous bends with unstable edges that gave way if they rode too close. The assassin squirmed in the saddle, his head swaying slowly from one side to the next, his chin pressed against the tattered fabric of his own dirty robe. Altaïr’s hands blindly groped at his clothes, one of which overlapped the armored forearm of the knight with a weak grip. Robert tightened his hold against the assassin in warning but it only made the younger man squirm more. He felt the churning gurgle of the assassin's stomach under the pressure of his arm and saw the younger man's free hand quickly raise to cover his mouth as he shuddered.

“What is-” He began to question when the choked back sound of heaving came from the trembling man. ‘Oh.’

He pulled Éloi to a sudden halt as he growled into Altaïr’s ear with a warning. “Do not throw up on my horse.” As he adjusted his grip on his new charge to drag Altaïr off of the saddle by his under arms as if he weighed nothing and deposited him to his own two feet at Éloi’s side. The assassin stretched a wary hand to the horse's side but only found Robert's knee for support before he buckled over and lost the scant contents of his stomach on the hot rocks below their boots.

“Altaïr!” He heard the other assassin cry out in worry. Before Robert could pass along any kind of order to his men, the youngest assassin rushed to Altaïr’s side to comfort his comrade as the painful retching and miserable sputtering continued.

This man appeared to be much sicker than Robert initially surmised. He feared the influence of the Apple and the use of its powers was wearing away at him much faster than the Grandmaster previously thought. If they didn't do something to stabilize Altaïr’s condition soon, their carefully won prize won't live to make it back to Jerusalem.

Chapter Text

Just shy of sunset, the knights found a stream not far from the winding road of the countryside in which to settle in and set up camp for the night. Their progress had slowed once they reunited with their caravans of supplies that had trailed them in preparation for a long battle, and halted even more when it became clear the assassin could take no more riding for the day. After the third stop they made to let him heave helplessly over the rocks and bushes at the edge of the road, it became painfully clear that the man’s overall well being had degraded further.

Kadar had hovered worriedly over his comrade as Altaïr moaned in agony before slumping sideways to the dirt in a shivering huddle. His skin and clothes were damp with the accumulated perspiration that soaked into the filthy fabric. One hand clutched desperately at the front of his robes as he curled up on himself. Seizing the opportunity to tend to his own men, and fearful that if he pushed Altaïr to endure much longer they'd lose him, he gave the word for his knights to begin building camp for the night. The younger assassin offered Altaïr water to comfort him in his distress. The older assassin sipped tentatively from the pouch before cautiously pushing it away with a shudder.

“I can't…” He warbled miserably, shaking his head at the younger man's gentle assurances as he curled up away from his comrade's worried touch. Kadar didn't withdraw. He simply accepted the silent dismissal and sat at his elder’s side, patiently waiting for a moment when he was needed again.

Robert watched the two men closely, not out of fear that they might flee. No, the assassin was in too poor of shape for that. Robert could feel the aggressive revolt of his body as the knight held the wilted frame of the sickly man against his chest. The way his body coiled and trembled beneath his open palm. He studied the two men and observed the little details that noted their poor condition. While Altaïr was the worse for wear with ugly half healing bruises along one side of his face, their dark smudges peeking out from beneath the tarnished fabric of the blindfold, he was not the only one facing challenges. His companion was deeply fatigued. His eyes were bloodshot with dark shadows pooling beneath the splash of that bright inquisitive blue. His cheeks were sharp, his chin narrowed with the dark stains of dust from their travels smudging the concave sculpting of his haggard features. They deepened the already stark shadows his hood cast adding an even more pathetic look to the exhausted youth. His head dipped slowly, his chin hovering just above the plateau of his breast as he sluggishly blinked away the lure of long withheld sleep.

Both men were lean and thin. They were filthy and unkempt from head to toe. It was a miracle they were even functioning at the capacity they were regardless of their youthful spirits and stubborn dispositions. He vaguely had a mind to compare them to poorly kept stray cats with their fur tattered and tangled with the trials of the wilderness and their feral eyed reluctance to trust the strangers who approached them with good intentions. They hissed and recoiled away from others, and sometimes even each other as they sulked away to lick their own tender wounds in the quiet.

He estimated neither man was going to last long in the face of their overwhelming fatigue with the chance for them to both properly rest for once. His men didn't bother with erecting shelters for the night. The sky was clear and the night was a cool refreshing reprieve from the scorching heat of the long day. Campfires burned as they prepared their meals. One of their chaplains, a middle aged man by the name of Brother Jacque, approached cautiously in his green robes. Greeting Robert in their native tongue, he inquired. “How are they doing?”

Exasperated, Robert sighed. “Not well, I'm afraid. The younger one goes by the name Kadar. He seems to be in moderate shape.” He pointed out each man as he explained to the holy man, relaying his concerns on the matter. “The blind one is Altaïr. I fear his condition may be close to dire if we don't do something soon to aid him.”

Brother Jacque studied the two young men with care before nodding. “I'll prepare a broth for Altaïr immediately.”

“Might I also request boiling some water for bathing? They both need to clean up.”

“Yes, Grandmaster.” Brother Jacque agreed with a polite nod.

Robert shared a tired smile with his comrade as he bowed his head briefly in a show of considerable respect. “Thank you, brother.”

Brother Jacque left his side as he beckoned to a few of the squires that had accompanied the caravan to assist with meal prep and the wash water for their men. In the meantime, Robert turned his attention to his horse as he tended to Éloi while occasionally flitting his attention towards the two assassins over the stallion’s broad back. Altaïr was curled up into a tight ball with his knees drawn close to his chest and one hand draped over his stomach as he rested. Kadar remained seated upright in one of the most uncomfortable positions the youth could possibly assume as he kept vigil over his comrade.

After a little while, Brother Jacque had brought over a bowl of vegetable stew to Kadar to allow him the chance to eat. But first, a bucket of warm water was drawn from a boiling pot for him to wash his hands and face with beforehand, delivered to him by one of their young squires. Kadar looked a little conflicted as he inspected the offering, before glancing at his side where Altaïr was resting. Unable to translate between French and Arabic, Brother Jacque lacked the ability to explain, which is where Robert stepped in.

“These are for your use only.” The knight insisted with a gentleness that had been absent in their many previous encounters. The young assassin tilted his head to regard the large knight with suspicion.

“Why?” His lips pressed a thin line as those tired eyes slowly raked over the Grandmaster. Robert noticed he lacked the sharpness he held poised earlier that morning.

“Altaïr is too weak to eat solid food. A special broth is being made for him. When it's time for him to eat, he will be brought his own water to wash with.”

Kadar appeared to consider this fact. His gaze dragged itself around the camp with a lazy tilt of his head as he inspected the rest of the knights. Some men were scrubbing their faces with soft scrap cloth now that they could remove their helmet and gauntlets. Others had already cleaned themselves and were partaking of the same stew. They gathered around the campfires to rest in mostly silence. It was not a discomforting silence, but a companionable acceptance as they sat among their fellow brothers. Seeming satisfied with the collection of soldiers performing the same ritualistic tasks, Kadar relented his suspicions and gave into the opportunity to finally care for himself.

The world around Altaïr swam in and out of focus. The noise of horses and knights moving about their duties was a constant hum in the background that he attempted to drown out. All he wanted was the eagerly awaited reprieve that came with sleep. It felt like he had achieved that for a few blissful moments before a gentle hand nudged his knee to stir his attention.

‘Kadar…’ He thought as he ignored the touch at first hoping the young assassin would catch the hint and leave him alone a little longer. The nudge came again, more insistently now to pull him from his sleep. The words to refuse balanced tiredly on his tongue but before they could reach past his dry cracked lips, he heard the unmistakable French accent by his ear where the knight was stooped.

“Altaïr, you need to get up.” It was uncharacteristically gentle, dragging a shiver through his exhausted body. It quickly coiled against the anxious knot of fear that balled up behind his lungs.

“Where is Kadar?”

Robert answered just as quietly, still just as calm. “Asleep. He was badly fatigued and needed rest.”

“Where?” Altaïr ground through his teeth. The knight cautiously took Altaïr by the wrist. The assassin tensed, expecting to be dragged up to his feet or restrained for his lack of cooperation, but instead the knight soothed.

“Easy, it's okay. He's right here.” The direction his hand was drawn in forced Altaïr to have to sit up to reach the prone body just an arm's distance away. He could feel the familiar threading of the assassin robes and the slow rise and fall of Kadar's chest in the throes of sleep. His fear subsided for a moment as he breathed in relief.

“There you are. He's just fine, Altaïr. It's your turn to be cared for.” Robert continued to maintain a calm, quiet voice as he spoke, explaining his reasoning for waking the assassin. “I bring you food, medicine and warm water to wash with. Let us help you.”

“Us?” He challenged.

Robert hummed in agreement. He spoke gingerly in French with the quiet words shared with a male companion. After a moment, the man began to introduce himself with extremely poor Arabic. The words were butchered and drowned in that awful French accent. Altaïr never expected someone’s Arabic to be more offensive to his ears than Robert's, and yet here he was listening to this atrocity. The man very poorly introduced himself as Brother Jacque, and he was a healer as well as a holy man.

With a grimace, the assassin considered his options. Food, medicine and a way to finally wash the disgusting filth off of his body sounded like a pretty enticing offer, but what was the catch? His skin crawled at the thought of being so vulnerable before his enemy. To trust this ‘medicine’ he was being given.

‘It’s not like I'm any better off as I currently am.’ He sharply reminded himself, tutting his pride for thinking an assassin who couldn't even stand or lift a hand for himself was any better than one drugged to sleep. Besides, he accepted the terms of their agreement. Terms he had offered in the first place. That he anticipated would be accompanied with the promise of torture and death.

Swallowing his pride for the moment, he relented to Robert's request. Just this once. He would see the truth of the Grandmaster's words, and whether his promises could truly be trusted.

“Fine.” He acquiesced.

The knight seemed satisfied. They started by helping him remove his filthy robes. Robert had to help Altaïr adjust his weight and balance himself, or draw himself back up to his feet for disrobing without outright cutting the fabric off of his body. Robert's apologetic voice warmed the curve of Altaïr’s ear as he steadied the assassin’s balance. “I'm afraid they might not be salvageable. We’ll have to find new clothes for you to wear.”

He shifted between speaking in Arabic and French as he consulted with the holy man at his side. With a hum of understanding, he admitted. “As I thought. They’re too damaged to be mended.”

Altaïr feared that was the case. He felt naked without the comfort of his robes to hide away from the world within. Standing in only his boots and his dusty trousers, he was guided back down to seat himself on the ground. The cool touch of Robert's gauntlets tenderly cradling his bicep and his back to guide him was a strange comfort as Altaïr’s hands gripped the front of the knight's jerkin. Once he was resting on the ground again, he was given a wet wash rag to scrub his hands and face with. Feeling a little better once he was partially clean -clean enough to eat now- Robert presented him with a warm bowl of hot vegetable broth. The assassin cautiously raised it to his lips to take a tentative sip, just enough of a taste to decide whether it was tampered with or not. It was salty. That was about all he got out of it was an incredible saltiness that his body found itself desperately craving. The first wary sips soon became desperate gulps as he drained the wooden vessel of every last drop.

Robert made an approving noise where he was perched at Altaïr’s side. “Good. Good. May I take the bowl back, please?” He requested as his metallic fingers brushed against the assassin's knuckles. Altaïr relented his hold on the vessel but that wasn't the end of it. A moment later Robert urged. “Here, Altaïr. Now drink this.”

What seemed to be the same bowl returned. There was only a couple sips of hot water mixed with something bitter in it. The assassin gave the bowl a little swirl to feel the steaming fluid as he breathed it in. “What is it?”

“Medicine.” Robert answered. “This will help you sleep better and ease your pain. There is another medicine after that. An elixir that we knights drink after battle that will repair your body from its trials. Drink them both and you can rest unburdened.”

‘An elixir?’ Was that the secret to the Templars’ practices, and what made their knights such formidable and resilient opponents? Or perhaps this was a cleverly disguised trick and Robert was waiting for Altaïr to foolishly let his guard down.

It didn't matter in the end, he reminded himself sternly. He was a willing prisoner. He had to remain as such to secure Masyaf's safety. It was hard to turn a blind eye to years of ingrained habits and training like this. To intentionally let his guard down around men he never would have previously. With a calming breath to ease the jittery nerves that burned in his limbs, he tipped back the bowl to down the bitter medicinal tea in two quick sips. He couldn't smother the way his body shuddered at the unpleasant flavor that covered his tongue. The way it warred with the lingering saltiness of the broth. To Altaïr’s misery, it only got worse.

Instead of a bowl, he was given a corked vial to knock back. There was much more of this medicine and it tasted terribly sour to his tongue. It was so bad that Altaïr began to cough and gag as he forced his throat to swallow the last few swigs with immense discomfort, before shoving the vial back at the knight with a full body quake of disgust.

Robert chuckled, though his voice held sympathy and sincerity in it. “Not everyone enjoys the taste of palm wine. It's understandable.”

He took the vial from the assassin's grasp before speaking to the man at his side in French. They talked for a few beats as Altaïr sat up impatiently waiting for them to come to whatever conclusion they were discussing so he could go back to sleep.

“Altaïr.” Robert called his name with the same calm, quiet voice he had been doing all evening. It was unnerving after he experienced the harshness of the knight’s brutal words earlier that morning. This felt like he was speaking with a completely different man. It bothered Altaïr and made his skin itch with the unease of not knowing where the line was. Was this gentleness temporary or the true colors of the ruthless Grandmaster? It was hard to say.

“May we examine your eyes?”

Altaïr shifted nervously beneath the scrutiny of these two foreigners. He turned his head away as his fingers curled into the fabric over his thighs. With a shaky breath, Altaïr exhaled the question. “Why?”

Robert was quiet for a moment. Both men had gone completely still. It didn't comfort Altaïr at all when he couldn't see their faces and what unspoken things may be shared between them. He stifled the urge to squirm away.

“I just want to make sure there is no infection after what I did in the Temple.” Robert explained. It sounded like a reasonable enough request but a part of Altaïr was still uneasy with the idea. He was afraid, for what reason exactly, he seriously couldn't explain. Perhaps it was the fear that haunted him that these two may find something wrong with him that cannot be healed. It wasn't like it would matter in the end, he couldn't change his fate any differently than his father could. A promise was a promise.

Breathing deeply once more to get a handle on his frayed nerves, Altaïr tilted his head back towards the knight’s vague direction as he relented. “Fine.”

There was a beat that passed, then the cautious warning from Robert. “Hold still for me, please.” 

The cool palm of his gauntlet gently cradled his jaw to direct his chin a little higher. The knight’s free hand removed the blindfold to inspect the assassin's bruised and battered face. What felt like it may have been the holy man had taken the wash rag in hand to clean around his eyelids and over the bridge of his nose where the tattered fabric kept covered. The two men spoke quietly in their native French to one another as the trickle of luke warm water splashed back into the vessel. The droplets cooled in the night air as they dripped down his cheeks like the reminiscence of tears. Gingerly, the gritty sand was washed away where it itched at his brows and left a crusty grime beneath the sweaty fabric.

He started to relax into their touch as Robert directed Altaïr’s head to turn from one side to the other with a cautious push and pull of his fingers where they stroked his jaw. “Can you open your eyes for us, Altaïr?”

His brows creased with a frown.

“Please?” The holy man insisted in his badly spoken Arabic. His stomach churned with the toil of his nerves.

‘Nothing will change. It doesn't matter if they see.’ He firmly reminded himself. Weakness or no, he was a slave in their possession. Little else could change his fate now. So with that stern mental reprimand in mind, he started to slowly open his eyes. At first they fought him. Even the scant warm glow of a lantern felt like too much for his sensitive gaze. The hot oil burned in the stifling air between them as the vessel was adjusted during their inspection. He managed to get one eye to squint open at the two men while the other twitched and shuddered in refusal. His eye lid quivered as the muscle protested the action.

There was more French being spoken as Robert's free hand gingerly stroked the sharp angle of Altaïr’s cheek just below the stubborn eye. Then the knight shared, empathetically. “The swelling still lingers here.”

The heavy beat of his heart stuttered anxiously against his ribs. The two men resumed their quiet conversation as they discussed something beyond Altaïr’s ability to comprehend. Robert sounded worried, if a little tense. The other man remained calm. The inflections of his voice shifting only briefly to something that may have been apologetic. The warm brush of unfamiliar fingers touched near his good eye. The press of bare skin against Altaïr’s own made his stomach swoop suddenly with a terrible dread as the golden light burned across his vision as the dull hum of energy sparked inside his veins. The hand on his face recoiled as if burned by his touch. Altaïr saw fire. He could feel the heat of the flames licking at his skin as he stood by amidst the crowd of onlookers, their horrified voices shuddered underneath the roar of the flames as they snarled and coiled up the unmoving oil soaked bodies of Templars. Men in simple brown cloth, green robes and white mantles alike, each adorned in the Templar cross as their bodies were lashed to posts surrounded by piles of blazing kindling. The stench of cooking human flesh filled every breath with the choking smoke that billowed up from the twitching figures of these victims.

Another soldier bearing the cross of the Holy Church stood by with the torch that started these gluttonous flames still clutched firmly in hand. He was no Templar. At least none that Altaïr had ever seen before. His body lurched away as the crackling heat belched towards him like the hungry inferno it was, searching for more victims before it was even finished with the ones it gorged on heartily. The golden light faded as Altaïr’s voice cried out fearfully.

“No!” He threw his hands up in front of himself to protect his body, though futile as it was, from the angry fires that choked the breath from his lungs. His body trembled as the cold night air slowly seeped into every inch of his sweaty skin. It chilled him as it chased off the fury of those flames and the frightful flush that its kiss left behind upon his flesh.

“Altaïr?!” Robert blurted, sounding deeply worried now as the assassin swatted blindly at the outstretched gauntlet that tenderly brushed his forearm.

“Don't touch me!” He snapped back at the knight with a terrified snarl. He didn't understand what these visions were or why they kept coming to him with images of death and misery, but he was fed up with it all. He didn't want to see any more. He didn't want to know these horrors that may come to pass. This forbidden knowledge, these secrets he was being shown were unwanted. Cradling his head in his palms, he tried his best to block out the smell of the smoke in the air and the cooking flesh of holy men. The comforts that the medicine had provided him, while brief, were gone. That dreaded queasiness returned as his gut churned with a painful shudder that shook through his whole body. A broken gasp for fresh -untainted- air was dragged from his throat as he wrapped his arms around himself defensively.

‘I didn't ask for this.’ He pleaded with the world at large, and whatever unholy being thought this poorly made joke was so amusing. ‘I don't want it. Kill me now, please don't make me suffer these nightmares any longer.’

He knew such begging would meet only deaf ears. No desperate words or prayers, or whatever else he could have mustered from his whole heart were ever heard and honored. Not when his father was taken from him. Not when Ahmad visited him night after night in his dreams, haunting him with that crimson smile carved into his own flesh. Not now, when all he was greeted with was more death and suffering.

Chapter Text

Nothing seemed to be going as Robert had planned. Brother Jacque had accidentally triggered a vision in the younger man that had clearly caused the assassin immeasurable distress. Where before Altaïr had simply been weak and nauseous, if only mildly shaken by what he had seen, this time was different. He had grown pale, crying out fearfully as he recoiled away from both men with a sudden defensiveness. He was trembling, heaving in gulps of air as he struggled against his rising panic, frantically trying to comfort himself as he wrapped his arms around his own shaking body. Robert had never seen this proud assassin look so terrified, not when they clashed steel back in the Temple, and not even when he offered himself as a prisoner.

Whatever vision he saw in connection to the chaplain had truly distressed him. Brother Jacque’s nerves weren't any better as he turned to the Grandmaster with a look of fear and alarm in his eyes. Thankfully the night had already grown dark. They were seated at the furthest end of camp after the majority of his men had turned in for the evening, finding rest in sleeping spots arranged around the low burning campfires. Altaïr’s shouting may have stirred a few in alarm, but Robert doubted any of them had properly witnessed the golden glow of the assassin.

Giving Altaïr time to calm down on his own, Robert quietly collected the soiled dishes and tattered rags of the assassin's robes to give him space. A part of him was expecting Kadar to wake at the noise of his comrade's distress but it would appear the youngest assassin was simply that worn out. He never roused. Not even for a moment. One of the wagons was parked a short distance away at the edge of camp. This was where he had tied off Éloi’s lead and had intended to rest himself for the night where he could keep a watchful eye over their new prisoners. It also formed a protective barrier between them and the rest of the men, sheltering the potentially glowing assassin from being easily spotted from the campfires. Depositing the ragged robes on the ledge of the wagon alongside his waterskin, Robert finally addressed the chaplain.

“I believe Altaïr may witness prophetic visions.” He began after a moment of carefully choosing his words. Before Brother Jacque could remark that this statement alone would be grounds enough for heresy, Robert continued. “He touched the sacred treasure in Solomon’s Temple with his bare hands. I witnessed it myself. It enveloped him in a golden glow just as you witnessed now, and afflicted him with a great gift and an even greater burden.”

It was a disappointing turn of events, he’ll admit. He spent weeks preparing for this expedition, collecting the appropriate tools for safely handling the relic, making the arrangements necessary to ensure its safe transport and so on. Decades of effort, years of preparation and planning, weeks of meticulous arrangements all thrown aside by one reckless young assassin who touched something beyond his comprehension. All at the orders of one bitter old man on a mountain.

“Grandmaster, I mean no disrespect but you're aware of the implications this could lead to, yes? The consequences that will befall you should this knowledge reach the rest of the Order.” Brother Jacque sounded deeply concerned, and his worries were well founded. Any accusations of heresy were met with a gruesome fate. His death warrant would be sealed should Altaïr’s affliction be discovered. He was safe only by virtue of his men's loyalty to him, but back home was another beast altogether.

“Was it not God himself who warned us of the martyrdom that would befall his devoted prophets?” Robert countered tentatively. He did not wish to argue with the man, knowing his concern came from a place of sincere affection and worry. He only wished to reason his stance for accepting Altaïr into their care. “God may be testing us, as he has always done. Should we let fear and arrogance lead us away from his guidance out of a selfish desire to preserve our own ambitions?”

The chaplain raised a skeptical brow in return. “But sir, an assassin?”

Robert sighed in agreement. “It's certainly not ideal.” That fact couldn't be refuted. “But this affliction did lead to him willingly entering our custody by his own volition, so I withhold judgement and hold out hope that this may be a sign.”

“And if it isn't?” Brother Jacque hazard.

“Then there is no better company for Altaïr to be in when seeking a cure of his affliction, is there?” Robert hummed thoughtfully. His pale eyes found the Chaplain's uncertain glance and smiled. “I would be comforted knowing I had your support, Brother. I cannot do this on my own and would seek your guidance on these matters.”

Brother Jacque smiled reassuringly in return as he laid a comforting hand upon the knight's shoulder. “I will always be there to offer counsel in your moments of need, Robert. You have my word. I shall watch over you both and observe Altaïr’s tenuous status in our care for any signs that this may not be the good will you expect it to be.”

“I would ask nothing more of you and your gracious assistance, Brother.” Robert placed his own hand upon the chaplain's shoulder in kind, then turned his attention back on his own self appointed task. There was a trunk of spare clothes often kept for the squires in the back of the wagon should theirs be soiled by their service to their masters. He borrowed one of the cloaks with its simple water proof brown material emblazoned with the white Templar cross upon the back. Shaking it out for good measure to ensure there was nothing else wrapped within it's folds, he made his way back to the pair of assassins. Brother Jacque had lingered near the wagon beside Éloi, watching cautiously at a distance as Robert knelt beside Altaïr. The assassin was still huddled in a tight ball with his arms wrapped firmly around himself. His palms cradled his face, sheltering his eyes from view as he breathed carefully to calm the rapid pace of his panic.

Ever so carefully Robert draped the cloak around the assassin's shoulders. At first Altaïr tensed at the unexpected touch, but the knight soothed softly. “It's okay. Easy now. It's just a cloak to keep you warm through the night.”

The tightly wound muscles in the assassin's body gave a little as Altaïr’s hands lowered to cautiously tug at the protective material. After a moment, he adjusted the position of the fabric as he pulled it tighter around his shoulders to wrap his lean figure up in the dark material. The assassin swaddled himself from view with the hood drawn up over his head for good measure. The sudden shift in his posture, the way his body relaxed with the presence of the cloak to comfort him was a relief for Robert. Satisfied that Altaïr was at ease now, he made his way back to the wagon where he found Brother Jacque smiling softly in his direction.

The chaplain didn't say anything more. He simply bid Robert a small nod of acknowledgement before heading back to the campfires with the collection of dishes in hand. The knight shook the thought aside and climbed up into the wagon to rest for the evening with Éloi’s occasional cautious nosing probing at his side.

Morning came. The men had already begun to pack up camp after gathering for prayer around the fire led by Brother Jacque. With the creeping heat of morning at their backs, Robert went to check on their prisoners to rouse them for a quick meal before getting back on the road.

Altaïr had wrapped himself securely in the cloak so not a single glimpse of skin was exposed to the warm morning sun. He slept peacefully curled into a tight ball. What Robert wasn't expecting to find was Kadar's arms wrapped around the older assassin's shoulders as his forehead came to rest against the crown of Altaïr’s hood. He wasn't sure whether this position was intentional, or a byproduct of the two men subconsciously seeking comfort in the night. His attempt to stir Kadar from his sleep led to several instances of nudging the assassin's boots and knee with either his foot or his hand. When that didn't work, he reached up to Kadar's shoulder to try to shake him awake.

The youth only mumbled something incoherently before tucking his head closer to the crook of Altaïr’s neck. Another try this time with a little more force finally managed to get the young man to wake up. His sleepy blue eyes turned accusingly towards the knight as he swallowed back a yawn. Offering an apologetic smile for disturbing the weary young assassin, Robert held out a waterskin and a wax lined pouch of dried figs and dates for Kadar to eat.

“We are leaving shortly. You should eat something.” Kadar didn't question the food like he did the night before. The young man looked like he could barely keep his eyes open as he stifled another yawn and dug through the pouch to retrieve a few of the dates as he clumsily raised them to his lips one at a time. Satisfied with the motion of one prisoner, Robert turned his attention to Altaïr.

The older assassin didn't wake at all no matter his efforts. Cursing silently to himself, he realized the medicine they had provided may have made a much stronger impression than previously thought. ‘His body certainly needs the rest.’ 

As Robert puzzled over this problem, he turned an eye back over his shoulder to the wagon he spent the night in. It wasn’t the most comfortable option but it was far more convenient than horseback. Once Kadar had eaten and drank his fill, Robert insisted he keep the pouch and waterskin with him in case Altaïr woke, then ushered the younger assassin towards the wagon where the horses were already patiently waiting.

“What about Altaïr?” Kadar’s confusion hung sluggishly from his lips as he puzzled down at the sleeping man. Still knelt at the smaller man's side, Robert carefully gathered the assassin up in his arms. First securing his hand around Altaïr’s shoulders, then using the other hand to collect his legs with a secure hold at the bend of the assassin's knees. Kadar lingered, staring in blatant disbelief as the knight smoothly rose to his feet carrying the assassin's lithe frame cradled against his chest. While the young man was no doubt tall for the average man, he was deceptively lighter than Robert expected he would be. With a nod towards the wagon, Robert urged Kadar to climb up into the back ahead of them.

Arranging a bedroll across the base boards, Robert waited patiently for Kadar’s assistance as he settled Altaïr’s limp body against the tail of the structure. Feeding his shoulders through first so Kadar could drag the assassin back by his underarms, Robert walked at the edge helping lift and maneuver Altaïr’s legs until he was comfortably arranged. A thin white linen cloth was draped over both men to shelter them from the beating sun as Kadar huddled into the narrow space of the wagon, wedged between trunks and crates lashed into place with ropes all around them, until the two assassins were a careful tangle of limbs crossed together. There was no discomfort between them, at least with Kadar. The younger man seemed content with the situation as he adjusted Altaïr’s hood over his face, and settled in for the foreseeable ride.

By the time Brother Jacque had climbed up onto the bench with one of the older squires, Baptiste by his side, both assassins were sound asleep once more. With everyone packed up the knights continued on their way back to Jerusalem.

The soft fabric of a warm blanket bunched under his fingers. The faint fragrance of rose water and mint mingled with the scent of melting candle wax. A coolness settled over him, casting its comforting touch across his skin as he laid there, stomach growling quietly with the tenuous urgings of a slow building hunger. Altaïr felt the softness give beneath his fingertips as he slowly curled the digits towards his palm. They relaxed a moment later as he stroked the fabric. The faintness of woodsmoke and mint soaked the material, filling every breath from where another body had risen from its comforts not long ago.

‘....when is he coming home?’ The thought had often lingered on Altaïr’s mind as the boy stayed awake, resolute in his anticipation to greet his father no matter the lateness of the evening. No matter how many times his father discouraged the boy's efforts, Altaïr cherished those moments upon Umar’s return just as deeply as all the days when he never left.

Just as he did many nights, he hoped his father would indulge the quiet rumbles of Altaïr’s belly, knowing the older man wouldn't be able to stifle his own, as they'd stay up just a little longer to share a meal together.

His fingers stroked the soft fabric as he counted the passing seconds with anticipation. His heart sang with excitement when his ears heard the muffled call of horses just beyond the walls of his room.

‘Is he home?’ Oh, what wondrous tales was his father going to tell him of his travels this time? Altaïr could hardly smother his squirming delight. Perhaps he could convince his father to tell him a story before bed, so as not to wait till morning with his mind racing with wonder and curiosity throughout the night. Tales of wise men and distant sands, or of lush gardens filled with exotic plants that sported vibrant colors beyond Altaïr’s wildest imaginations. Perhaps he would have brought back a keepsake, the tooth of a wild beast encountered on the road or a handmade charm found in a busy market? Altaïr still had many of his father's gifts; pressed flowers with exotic blooms, feathers from colorful birds, or mysterious shells collected from the sea. He cherished every single one, for each was a story and a promise. That no matter how far his father traveled, no matter what deeds he was tasked to see through, Altaïr was always on his mind.

A quiet knock on the door frame was preceded by the soft footed shuffling, almost whisper soft that moved near the entrance. Altaïr stiffly pushed himself upright with the palm of his hands as he shook off the heavy fog of sleep that hung over his mind. His eyes blinked away their tiredness against the unsettling darkness as he greeted his father warmly. His voice warbled, raspy and unfamiliar to his own ears. “Baba!” 

The spell of night was stronger than Altaïr had expected. His eyes failed to adjust to the silhouettes of the simple room they shared. His knuckles brushed the soft fabric as silence pulled taut against him. His left hand felt strange. An absence that felt wrong and yet also right. “Baba?”

Once more, his voice sounded strange. Altaïr cleared his throat as the depth of his exhaustion was shaken off with the rising discomfort of the world around him.

‘Why can't I see anything?’  

He tried to find his other sight. To feel the comforting pressure nestled behind his eyes that would draw on the friendly colors of his father's loving aura. It did not come. He tried again and yet his other sight would not heed his call. Reaching out to the dark, he beckoned, much more softly, tentatively, as fear nuzzled against the dawning pit in his gut. “Baba, where are you?”

There was movement elsewhere in the room. A place that felt vaguely right for where his father's desk would be, but why would his father ignore him like this? Why did his voice sound strange to his own ears? Why did his left hand feel so empty and disjointed?

A quiet breath broke the stilted silence. A cautious draw of air that didn't sound like that of his father’s. The palm supporting his weight against the bed smoothed over the material and found it wasn't the same as the sleeping frames of his home. The faint scent of hot candle wax from a burning flame was closer. The cloying scent of mint, rose water and woodsmoke mingled with the stronger odors of sweat and horse hair. He was not alone.

‘Where am I?’

The question balanced on his tongue but his mind was much quicker to answer as fear sobered him through the dense fog of his thoughts. The world was a much crueler place than he remembered, and his father was a ghost deep in his past. He remembered the Temple, and his sacrifice -much like his father's own- and the Templar Knight who cared for him so gently. He remembered Kadar sleeping at his side, and the comforts of a cloak offered to shelter him from the cooling night. He remembered much, but not how he got here -wherever that may be- or who's company he was now in .

Altaïr retracted his hand to cradle his temple as he cursed his stupidity and foolishness. Massaging the side of his head where a dull ache stirred behind his eyes as if he were straining himself with the use of his eagle vision, Altaïr drew himself together to shut away the rest of the world. It was no world he wanted to be a part of any longer. He bowed his head and wished to himself that he still had the hood of his robes or even the borrowed cloak to hide himself away from the prying eyes of his silent audience.

The whisper soft footsteps moved towards the entrance where they first began before they approached even more quietly to the bed where he was resting. A familiar sympathetic voice called his name that he recognized as belonging to Kadar. “Altaïr, I have food for us.” The young assassin paused, drawing in a cautious breath before continuing. “You should eat to regain your strength, brother.”

Altaïr didn't budge. He kept his head bowed in miserable refusal to face the mortifying realization that Kadar just witnessed him at his most humiliating. The only comfort, he supposed, was knowing it was just Kadar who had observed him in this unflattering state.

The prolonged silence and Altaïr’s stubborn refusal to respond to the younger assassin led to Kadar’s eagerness to fill the quiet. “We’re in Jerusalem now. I'm not sure how much of the trip you recall since you slept through much of it, but we have our own personal quarters in the Templar base.”

It seemed like a strange arrangement to make for a pair of prisoners. A nice bed from the feel of it, and judging by the distance of the footsteps earlier, a rather spacious room. It felt a lot bigger and possibly better furnished than the simplistic rooms of the assassin dormitories. Nothing about their captivity and treatment was aligning with his expectations so far and that bothered Altaïr. It made it that much harder to parse out what to expect and what their captors had in mind for them.

“Altaïr.” Kadar's voice was a soft plea at his side. “Please eat something, brother.”

It wasn't something he thought he could properly stomach at the moment. His appetite was absent, sent away by the presence of his shame. Kadar sounded deeply concerned, desperate even, as he urged more determinedly.

“Altaïr, please. Just this once, join me for this meal in the place of my own brother.” A brother he may never see again. A sacrifice that Kadar had also made for the good of Masyaf, and for Altaïr. A sacrifice he didn't ask the young assassin to make, but one he would not squander selfishly. After a moment, he released a defeated exhale.

“Fine.” He relented. His throat felt tight and raspy, parched by the prolonged sleep. “I will try to eat something.” Kadar’s smile could be heard in the quiet appreciation in his voice.

“Thank you, Altaïr. One moment. Let me collect the tray.” Kadar’s soft footsteps retreated away in the direction he had been hovering in earlier when Altaïr called out for his father. A moment later, he returned to the bedside as his weight pressed down by his feet. The older assassin adjusted himself so that he was sitting with his legs folded comfortably beneath himself as he waited.

The meal was a porridge steeped in almond milk. Altaïr’s had honey added to sweeten it for additional flavor. It was a slow process for him to feed himself but the assassin was determined to do so as he slowly maneuvered the spoon to his lips from the raised bowl held close in his hand. Before they ate, Kadar uttered a softly spoken cheer. “Sahtayn.”

Altaïr reciprocated it with a much quieter mumble of the same. It had been a long time since he shared such hopeful sentiments with another. Normally he ate alone, often withdrawing from the warmth of his brethren as they gathered around for meals. The comforts of such feelings long since lost to him with the only relationships that had once felt meaningful to him. He didn't share the Al-Sayf’s optimism.

The food tasted good on his tongue and the empty growls of his stomach were inclined to agree. When the oats were gone, he raised the bowl to slurp down the remaining sweetened almond milk until nothing remained. Kadar's relief was palpable as he cheered warmly. “It is good to see your appetite returned, brother.”

Wiping corner of his mouth with the back of his free hand, Altaïr gave a non-committal shrug in answer. The younger assassin collected the empty bowl from his hand then replaced it with a small vaguely familiar shaped bottle.

“You need to drink this medicine as well.” Uncorking it carefully with his fingers, Altaïr gave it a cautious sniff. He recognized that sterile medicinal odor from before. It was the same disgusting elixir that Robert had him drink before. Grimacing to himself, he prepared himself for the bitter taste then knocked it back with a shudder of disgust.

The fact the knights willingly drink this vile concoction after every battle felt like an unnecessary punishment on its own. Surely the rewards didn't outweigh their sanity or sense of taste, did they?

With that disgusting mixture drained to the last miserable drop, Kadar gratefully took the bottle from Altaïr’s grasp, only to replace it with another strangely shaped vessel. 

“No, please.” He began to groan in refusal when Kadar's gentle laughter accompanied the sturdy grasp over the assassin's hand.

“It is alright, Altaïr. It's just more almond milk with honey to help with the taste.” That was a relief to the weary assassin's ears as he relented to Kadar's comforting guidance. With both hands he lifted the -chalice?- cup to his lips to suckle at the sweetness of the cool drink as it washed away the bitter after taste of the medicine. When the drink was drained, and Kadar was content with the end of their shared meal, he let Altaïr return to his earlier rest.

While Altaïr had no intention of going back to sleep, it felt better to lay down while his meal digested, and his battered body grew accustomed to being mildly active again.

Robert didn't know what he was expecting to encounter when he delivered the meal tray to their charges. A part of him was half expecting to find Kadar awake and moving around. The youth was the most active of the two, and he had been the biggest help to Robert and Brother Jacque as he handled much of Altaïr’s care on the return trip to Jerusalem. When they had arrived back at the base they were currently calling home, a converted former clerical office and archive building, it had taken Kadar, Robert and Brother Jacque’s combined efforts to tend to Altaïr’s needs. They had washed the filth and grime from his body, placed salves on his minor wounds, coaxed the barely lucid assassin to drink the broth and medicine, then put him to bed in the assassins’ new shared quarters. As Robert suggested eventually getting a second bed for Kadar to sleep in, the young man had assured him that sharing with Altaïr was fine. Assassins apparently often slept in close quarters with their brethren like this.

The night had passed, and Robert had risen to bring the two their meals after morning prayer and breakfast in the main hall for the rest of the knights. Kadar was awake to greet him at the door as soon as he knocked, but what neither man expected was to witness Altaïr’s slow rise as he sat up in bed at the behest of said knock, a desperate call to his father tumbling from his lips. An echo of the young boy he once had been seeking out the comforts of a parent. The fact that Robert was shocked by the knowledge the assassin had a loving parent to call to was quickly stomped down with a nagging wave of shame. Every assassin was a young child once, while the knowledge of their parentage was unknown, the Templars often speculated that most of the children that were raised behind the walls of Masyaf to perform these dark deeds at the behest of the Old Man, were all orphans at one time or another. A host of vulnerable, impressionable youths vying for the approval and acknowledgement of a single authority, willing to do whatever misdeeds may help them achieve that goal.

It had pained Robert to think of it as he silently entered the room to place the tray on the desk by the adjacent wall. Kadar was tense and uncomfortable at the knight’s side as the two men exchanged intense looks between one another. Altaïr’s confusion morphed into fear, then mournful resignation as whatever sleep addled memories that once brought him joy came crashing down with the cold hand of reality striking against them. The older assassin curled up on himself, burying his head in his hands as he hid away from the cruelty of the world.

Kadar shot Robert a stern glare that morphed his soft youthful features into hard edges, as he pointed to the door, then made a gesture with his hands to mimick that of a man walking. With one hand clutching Robert's forearm, he made a show of preparing to take light steps back towards the entrance. The two men timed each step in tandem with each other as Robert snuck back to the doorway where Altaïr wouldn't sense anything amiss. Once he was beyond the barrier of the door, Robert lingered a moment, listening in as Kadar tentatively announced their meal’s arrival to his brother.

Satisfied that the stalemate was broken, and that Altaïr was in good hands with Kadar's assistance, Robert continued down the hallway with cautious steps until he reached the end of the hall. It pained him to think back on the hopefulness in the assassin's voice as he called to his father, the childish echo, the unfiltered shift of raw emotions across his normally placid or disapproving expressions. While it was unexpected, and Robert initially wouldn't have agreed to such a decision, he was glad to know that Kadar was with them to aid his efforts in tending to Altaïr. The knight wasn't sure just how willing and agreeable the older assassin would be if he was by himself in such a vulnerable state surrounded by nothing but enemies in all sides. He only relented to their care because Kadar was nearby. As much as it rankled him to know he was using the boy as a bargaining chip for good behavior, it was by Kadar's own willful decision that he was here, acting as a stand in to weather Altaïr’s disgruntled personality.

The day was only just beginning and Robert already found himself making his way back to the chapel to pray over these hefty conflicts warring about in his mind. These two were already proving themselves to be a complicated addition to his life, which in turn felt like divine punishment on its own.

Chapter Text

‘Foolish insolent boys.’ The curse cut through Rashid’s thoughts as his attempts to deal with the Templar scourge that dared to set foot upon his mountain were upended by Altaïr and Kadar’s interference. Reasonably, he surmised it was Altaïr’s impulsiveness that bred this new scenario as he watched his blinded disciple negotiate his life, for the lives of the entire fortress. It puzzled Rashid as to what about Altaïr was so valuable in De Sablé’s eyes that he was willing to accept such an outlandish trade. While the Master applauded Altaïr’s actions, the boy clearly walking in the footsteps of his father, he could not attempt to understand what De Sablé gained with such a foolish agreement.

Altaïr was not known for a silver tongue or clever lies. The boy had always been too earnest for his own good, even going against Rashid's orders until necessary discipline in the dungeon corrected the insolent child's wayward wagging tongue. He would have thought such lessons would have stuck firmly within Altaïr’s mind, and yet here he was again, defying his Master's orders.

He was willing to let this transgression slide, however, given the nature of the situation. It was in his best interest for the rest of Masyaf to believe it was Rashid's own clever machinations all along. There was no place for a blind assassin among their brethren. Altaïr’s usefulness had reached its end. Rashid was willing to permit this sacrifice if only to allow Altaïr the right of dying with dignity for their cause. His only regret was that Kadar had volunteered his own life alongside his superior. Two lives were surely enticing enough. While Rashid doubted the pair would be of any use to the Templars, he was uneasy with the overall ease that this situation transpired.

It felt like only moments had passed, and suddenly the courtyard was empty and the recovery efforts were taken up by their brethren. Rashid returned to his study to find the news awaiting him in regards to Malik's condition.

The young assassin was currently undergoing surgery to remove the damaged arm. His injuries were too grave and it had been far too long since the wound had been inflicted for the limb to be spared. They could only hope for the best.

Another of the initiates had been sent to collect Altaïr’s and Kadar's belongings where the two assassins had been stripped of their weapons and armor on the spot. He had their belongings stored in a trunk in the library for Malik to claim should he survive the procedure. It was the only mercy he could offer the man who had clearly lost so much. That alone would be punishment enough for this monumental fumble on their part.

As he awaited the update on Malik’s status, Rashid turned his attention to the treasure he sought so desperately. To have finally stolen it right out from under the Templar's noses brought the old man a deep sense of satisfaction like no other. Withdrawing the orb from its protective case stored upon his shelf, he marveled at the intricate geometric patterns etched into the strange metal. It was truly a sight to behold.

If the accounts could be trusted, Rashid presumed accessing all of that ancient knowledge would be an easy task. He just had to hold it and will the artifact to respond. Cradling the Apple in his palm, he carefully maneuvered the cool metal around as his thoughts swirled with questions.

‘Where to even begin?’ That was the hard part. Perhaps just activating it would be enough of a test for now. It was a tool of immense power after all, a weapon and a treasure all in one. Something to be respected and handled with care. Focusing his mind upon the Apple, he cleared his excited thoughts and calmed himself as he held the relic aloft.

Several heartbeats passed with nervous anticipation, and yet nothing happened. The accounts of the relic in ancient documents described its power as something to be awed by. He had felt it himself when Altaïr presented the treasure earlier. The soft thrum of energy in the air that hummed through his veins, drawing upon something primal deep inside himself. A yearning that had burned like a great blaze, but none of that was present now. The relic remained silent in his palm. No humming, no golden glow as if bestowed from a higher power, no thrill of energy like static brimming in the very air as if on the cusp of a terrible storm.

Just silence.

‘I must be missing something.’ Rashid grimaced to himself as he cautiously rolled the relic around in his palms. He examined the geometric lines, searching for hidden switches or triggers that Altaïr may have accidentally bumped while he was handling it, yet nothing appeared from his inspection. Baffled and uncertain, he returned the orb to its case until he could do a little more research. He presumed he may have overlooked an important detail somewhere in his notes.

For now he could be patient. He had other priorities to focus on with the initial damages being dealt with from the invading knights. Dead to put to rest and wounded to care for.

Rashid was growing frustrated. Three days of trying to make the Apple work and no progress whatsoever. His hopes had lifted the evening after the Templar attack on Masyaf when he returned to his study just after nightfall in search of a few things when he noticed the case the Apple was secured in had begun to shine with a barely contained golden light. Scrambling closer to it, be flipped open the lid and lifted the shining orb into hand as the pulsing energy thrummed throughout the room. Drawing in a cautious breath, he prepared himself, only for the air to rattle out in a sudden exhale of alarm when the light and energy went abruptly silent.

“What?” He breathed in agitation, holding the orb tightly in his grasp as he tried to will the relic back to life. Rashid did everything he could think of but to no avail. Nothing he could do would make it shine and hum again. Frustrated, he set the orb back inside its case then returned to his own private chambers for the night.

This silence carried on for three days to no avail. No progress. No changes. No eerie glowing in the middle of the night. Just silence. Rashid was growing frustrated as he lost sleep anxiously sitting by the orb in his study, hoping something would arouse its activation again. He scoured his notes in the meantime, reading over every document he had in regards to its existence and potential, only to find nothing of use to his goals.

By the afternoon of the third day, one of the initiates that manned the infirmary came to inform him that Malik was awake and demanding to know what happened to his brother.

Tired, and running short on patience enough as is, Rashid rose from the seat in his study to address the crippled assassin in their medical wing.

“The Master has been informed of your request, Malik. Please lie still before you reopen your sutures.” The doctor insisted firmly, a fruitful endeavor clearly given the furious growl from Malik's lips that met Rashid’s ears when he stepped into the room. The eldest Al-Sayf brother was perched in the cot, his torso thickly padded in the wrappings of bandages as he attempted to rise from the bed to shake off the hands of the worried medical professionals holding him still.

“I want to know where my brother is!” He snapped.

“Most likely dead already.” Rashid cut into the tension of the room. “He and Altaïr exchanged their lives for the lives of Masyaf, and were handed over to appease the Templar army you brought to our gates.”

The strength that Malik was using to resist the medics had caved completely under the weight of Rashid’s words. The young assassin collapsed against the bed, his fury chilled like a cold bucket to the face. The sickly pallor of his skin from the blood loss glistened with the accumulated sweat of the fever that hounded him for days since the surgery. His dark eyes looked distant, jaw slackened with the shock of this terrible news. Rashid almost felt pity for the boy, but knew all too well that these were the consequences they brought upon themselves. It was a mercy on its own that he was even permitting Malik to remain. Promoted to a new position as Dai, of course, for bringing the treasure back to Masyaf as ordered, but a crippled assassin was limited in his usefulness. Only by the virtue of Malik's skills with map making and swordsmanship could they still gleam some use from him as a tutor or mentor. A man to make an example of, a reminder of the consequences of what failure entailed.

The black djellaba was already neatly folded upon the bedside for the assassin to take up once well enough. His sword rested next to it where he had been disarmed and undressed by the medics in their haste to tend to his wounds.

“What….?” The utterance was frail in the air. Barely a whisper from Malik's lips as he sank into the cot. The medics stepped away from the bed to give the grieving man some space.

“Take the time to rest.” Rashid commanded to the young assassin. “I’ll have their personal effects delivered to you. We’ll discuss the matter of your reassignment when you're well enough.”

With that matter handled, the Master left to return his attention to more important concerns. He needed to do some more research and dig through their archives a bit more in the hopes that he may have overlooked a useful book in his haste.

It was at dawn, during morning meal when the majority of their brethren had congregated at the meal tables to eat together when the medics reported that Malik was gone. Altaïr and Kadar's belongings were missing, and Malik's quarters that he shared with his brother had been cleared out as well. When Rashid sent an initiate to inspect the stables, they discovered that Amira was gone. The stable hands had unknowingly assisted the wounded assassin with saddling his horse as he prepared to disembark during the quietest hour of the day when the guards’ awareness was at its lowest, and the shift change of the lookouts happened.

With his saddlebags packed with the equipment of his fallen brothers, Malik rode off presumably to seek out his father to aid him in his quest for vengeance. It was the only reasonable explanation Rashid could see for the wounded assassin to pursue. That the sole surviving Al-Sayf brother would turn to his father for guidance. Faheem was a considerable ride away, presently residing in one of the Persian branches’ bureaus.

Rashid gave the orders for several riders to be dispatched to bring the assassin back, clearly he was besieged by a fevered madness driving him to make reckless decisions. It would be a miracle if Malik survived such an arduous ride in his present state.

As he fretfully awaited their return, he was greeted with the defeated reports of the riders that they lost Malik's trail. With a horse like Amira, it was no surprise that she could outpace even their best. Her breed was a force of nature unrivaled by any their stables could possibly produce. As swift and wild as her rider. Frustrated with the failure, he turned back to his study to prepare a letter for Faheem informing him to be expecting Malik soon, with a warning as to the present state of the assassin.

With an exasperated sigh, Rashid released the messenger bird into the warm morning air as it's soft feathers took flight. “Could anything else go possibly go wrong around here?” It was a rhetorical question on the Master's part, and by no means was meant to challenge the universe to respond.

However, nobody informed the universe of his intentions, when Rashid made his way down to the training yard to speak with the mentors training the novices. As he bypassed one of the entryways, he overheard Rauf speaking quietly with another of the assassins where the two men had taken a break in the shade of the fortress’s towering stonework.

“-I swear to you, it's the truth. When Master Altaïr and the others returned, I saw it with my own two eyes. Even Abbas saw it!” Rauf insisted to his companion whom Rashid wasn't able to discern past the raised hood sheltering them from the glimpse of sunlight peeking past their corner where the shifting shadows moved with the passing day. 

‘Brother, you want me to believe that Master Altaïr was glowing gold? Like the sun?” The assassin scoffed in amusement. His dry snort accentuated by the ticklish heat that stirred an itch in his throat that begged to be cleared. As the assassin sipped from their shared waterskin to chase it, Rauf continued.

“He wasn't just glowing. It only happened when Abbas touched Master Altaïr. There were these….these strange patterns on his skin and his eyes- I know they were covered with cloth but there was a shine creeping out of it. It chilled me to my bones, brother.” Rauf shuddered at the recollection. “I inquired to Malik about it, but both Al-Sayf brothers were very insistent about speaking to the Master immediately. I think it was some sort of sorcery.”

The other assassin passed the waterskin to Rauf as he urged. “Whatever it was, you'd be better off not speaking to others about it. The Master made his choice. All we can hope is if Altaïr was afflicted with sorcery as you say, then perhaps it's curse will spoil the ranks of those Templar dogs and leave their bodies scattered among the sands.”

There was a vicious smile hinted at in the pleased curl of the assassin's voice. Rauf did not share his brother's cruel optimism. Holding the waterskin cautiously in his hands, he relented.

“I feel sorrow for Master Altaïr. He was so sick. I can't imagine what sort of fate befell him and Kadar. I can only hope there was a merciful swift end.” A reassuring hand rested on Rauf's shoulder as his brother offered sympathy.

To call it anger was hardly scratching the surface of how Rashid currently felt with the knowledge that Altaïr somehow bound himself to the Apple’s power. Which explained why he couldn't get the relic to respond to his command. If the relic was still refusing to react to him, then that must clearly mean Altaïr was very much alive and most likely being used by the Templars.

Which meant Robert de Sablé knew exactly what he was receiving when Altaïr offered himself to the Templar. He knew exactly what value Altaïr held and how that would effect Rashid’s efforts with the relic. He doubted Altaïr was aware of the importance of his current affliction and what that could mean for either side. The stupid insolent boy once again stomped all over Rashid's carefully laid plans just like his father did. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he focused on the next corrective steps to take to handle this new mess laid before him. He would first need to arrange a contract to remove Altaïr from the equation and then figure out the following steps from there.

Which meant ten times more work for him than was initially meant to be. He should have thrown the boys into the dungeon the moment they arrived to be dealt with accordingly instead he had to be merciful. Now he was paying for his mercy instead of dispensing the corrective discipline they deserved for their transgressions.