[A/N: Little bit of clarity: 'Negative' memory blocks start from before the game. Also, on replaying the game, I realized how little attention I actually paid the Desmond segments. So yes, like the game, I am pretending that all the characters have been 'modernised' in speech. I can, however, read Chaucer. XD; If very slowly.

March 09 Beyond your reach

The lattice of Heaven

memory block -10395

The earliest memory he had of his childhood was that of drowning, of the growing sluggish weightlessness of his arms and the choking wet in his throat, his eyes fixed up toward Heaven, and it was beautiful, a lattice of gold light that shimmered and blinded; dark hands shattered it into froth and closed under his shoulders, hurt, dragged him up, up towards life. Altaïr no longer remembered why, or how, only who. Al Mualim walked straighter in those days.

memory block -3294

He was not surprised when she told him she was leaving, leaving Masyaf, leaving the Creed, leaving him. Their son was a year close to initiation, and he will be initiated, being the son of Altaïr, and she was frightened: she showed it in the shortness of her temper, and he could almost scent the rankness of her fear. He did not tell her that, of course; he but nodded and gave her a string of names, the few men he knew outside the Order, gave her what money he had and what blessing she would accept. The man in him she had loved, even with his arrogance and moods and selfishness, but she could never bring herself even to accept the assassin, and with that he had once thought himself lucky.

memory block.-23

Waking up in the sandalwood room no longer confused Altaïr, even when he had no recollection of actually going there in the first place. Old habit meant that waking up naked, however, always shot him too quickly to awareness; waking up with company made the assassin would make him sit up sharply. His first breath rattled into abused lungs, and he coughed, wet and hacking, and the displaced, warm weight beside him muttered a French curse into the pillows and yawned.

French. Sandalwood. Altaïr cross-referenced Acre, mission, King Richard's spymaster Maximilian, naked in bed, and the lack of any scent of sin, and drew a blank. He groaned, coughing, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and beside him, Maximilian burrowed a little further against the pillow, murmured something again in a husky voice, and curled up against his hip, draping an arm over Altaïr's thighs, dusted in the same reddish auburn as his short disheveled hair.

"Maximilian."

"Aye."

"Why am I here?"

The spymaster's compact body shook briefly in silent laughter. Irritably, Altaïr pushed at the offending arm, but it stayed firmly put. "Maximilian."

"I suppose you are wondering why we have not fu-"

"I was not," Altaïr cut into Maximilian's sleep-slur sharply, twisting around, caught the faint ghost of a smirk against the small of his back as he was baited. The brief crescent: that he remembered, someplace, above him, indistinct under… the water… oh. Altaïr looked away, as he recalled, and felt Maximilian shake against him again, even as the bristle of an unshaven chin and the faint roughness of chapped lips began to mark a slow, wet path up his spine. Teeth closed over the pressure point just under and left of the nape of his neck, and even as Altaïr growled he arched up into the sting, but caught the spymaster's wrist swiftly before it slipped under the sheets.

He felt the pout against his skin. "Even after I went through all that trouble to fish you out of the dock?"

Altaïr was silent, still mortified. The accident had been a moment of remarkable (and, he would stress, rare) idiocy: pushing through a crowd to approach a mark at the docks, his eyes fixed on the tempting pouch on the mark's hip, he hadn't seen the drunk man, blindsided, shoved, and had lost his balance and fallen into the sea.

Still, seeking out that one drunken man to end his sorry wine-sodden life simply for the blow to his pride was far too much a travesty of the Creed even for one as Altaïr himself, who only took it as a guideline. He had to return to the mission, find the smuggler, discern his crimes, and discover a way to end his life. Right. So decided, Altaïr firmly pinned the spymaster's questing hands to the sheets and tried to ignore the way Maximilian was unhurriedly marking his back with bites. "Where did you put my clothes?"

"You fell into Acre harbor," Maximilian reminded him dryly. "I shudder to remember what you smelled like when rescued. Your clothes are still being washed." There was a slyness to his tone which hinted at who had washed Altaïr himself, and he found his cheeks turning hot in a way that had little to do with the warmth of the room. "I was surprised to learn that the infamous Altaïr of Masyaf could not swim."

Altaïr ignored the jibe. "If you would lend me a tunic and breeches, return my weapons, I would-"

"If," Maximilian pointed out, and this playfully. Altaïr was quickly reminded, suppressing his body's imprinted memory of previous pleasantries spent in the sandalwood room and its immediate resultant shiver, as the bearded chin rested against his shoulder, of Maximilian's coiled strength; a panther draped across his back… a panther who called the lion master, Altaïr told himself sharply. Their accident of meeting and the inadvisable curiosity of their affairs made him no less an enemy.

Not that he had ever been able to convince himself of that particular narrative. Altaïr hated being careless, disliked the absolute illogic of allowing this man to bed him, however infrequently, and most of all, disliked not knowing why that seemed to be the spymaster's sole interest in the assassins of Masyaf. It was almost insulting. It was-

"There," Maximilian observed, "Is no need to sulk." Under Altaïr's glare, he amended, with that impish grin that never reached his cold eyes, "And you have no sense of humor. Also," he hastened to add, when Altaïr's lips thinned, "Are you sure you have quite recovered from imbibing such a large quantity of the harbor water?"

"I feel fine," Altaïr growled, jerking away as Maximilian nuzzled his neck, nibbling. "Clothes."

"Your singularity of focus continues to shame me," Maximilian grinned.

"You are wasting my time."

"Come now, beloved," and under those calculating, dispassionate eyes the endearment was purely ironic, "Your 'white feather', William du Clermont, is unlikely to leave Acre for at least a week, for his ship has been detained under administrative error. I do so enjoy all the protests he makes at the harbor offices."

Altaïr had not known that. He had, however, had been in the middle of an investigation, and he held some pride at least that he would have come to this tidbit in a more dignified manner. "How did you-"

"Sometimes 'tis difficult, but I do always try to keep an eye on you and Masyaf." This in a low purr, and hands, despite his best efforts, crept inexorably closer to his thighs. "If you did wish to be fully inconspicuous you would not wear your weapons so openly, or the red sash over your rump." Altaïr inhaled sharply as Maximilian shifted behind him to rub thickening flesh against his cleft, shivered as he felt himself stir.

"After the mission," Altaïr tried a compromise.

"Why?" Maximilian's tone was husky, inviting, and Altaïr had to grit his teeth.

"Because it hinders-"

"Too rough?" And this said so slyly.

Altaïr refused to answer, turning to snarl at the spymaster, who twisted away, grinning, having evidently waited for this moment, jerking his wrists free and pushing the slighter man down against the pillows, dodging the jerk of his knee and straddling Altaïr's hips as the assassin bucked, furious. And stopped instantly once he realized this seemed to add only to Maximilian's pleasure and amusement, the thickened prick now heavy against his. Maximilian smirked, once he dragged his eyes away, rolling hips shallowly to rub their flesh together, and Altaïr had to look away, upwards, fighting to keep his breathing even. Bastard.

And he could not deny that he wanted, as inadvisable as this was, but Altaïr knew he did not want the dubious pleasure of limping for the rest of his stay in Acre. At the very least, it would be somewhat difficult to explain were the informants or the bureau chief to ask. "After… after the mission." Altaïr bit down on a moan, as Maximilian's rough hand closed over them both, squeezed. "You can have me however you want."

"Within reason," he added hastily, when the spymaster stopped, cocking his head.

"However I want."

"Within reason. And," Altaïr continued, deciding to at least get something out of this encounter, "In exchange for any useful information you have on William du Clermont."

"I have you naked beneath me on my bed and still you bargain," Maximilian observed, though his grin was wolfish, now, and for a moment Altaïr thought the spymaster would simply ignore the offer and press his advantage, as those cold eyes slid downwards, unhurried and lascivious and thoughtful, then back up again; then Maximilian relaxed, rocking back on his haunches. Altaïr let out the breath he held. "Very well."

memory block.16

What Altaïr loved was this, the pure athletic freedom a honed body allowed over the rooftops, as he leapt from planking to the grille of a closed balcony, felt the wood bite into his fingers as he absorbed his weight and dug his feet over the rail, hauled himself effortlessly up onto sandstone to run and leap again, into space, his robes outstretched behind him.

It was, if he looked deep within himself, likely the main reason why he had refused to take Al Mualim's position as leader of Masyaf. Outside, he had this solitary freedom; this make-seem of flight, which being caged in the library behind an ornate desk would deny him. He did not wish to turn into Al Mualim, an old man crippled with age who had to walk with the slow grace of the elderly, the only part of him still active his mind.

A soft-footed run, pacing himself, past a roof garden and over a dome, pushing away from the shaped stone into a jump to take him neatly onto an arch, another leap to the safety of a roof, up a strut, to a set of wavering planks, and another leap, out over a crowded street, to a grilled window of the fortified barracks. Altaïr reached up for the mosaic tile, dug his fingers onto the tiny ledge it provided, hauled himself up for the cornice. He pulled himself up familiar tiles and window slits, the wind dragging at his hood and the blade at his hip, as he climbed up the watchtower to the vantage point above.

There was an unlucky guard at the top, leaning with his back facing him, smoking tobacco, and Altaïr pulled himself noiselessly over the battlements, locked his wrist to draw the hidden blade, and pounced. At the last moment, the guard whirled, grabbed his wrist, set a palm on his shoulder and shoved, sent him sprawling. Altaïr rolled to his feet, his dagger drawn; teeth bared in a silent snarl, and hesitated.

"You!"

Maximilian took a final puff of his pipe before knocking out the ashes, blowing a smoke ring in his direction and grinning. "Altaïr."

"What are you doing in Jerusalem?"

Maximilian shrugged. "I have business."

"Spying?"

"Information gathering," Maximilian corrected, though he sketched an ironic bow. The spymaster was dressed like a merchant, on closer inspection, if heavily cowled, and seemingly unarmed. Gloves served also to hide the shade of his skin.

"Are you following me?"

"I am observing the guard changes," Maximilian said, with a jerk of his head at the roof far below them.

"Surely you could have sent another." Jerusalem was occupied still by Saladin's men. Were Maximilian caught, the color of his skin and his hair would have been enough reason for execution.

"So I could," Maximilian echoed, in that annoying way of his, as though he were humoring Altaïr and yet revealing nothing whatsoever of his schemes.

"And your King has forsworn the invasion of Jerusalem."

"So he has." That damned irritating smirk. "Thanks to you, I hear."

As with so many conversations attempting to extract information from Maximilian, this was going nowhere and indeed getting personal. Altaïr took a breath for inner calm, and decided to ignore the spymaster, setting his hands on the sun-warmed stone and surveying the city, committing its detail to memory. An informant, to his left, sixty-four paces; someone spouting rhetoric before a growing crowd, before him, a hundred and twenty paces… and he stiffened, as a hand splayed on his lower back and began to creep downwards. He slapped it away, with a warning glare.

Maximilian grinned, unperturbed, crowding him against the battlements, palms set to either side of his waist. Altaïr's eyes narrowed, and he drew his hidden blade in a slither of steel, set the edge to the spymaster's throat. "Your play becomes unwelcome."

"So cold, beloved," Maximilian said, in a tone of mock reproach, but did not move. "I never did take my due." At Altaïr's arched eyebrow, he smiled lazily. "Acre. The docks. Your ill-fated impromptu swimming lesson."

Oh. Altaïr colored a little, under his hood. The white feather William du Clermont had said a curious string of words when he had died, gargled out as his throat filled with blood, about buried treasures being uncovered by Templars, by Robert de Sablé, and Altaïr had hastened back to the bureau, whose chief had told him to away quickly to Masyaf. In all the excitement he had forgotten about words spoken hastily in attempts to escape. "I had thought you would have forgotten. You have said nothing of it since."

"We have met now and then in times past, that much is true," Maximilian agreed. "But there was neither time nor place in those encounters, delightful as they were."

"And you think there time and place now?" Altaïr asked incredulously. They were on a tower of a military barracks, in a city hostile to men of the color of Maximilian's skin. "Within reason, I had said."

"The guards change every two hours below, but none should come up the tower save at dusk and at dawn."

A terrible suspicion struck. "Maximilian, do not tell me that you were observing the guard change to-"

"Hardly, though opportunity does beckon." Maximilian grinned, leaning forward, brushing a kiss on Altaïr's lips, chuckling as the assassin bit, reaching between them to cup his groin, purred when Altaïr choked down a moan; the blade he held against the spymaster's throat faltered. He opened his mouth to voice protest and found the words smothered by a deeper, more insistent kiss, a tongue seeking his, and he pressed helplessly into the intimacy, wanting-

The creak of the trapdoor behind them was sharp even over the whistle of the breeze. A guard pulled himself out, stared at them in pure shock as Maximilian drew back, his mouth open to shout a warning – then slumped back against the stone, a dagger in his throat. Altaïr watched unblinking as Maximilian's hand fell to his side, a cold prickle of sweat forming between his shoulder blades, the heightened sense of an assassin naming the man before him as a predator, a killer, birds of a feather. No. Worse: Maximilian's expression had not changed, nor had Altaïr seen any telltale flickers in his cold eyes, had not seen him draw and throw the dagger.

"It seems that this indeed is neither the time nor place," Maximilian said urbanely, stalking over the jerk his blade from the twitching body and wipe it clean on the guard's sleeve. "But someday you'll not have the fortune to escape my reach." His lopsided smile was not fully in jest.

memory block.17

"You are in poor spirits," Malik said, when Altaïr returned to Masyaf and handed him the bloodied feather. Leadership appeared to have focused the one-armed assassin, channeled his passion into his talent for cautious detail and fed his strong innate intuition, made him mellower. It was Malik who had guessed, and all from a handful of incoherent clues, of Al Mualim's betrayal, Malik who had reorganized the disorganized and disillusioned assassins, who sought to hide the Piece of Eden, who had now taken over all the severed strands of authority and reforged them back into their weave. The fact of freedom aside, Altaïr could not have done that; had not the mentality nor discipline nor patience to organize on such a level – and besides, many of the brotherhood still resented him.

"Ennui chafes, Master." Altaïr lied smoothly, kept his expression carefully blank as Malik winced at the honorific.

He had looked for Maximilian briefly after his mission, had been somewhat annoyed with himself for even doing so, and had been even more annoyed when he had been unable to find so much as a strand of russet hair or discern what the spymaster's business in Jerusalem had been.

"Ah, but there are no missions of date for your caliber," Malik sounded slightly apologetic. "There is another piece of Eden in the Holy Land – that much we know – but the rest are beyond our reach, over the seas, and I am not quite certain we should pry further into such affairs."

"That does not concern me," Altaïr said, more brusquely than he intended, certainly enough for Malik to pick up on his tension.

"You tarried two days in Jerusalem after your mission." At Altaïr's frown, Malik smiled wryly. "One of the informants whose life you saved returned to Masyaf before you extolling your 'kindness' and 'skill'."

"There were some rumors I wished to follow. They were groundless."

"Assassin you may be but you have never managed the art of dissemblance, Altaïr," Malik said, turning to take a leather-bound book from the shelves, opening it on the table, turning its yellow, crackling pages. "You are aware, mayhap, of a man known as Maximilian de Mércer?"

Malik was watching him too carefully. Altaïr felt a chill settle, a cold sweat prickling at his neck, and his hesitation was too long. Masyaf's Master bowed his head. "Al Mualim knew. And he has… kept records of all of us, in his books."

"He never mentioned-"

"Likely because he thought it useful to let matters continue. As do I. I tell you this now only because I do not wish there to be further secrets harbored only by Masyaf's Master." Malik said firmly, closing the book. "Though it is an odd friendship."

Altaïr let out the breath he had not realized he had been holding. "The man is obsessed with bladework. Occasionally he wishes to test himself against a better opponent. Also," and here, his irritation was unfeigned, "He and his Master seem to think me amusing."

"Why did you never mention this to Al Mualim?"

Altaïr thought the question over carefully, had to edge around the answer. "I have few friends outside the order. I did not see it any of his business. Certainly the one known as Maximilian seems to have little interest in Masyaf."

"And Al Mualim would never have known were it not for the day he saved you from drowning." Malik said, with a shrug. "Strange man, to risk himself so. Surely it would have seen untoward even to his people."

Exposure and ruin. Altaïr had not thought it so of the gesture; had thought it a mere whim. But then – and this he knew – Maximilian did not e'er act on mere whim. He managed a faint, thin smile, even as confusion settled inexorably in his mind and threatened to give him a headache. "The man is strange. That much is true. I encountered him in Jerusalem, as you have no doubt heard. He would tell me nothing of his business, and I could not find him afterwards."

Malik placed the book back in the shelves. "Then perhaps your ennui is better assuaged in Acre, Altaïr." And there, a fleeting smirk, which told him that this Master's intuition was far clearer than the last's.

memory block.18

Maximilian was not in the sandalwood room, nor had his closemouthed staff (who lurked on the first floor) seen him for days. Disappointed and somewhat unnerved by experiencing said latter emotion, Altaïr pestered Rafik, the long-suffering Acre Bureau Chief, for a day, was sent on a few menial local missions, and eventually left the city, much to Rafik's relief.

memory block.25

Altaïr allowed his steed to slow to a trot, out of sight of the arrow towers, the gravel of the ravine crunching in a steady rhythm under steel-shod hooves. It was a hot day, even for the Holy Land, and he was not so cruel as to run his horse headlong from Masyaf to Jerusalem. Richard seemed headed for Ashkelon, and the war seemed indeterminable, the vultures flocking to its wake numerous despite their blades. It did, however, mean that the soldiers left to guard were thinning, as Richard's ambition grew.

And he had seen neither hide nor hair of Maximilian, not since Jerusalem, and it was beginning to worry him (which annoyed him), and as such, to take his mind off matters, he was engaged in his favorite pastime: hunting Templars. There were reports of a few knights scattered on the road to Ashkelon, mayhap on the way to Richard's aid, easy pickings for assassins.

The gleam of white against the edge of a haystack and the silver of a mail boot in the shadow of a hut caused the assassin to dismount noiselessly, padding slowly towards the building. The soldier's charger was grazing a distance away, against the edge of the cliff face, incurious, and Altaïr began to bare his teeth subconsciously into a snarl, silent as he circled, then he caught a glance of the 'Templar's' face, and swore, straightening.

"Such language," Maximilian murmured, though he smirked, comfortable and sprawled on the hay. The spymaster looked somewhat the worse for wear; there was a fresh, pink scar against his cheek, and his right arm was in a cast slung against his chest. What Altaïr had mistaken for a Templar's surcoat had been a scholar's robes, though Maximilian wore a haphazard assortment of armor: mail gloves, boots and greaves only.

"How?" Altaïr frowned at the injury. He knew better now than to ask Maximilian about the 'coincidence' of their encounters. Little that involved the spymaster was coincidence.

"Stupidity. Mostly mine." Maximilian's tone brooked no further investigation.

"Further idiocy, to wander about alone in your condition." Altaïr's own tone brooked no argument, but Maximilian merely grinned, half-lidding his cold eyes. "Are you joining your King at Ashkelon?"

"I have news to bear him, 'tis all." Maximilian said, not bothering to engage in his usual banter, as though the man was weary. Altaïr could tell that the pain from his injury was tightly under control, but it still hardened his eyes, and the spymaster seemed a little paler than normal. He circled over and sat down on the hay, sinking onto the bristles, hesitated, then leant over the other man to press his lips awkwardly against a parting mouth, careful not to touch the cast. When he pulled away, somewhat embarrassed, Maximilian drawled, "Missed me?"

Altaïr glared at him, glanced away pointedly, felt the spymaster shake against his thigh in his silent laugh. "Why did you save me from drowning?"

"Why not?" Amusement.

"You could have sent another."

"You were sinking fairly quickly."

"The Master… that is to say, Al Mualim discovered…"

"I knew he would." Maximilian yawned. "Do not glare so. Would you rather I let you die for the sake of my personal convenience?"

"I do not understand you," Altaïr said finally, as the silence stretched. Maximilian did not answer, settling deeper into the hay, closing his eyes. "Maximilian."

"I could teach you how to swim," the spymaster crossed his legs languidly.

Altaïr recalled drowning, the hands, and had to suppress a shudder. "It is not necessary." Another long pause, broken only by the whickers of their horses, grazing, the shriek of a bird, high above. "Thank you."

"Mm." Maximilian made a noncommittal sound that instantly annoyed him. Scowling, Altaïr moved to straddle his waist, unbuckling the scabbard at his hip, knew the spymaster would be watching him with that damned irritating smirk on his lips. Buckles, leather, cowls, boots and jerkins: he'd stripped to his undershirt and breeches by the time Maximilian reacted, rolling his hips, and Altaïr pushed back, his eyes angry, frustrated, still damned confused about this sensation of inevitability. He plucked briefly at Maximilian's shirt, pulled back his fingers at the nearly imperceptible wince of pain, settled for another kiss, instead, this one more confident, biting the spymaster hard on his lower lip when he chuckled.

"Damnation on you," Altaïr whispered, when he pulled back, wondered if Maximilian knew why, knew what, but the man was smirking again, the pink of his tongue pressed against the reddened mark Altaïr's teeth had left on his lip. Belt, breeches: he pulled the spymaster's breeches to his knees with impatient jerks, then removed his fingerless gloves and his bracers, the clink of the hidden knife loud on the hilt of his sword, and the first hand he used to stroke firming flesh was his left; the spymaster's eyes grew cloudy with lust at the rasp of the long-healed scar of the stump of his finger. Still he said nothing.

Altaïr took the small jar of wounds salve he kept with himself always in his sash, swiped his fingers through it, tried his best not to look at Maximilian as he stroked it over the waiting prick, shrugged away fingers on his elbow and smirked when the spymaster moaned, bucking into the pressure, kept his stroking slow, almost teasing. He had never been this forward himself, preferring to let Maximilian lead, preferred the excuse of persistence that that gave him. When Altaïr finally stripped himself of confining breeches, Maximilian levered himself up onto his uninjured elbow.

"Turn around, I-"

"It is not necessary," Altaïr said, surprised how husky his own tone was, lustful, wondered when matters had come to such a pass, that he was enjoying how another man's expression was changing from disbelief to amusement to lust, as he slicked his fingers further, arched back with a hand over Maximilian's knee, grit his teeth as he pushed the first callused digits into himself. A breath, another, another inch (God, it had not felt like so long), and Maximilian had his hand on his thigh, stroking up to close over his flagging prick, stroking it skillfully back to attention as the spymaster lay back, licking his lips.

"When I am recov…" the rest of Maximilian's promise ceded to a hiss, as Altaïr gingerly lowered himself, grit his teeth against the pain as thick flesh pushed past the circle of muscle pushed himself down, slowly, inch by inch, breathing hard, now, focused on the bruising grip of Maximilian's hand on his hip, over the slow growing burn of familiar agony, the sun too hot over his shoulders and under his short-cropped hair, the scents of the scorched hay and the grass and the warm animal flesh of horses. He tried, but Maximilian's gaze arrested him, his cold eyes startlingly molten, now, his want palpable, as Altaïr arched back, filled, his own prick ignored on the spymaster's belly, waiting.

He moved once he began to relax, impatient, ignoring the bared grin from the man beneath him, rocking his hips, taking him, controlling their rhythm, the assassin's hands fisted tight in the hay beside Maximilian's ribs, his breathing short and stuttered. Altaïr's moan was forced from behind clenched teeth only when the spymaster shifted, angled, pushed upwards, stroked there within him, and Altaïr snapped his hips down, harder, sweating in his undershirt, unable now to recognize the almost animal panting noises from his throat as he took his pleasure (and God, this was good), almost whined as fingers brushed his belly and slipped down to stroke him in sharp jerks, slicking the evidence of his own want over his skin, each squeeze sweet torture. And Maximilian was cursing again, in his low diatribe of broken French that told Altaïr that the spymaster was already close: the jibe choked in his throat around the next moan, and Altaïr cried out instead as Maximilian thrust hard, up against him, emptying himself with a snarl. A callused thumb flicked up against his own weeping slit, and Altaïr shattered, shaking, ecstasy stealing the strength from his arms and the words from his throat.

Altaïr took the waterskin and cloth from Maximilian's mount, afterwards, and cleaned them both as much as he was able, ignoring the sated smirk the other man wore as he helped him dress. He knew the spymaster was waiting for him to leave, or to say something brusque about being expected, and hid his grin when Maximilian blinked as Altaïr settled on the hay beside him instead, pillowing his head on a shoulder with a yawn, felt the tension in the panther leach slowly into a deep purr, fingers splaying absently down his back. It would be a long road for Maximilian to Ashkelon; above, the eagle turned its own way, upwards against the lattice of Heaven.

-fin-