A/N: This is a fanfic I've been working on for a long time. It's finished, but I'll post the chapters once a day, probably, just to give those interested time to read. It's Altair/Malik centric, and there will be smut in later chapters (3 and 8, if you want to be specific and have something to look forward to). Hope everyone enjoys!

Chapter 1

Three long months.

That's how long it took for Masyaf to recover from the massacre resulting from Al Mualim's betrayal: three months dedicated to preparing burial rites for the fallen brothers, providing the proper care for their wives and children, rebuilding all that had been damaged, strengthening their defenses, and, most importantly, continuing to train the remaining and new novices.

Those who survived through Al Mualim's usurpation trained harder than ever, fueled by fierce determination and the desire to help reconstruct their homes and lives. Many more were spurred on by hatred and anger toward the very man they had trusted for so very long. They had every right to hate. They had every right to fear.

Altaïr did not, at first, wish for the title of Grandmaster. He would have preferred to remain a Master Assassin and leave the responsibility of overseeing an entire city and all its inhabitants to someone with more capable hands. He would have chosen Malik for this role, but the people spoke out against him. It was only fitting that their liberator should rule them, they shouted. It was right that Altaïr should lead them to future victories—after all, he was the one who led them to their greatest victory.

He had taken up the mantle of Grandmaster with great reluctance, encouraged mostly by the cries of the people, his people. He felt himself unworthy of the honor, but, within weeks, he changed so much there was little doubt in the minds of Masyaf's citizens of who could have done a better job than he. Perhaps the only man within all of Syria who felt Altaïr's leadership skills could be improved upon was Malik.

Promoted to head Dai after Altaïr's ascension, he had very little to complain for, though he tried his best. The relationship between him and Altaïr was strained, though they gained new footholds every day. Malik felt that, should he ever truly let go of his hatred for the other man, they could be great friends. That, of course, could never happen, not while Altaïr insisted on forcing his will upon others, the way he tended to do. It was one of his personality flaws Malik wished he could fix.

Their disagreements were often and loud, centered on trivial concerns, but important details nonetheless. Malik saw things one way, Altaïr, another. Stubborn, easily angered, and defiant to a fault, both men would often engage in physical blows until their anger drained. More often than not, they had to be forcefully separated. Those up to the task of pulling the warring men apart were few and far in between.

All of Masyaf seemed to cower beneath the force of the argument which raged between Altaïr and Malik now. The library had long since been evacuated for safety precautions, though some of the braver assassins kept vigil in the hall, hoping to overhear at least part of the heated argument.

However, the stone walls of the hallway and the high ceiling of the library prevented words from being distinguished from one another. Nothing interesting, at any rate. Behind the closed doors Malik faced off with Altaïr, standing across the room and itching to throw something heavier than a book at his thick head. He bristled with barely restrained rage, his stance rigid, back ramrod straight, and arm tense by his side. He dared Altaïr to say one more word, just one more word.

"I forbid you from setting foot outside Masyaf," Altaïr growled, jabbing his finger at the floor as if grounding Malik's will down to nothing.

"You cannot cage me," Malik said through gritted teeth, clenching his fist tighter. "I am not a beast to be tied and stabled! To keep me from doing what little I can, especially in these transitional stages, is folly!"

Altaïr shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, the very picture of adamant authority. His golden eyes were cold and hard, and his thin lips were drawn into an even thinner line, punctuated by the light scar at the edge of his mouth. He obviously had no plan to back down, even in the face of reason. Malik envisioned the largest tome possible and imagined it sailing toward Altaïr's face.

"Altaïr, you can't be serious," Malik said, running his hand through his unruly black hair. "It's foolish to keep me in Masyaf when there is such a shortage of men capable of taking on the assignments which need attending to! How many did we lose during Al Mualim's coup? Twenty? Thirty? More, perhaps? We don't have the luxury of picking and choosing who may go and who may not. I want to do this, Altaïr, I need to do this!"

"No, you don't," Altaïr responded, "and I have very good reason to keep you from taking this mission."

"And I wonder what that could possibly be," Malik snarled before Altaïr could even finish his sentence. "So what is it, Master Altaïr? That I am missing an arm? That I am unfit for duty as an assassin? If so, allow me to remind you whose fault my handicap falls upon!"

A shadow of hurt and guilt passed over Altaïr's face before he gained control of his expression and his response was every bit as cold and hard as his eyes.

"Nonetheless," he said, "you are unfit for active duty. You are too valuable to risk losing to the blade of a Templar. I refuse to allow you passage to Jerusalem."

Malik gave a frustrated cry and clenched his fist until he felt his fingernails dig deep into his flesh. Rage built up in his chest and he thought for just that moment he could honestly kill Altaïr and feel no remorse. To know the one man he had begun to consider a friend, perhaps even an ally, thought him too useless to carry out a relatively simple assassination hurt more than he cared to admit.

"So be it," Malik snapped, turning on his heel back to the bookshelves, determined to bury himself in deciphering the next volume of Al Mualim's private journals, perverse and corrupt as they were. He figured anything was better than looking at Altaïr's smug expression of triumph.

Had he chanced a backward glance, however, he would have seen Altaïr's look of self-loathing. Malik would have seen the way he clenched his fists and hung his head in shame. As it was, he ignored Altaïr's soft, "Forgive me, brother," and fairly ripped the book off the shelf, along with several unintended scrolls.

Insufferable bastard, Malik thought, after Altaïr slunk out of the room like a jackal with its prize of stolen meat. He set the book down and grabbed the stump of his arm, massaging the end thoughtfully as he considered proving Altaïr wrong and going to Jerusalem anyways. Malik was not disobedient or rebellious, not in the way Altaïr used to be, but this fight, he felt, was the last straw. He was an assassin.

He was capable of taking on targets, even though he lacked his left arm. He knew his limits and he had long since compensated for his loss. So he couldn't scale a wall or pole as quickly as his brothers; there were always ladders and constructs of sorts nearby, and he was a swift runner. Riding a horse presented no obstacle, and the sword was still his weapon of choice in battle. Malik remained more skilled than Altaïr, even now. Just last week he had laid three novices and a master on their backs in the training grounds, one right after the other. And who could forget who had assisted Altaïr in reclaiming Masyaf?

Malik had fairly flown to his rescue and he wanted to keep Malik grounded. Well, not this time. Malik sat down at a table and pulled a fresh scroll toward him, dipped his quill in the inkwell and set the nib to parchment. He would translate a dozen or so pages, wait until Altaïr busied himself with the Apple—that damned, blessed mechanism—and then, then he would leave for Jerusalem.

By midday his satchel was packed: knives, food, a flask of water, his white robes, his sword and scabbard, and his most detailed map of Jerusalem. Malik also carried with him a careful copy of Altaïr's notes on the target. On his way to the stables outside the city, he reminded himself of the target's name, Almir: a young man, yet powerfully influential among those familiar and friendly to the ways of the corrupt Templars. His death would ensure peace in Jerusalem, at least for a short while.

Reaching the stables, Malik took a dark bay and ignored the sideways glance the stable master gave him. Holding fast to the saddle horn, he set his right foot in the stirrup and quickly leapt into the seat. The horse shifted easily and the stable master turned away, curiosity sated. Clicking his tongue and digging his heels into his mount's sides, Malik set off toward Jerusalem with the reins wrapped around his hand and peace in his heart.

He felt too much time had passed since he had last set out on an assassination and every stride of the horse was a breath of fresh air. He missed the sense of importance and responsibility, missed traveling to new lands and taking in new sights. He had not done much traveling since becoming Dai, and even less so since returning to Masyaf to assist Altaïr in reforming their ruined city.

Now, traversing over the rocky hills with a strong steed beneath him, Malik felt more like his old self. He inhaled deeply, breathing the fresh mountain air and the sweet smell of dates ripening on trees. He heard the calming sound of a bubbling stream and entertained the idea of bathing outside for the first time in months. What he wouldn't he have given for the leisure to do such. But, with the threat of Altaïr bearing down on him at any moment, he pressed onward.

The ride itself proved uneventful, but the trail which took him through the mountain pass led Malik through the abandoned outposts of Templars. He saw the muddy ground reddened with the blood of the dead, and the stench…. He wrinkled his nose as the source of the smell revealed itself: a large cart, drawn by two asses, piled with rotting bodies.

Two men with perfumed scarves tied around the bottom halves of their faces continued to locate bodies and haul them to the cart. Only a few months had passed since the siege of Masyaf, but to think that the bodies of Templar and Assassin brethren alike were still being found throughout the remains of scorched town made Malik feel ill. He pressed on, nudging his bay into an easy canter.

By the end of the day the gates of Jerusalem loomed within sight. Malik smiled wanly, clicked his tongue and steered his horse to the stables outside the city gates. Clothed in his black Dai robes, Malik had no trouble walking past the guards. He was virtually unnoticed. The Bureau had not changed from when Malik left, and he let himself in by way of the secret door at the back of the building. Navin, the new young Rafiq met him, a pleasantly shocked expression on his smooth face.

"Master Malik," he proclaimed, bowing halfway, "to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Safety and peace, brother," Malik replied, also bowing. "I'm here on assignment, actually."

The look on Navin's face was well worth the trouble he took to tell the truth about his reason for returning to Jerusalem. He obviously sided with the likes of Altaïr and the stable master back in Masyaf, and all those others who felt Malik incapable of seeing to his own business. Malik knew he would take great pleasure in proving all of them wrong.

"Not an assassination," Navin said, hiding his disbelief rather poorly. "Master Altaïr sent you to kill Almir? Truly?"

"Is it so hard to believe?" Malik retorted, his attitude very quickly turning from one of amusement to one of tired rebuke. "I am still an assassin, and am still able to wield a blade. Trust me, I am perfectly capable of taking Almir's contract."

Navin shrugged and gestured to the interior room of the Bureau where brothers normally rested before and after missions. Malik followed, grateful the subject was being dropped.

"Rest for a while," Navin suggested, taking Malik's saddlebag and eyeing the sword on his belt. "You will need your strength if you are to track Almir."

"Tell me what you know of him," Malik requested, settling amongst the pillows and thinking how strange it was to once again be on the receiving end of such instructions. Navin seated himself nearby and clasped his hands in front of him.

"He keeps to the poor district," he began, "where he is among friends. He is seen as a messiah, meant to inspire revolt against Saladin."

Malik's eyebrows arched in surprise; he had not known the situation to be so serious as to lead to the threat of an actual rebellion. Saladin's victory at Arsuf had guaranteed him Jerusalem as a stronghold, and though his militaristic background acted as the driving force behind most of his decisions, he was a just ruler.

"I thought the people approved of Saladin," Malik said, sounding his astonishment.

Navin shook his head.

"The people whose minds are not poisoned by Almir's mad ravings do," he said, "but there are many within the poor district and Saladin fears an uprising. He does not want for a great show of force. He has already proven his might by defeating King Richard at Arsuf. Now, with rebuilding the government, he has much to worry about…too much for him to further agonize about one man. That is why he requests Almir be taken out as swiftly and silently as possible—once the head of the dragon is slain, the body will become harmless."

"Or," Malik mused, "like the hydra it will sprout more heads and with them, more reason to fight."

"Let us hope and pray not," Navin said, though the threat of such an event was very real.

Malik shrugged and yawned, suddenly very tired. He had ridden all day long and was exhausted. Navin bid him good night and promised more complete information in the morning. The pillows were soft and cool, the rug thick and comfortable—a breeze drifted through the open roof and Malik soon fell asleep as easily as he had when he was a younger man, a newer assassin, fresh from the ranks of novices and completely confident in his abilities.