I would like to thank all of the readers of this story and all of the nice reviewers by giving them some more Altaïr/Maria! Since I kind of left the story open with the last chapter, I decided to add a little more to it, even though it was intended as a one shot. There's also more Malik in here too, because he makes me lol.

Anyways, I'll remind you that the big block of text is happening in the past. Other than that, just enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of the stuff therein. Pfft.

Trailing his calloused fingertips over the beautifully wrought iron designs in the open air window peering down upon Al Mualim's study (what used to be his study, he reminded himself somberly), Altaïr mused that there was much in life to be taken for granted. In fact, it almost seemed as if these things were begging to be taken as such, ever faithful and ever true, from the least to the greatest – from the steady gait of his favorite horse to the sweet, melodious sound of Maria's laughter. That is, when she deigned his ears worthy enough to hear it. In all honesty, though, standing in the study, in the seemingly impenetrable walls of the fortress, surrounded by scrolls overflowing with history and commentary (anything that any scholar could desire, in his opinion) and the omnipresent loyalty of many a trained and willing man, Altaïr thought it were best if he did take them for granted now and again. What with all of the time he spent peering into the Apple, attending to his duties and gallivanting with his woman – some of the apprentices' words, not his, which had no doubt found their origin on Malik's burning tongue – he would hardly be able to find the time to gush over the more comforting aspects of life. Indeed, this moment, alone in the study, was one of the first he had seen in ages.

Of course, as the silence became more and more deafening, Altaïr found himself wishing that he had taken Maria up on her offer the 'scan the landscape', as she had put it, though he couldn't fathom as to what, exactly, this entailed. Faced with piles of paperwork and other such drudgery, he could hardly manage to think of anything that sounded more exciting than that, though it was dangerously vague. Leaning back on his heels, he began to ponder his escape route, as he oftentimes did in these summer months, the fresh air and the wide open sky singing melodious verses to his blood. While honored to offer his guidance to the order of the Assassins, he couldn't help but to feel trapped now and again.

"Trapped?" Maria has said, naught but a few days prior. Early in the morning, when the hawks and sand grouses began to pierce the quiet with their cooing and cawing, Maria would sometimes make a brief appearance in Altaïr's study, chastising him if he had neglected sleep the night before and finding occasion to do so anyway if he had not. This morning was no different, and as she poked about the scrolls and trinkets, she had apparently decided to target his 'perceived incarceration'.

"Trapped," she repeated. "You who command a city, whose stables contain dozens of the best mares and stallions this region has to offer, whose view of the sky puts the stars over England to shame. Trapped."

Altaïr had merely made the comment in passing, as Maria, who had found a small map resting on one of bookshelves, began listing all of the places that she had been. Now, though, he was beginning to regret it. He paused in his writing and looked up at Maria from beneath his lashes, a careful look of boredom dulling his usually sharp features. She met his gaze for a moment or two before turning her head to watch the sky out the window behind him.

"Feel trapped," he emphasized, turning back to his writing. She only huffed in reply, walked towards his desk, and, leaning one hip on the worn edges, crossed her arms over her chest. He acknowledged her movement only with a slight incline of his head, and she huffed once more. It was one of those moments, she thought, one where she found it difficult to love him but impossible to feel anything besides. A moment when she could see the summation of his beauty – his power, accentuated by his lithe form, his intellect, his capacity for love and for mercy – and found herself resenting that, of all the roads he could have taken, of all the possibility that lay within the end of his former Master, he himself had chosen to take the mantle upon himself. And looking where it brought him, she felt her resentment swell to even greater heights. However, for his sake and for hers, she allowed herself to indulge for only a moment before letting it all out in one long, hot breath. This seemed to grab his attention.

"What is it?" he asked, pausing in his writing once more, though he still did not meet her gaze. Obstinately, she refused to speak until his eyes met hers, until tawny brown met icy blue. Luckily she did not have to wait long before they did.

And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the mood seemed to change, and the frustration that had thickened the air disappeared, replaced by a low hum of electricity. Seemingly unbidden, Maria slid from place against the desk to a new one on its surface. Slowly, Altaïr straightened in his seat as he leaned forward in reply, answering her unspoken question. He lifted a hand and placed it gingerly on her thigh even as she reached out to let the palm of her hand rest against his cheek, warm as it was in the hot, Syrian summer air

"You could take the day off," she said, her voice dropping in octave and volume as she lightly trailed her fingernails over the stubble darkening his jaw. She let the corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly as she felt him shiver beneath her touch. Though, as his hand inched higher, she felt a chill run up her own spine.

"Oh?" he said, his voice assuming a breathy quality. "And where would I go?"

"Hm," she answered lazily, noting with amusement that, somehow or another, his lips were only a handful of inches away from her own. She leaned further still as she began listing the possibilities, though she knew same were more than a day's journey away. "Damascus, Aleppo, Jerusalem…that nondescript pile of hay behind the stables…"

"Don't be ridiculous," he breathed. "I've spent enough of my life shrouded in hay."

Maria laughed and opened her mouth to reply. But her words were swallowed by his mouth as it closed over hers, his lips surprisingly cool and moist. As she angled her mouth against his, burying her fingers in his hair, she wondered if she would ever tire of this – of breathing in his scent, of taking the warmth of his body into her own as she reveled in his closeness. Even as her lungs began to ache for air, she thought that, no, she certainly wouldn't, and damn the day that she ever thought she would.

It was many long moments before they broke apart, panting. She was pleased to see the sparkle return to light his eyes, washing them with a shimmering mirth that was surely reflected in her own. He held her gaze for a heartbeat or two before standing, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the stone on the floor.

"Then again," he said, voice still airy in quality. "Hay is much softer than earth."

Maria smiled brilliantly up at him.

Altaïr found himself fighting a smirk at the memory, his hand now laying motionless on the ironwork as he stared off into the distance, further still even than the horizon. However, only a few more moments passed before light footsteps echoed hollowly within the room and he sighed at the intrusion.

"Lost in thought again, Master?" Malik. Of course.

Altaïr did not turn around to face the man behind him, though he shook his head in acknowledgment. "Why Malik, I do not think I have ever had the pleasure of knowing someone with quite as intriguing an ability as your own." Suffering from many hours of disuse, his voice came out low and harsh, the vibration deep in his chest tickling the back of his tongue. Compulsively, he licked his lips.

Malik approached slowly, watching with a keen eye as his Grandmaster continued his careful caress of the ironwork behind their old Master's study. Though concern was etched upon his forehead, he was sure to keep it out of his voice. "And what ability would that be?"

"To take the most innocent of words and phrases and render them profane," he answered simply, turning to face Malik as he spoke. He opened his mouth to continue but promptly clamped it shut, the tightness in his jaw and the furrow of his brow etching lines of age onto his normally youthful face as he drank in his friend's concerned expression. Though for all his cunning and intelligence and mastery of threatening scowls, Malik could not force the worry out of his gaze, especially when it concerned that ridiculous, overconfident…unfortunately missing woman of his.

"What is it, Malik?" Altaïr asked after long, pregnant pause. His voice was especially deep, his tone schooled, and it sent the hair on the back of Malik's neck bristling. What's worse, he knew that Altaïr was expecting news of the Templars, of their treachery or of an attack or of the passing of yet another of their brothers – it was occurring more and more often these dark days. But, despite all of dedication to the order of the Assassins – as their leader, he certainly had it in spades – Malik supposed that, were Altaïr forced to make a choice between that woman and his order, hardly a moment would pass before he would yank her out of harm's way in lieu of any member of the order, of all the members of the order even. Though it would most likely be much to her chagrin. So as he tossed the words about on his tongue, he tensed his shoulders in preparation for his Master's reaction.

"It is Maria, Altaïr…" As soon as her name fell from his lips, Altaïr felt as if someone has reached out and given the room a good shake. For, though he was standing still as a statue, his footing faltered and his heart leapt up into his throat, dancing erratically from beat to beat as it blocked the pathway from his mouth to his lungs. Still, he forced himself to remain calm, to at least consider that what he was thinking – dear God, she's dead – couldn't possibly be the reality of it. He had seen her just his morning, her eyes glittering with a fire all her own, commanding a small smile from his lips. And so, instead of letting the unbridled tirade burning in his throat escape his lips unchecked, he let air in through his nose and out through his mouth, all the while attempting to appear patient as he waited for Malik to continue, though he seemed incredibly reluctant to do so.

"Well?" Altaïr beckoned with both voice and hand. Though he spoke barely above a whisper, Malik could very nearly hear the sharp edge to his voice, as if it were a reverse blade, a dagger longing to be a sword, a sword longing to be a spear. And damn it all if he didn't feel more than a little intimidated – to say the least.

"It was Qasim's understanding that you had allowed her the use of al-Adiba for the day," Malik began, moving to stand beside Altaïr before the window as he spoke. He folded his hands behind his back and let his eyes wander lazily over the wrought iron, glancing occasionally from the corner of his eye towards his Master, attempting to evaluate just how irate he was bound to be. Though, at the mention of al-Adiba, generally regarded as the Master's most treasured riding mare, Altaïr's lips formed a thin line, his left brow climbing to meet his hairline – confusion.

"Or," Malik said, leaning forward as he feigned interest in the grounds below. "Perhaps you cannot allow her to do much of anything." Malik turned, looking Altaïr full in the eye, being careful to keep the amusement off his face and out of his voice. "Not than anyone could," he added sourly.

"Malik." The warning in Altaïr's tone was plain.

"One of the stable hands – "

"Qasim," Altaïr amended. Malik sighed.

"Yes, Qasim. He felt it prudent to report that the mare came bounding towards the gate not long ago, without saddle or rider." Malik could see Altaïr's spine straighten. Though he seemed rigid to the untrained eye, his heavy stance belayed his readiness for action and Malik did not doubt that, had time danced backwards but a year or two, hardly a word or two more would reach his lips before the frenzied man would dash out of the castle thirsty for answers and, if need be, for blood.

"And Maria was not close behind, I imagine," Altaïr said, his voice dangerously low.

Malik nodded. "I sent the boy after her." At Altaïr's look of incredulity, Malik held up a hand before he could voice any protests. "He is a competent enough tracker, that I know. I did not wish to disturb you without necessity. I wished to resolve the matter before – " before you lost your head, before you ran me through, before you tore apart the kingdom looking for a single woman " – the situation escalated."

"And?" Altaïr seethed, his patience running thin as the sun crept lower in the sky. Though a man could change the orientation of his stars, Malik thought, there was little he could do to exchange one for another.

"He claims the trail ends at a brook and saw fit to return before he wasted the light of day operating on hunches. And I saw fit to turn the matter over to you before word of mouth turned a mystery into murder."

Even as the words left his mouth, Altaïr paced to the corner of his study. As per tradition, he kept his hidden blade strapped to his wrist, but, as the Master of the order, he was not oftentimes found carrying blade or bow. During his first days as Master, he had insisting on walking about as everyone else, though Malik had insisted he at least don the traditional black robes, which he utterly rejected. In the end, it had been Maria who convinced him to at least forego his heavy weapons in the fortress, for it made it awkward to sit and left many of the neophytes feeling more than a little uneasy, expecting battle to burst from within the horizon. Sometimes many days would pass with naught but the hidden blade to keep his more restless frame of mind company.

Nevertheless, he deftly threw the belt of his sword about his waist, his hands having memorized the weight and measure of his weapons many years ago. Once donned, he reached for a wide leather strap, its tiny sheaths holstering a row of five small throwing knives. The shining metal caught the sunlight as Altaïr fitted the leather about his torso, throwing several small, quivering bits of light upon the stone of the study walls.

Meanwhile, Malik appeared amused, one corner of his lip lifting almost imperceptibly. "Expecting trouble?"

"Expecting nothing," Altaïr replied. "We expect everything."

It was something al-Mualim had said to them several times, an idiom taught to all of the apprentices studying the art of infiltration. But of course, this was long before they began climbing ranks within the Assassins, when Altaïr was a highly presumptuous young boy and Malik could hardly balance a sword in his hands. Frankly, Altaïr's memory caught Malik by surprise. But before he could muster up the gull to poke fun at just how stark the contrast was between now and then, Altaïr rushed away, his long strides carrying him easily down the steps and out the doors.

Malik followed hurriedly, grumbling, "I'll just saddle my horse then, shall I?"

He could have been a hunter, Malik had thought as they chased obscure scuffles along the dirt pathway. While Malik had had his fair share of training, and he was a competent Assassin, to say the least, making sense of the obscurities of living disturbances made little sense to him, as if someone were to ask him to speak backwards in the language of the men living eastwards of Khurasan. Needles to say, he would be hard pressed to say much more than 'hello' or 'where is the marketplace'. However, Altaïr made short work of the stirrings of the air, the myriad of prints, both human and animal, upon the road. As far as Malik could tell, there had been a lot of traffic on this road, evidenced by the heaps of horse dung. But his knowledge stopped there, as did his interest in the goings about of animals. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the horizon as the impatient stallion beneath him shuffled its hooves, watching for any would be assassins.

Assassins of Assassins. He took a short moment to be amused.

"The sun falls," Altaïr said quietly, his words nearly swallowed up by the evening breeze, whipping as it did the hood from his head, tangling in the gentle, yet somewhat erratic, curls of his short hair. Malik was surprised to hear the beginnings of resignation in his companion's voice and turned his head, if only slightly, to survey him from the corner of his eye. He appeared determined, but forlorn, wearing an expression which stirred something akin to sympathy within the buried depths of Malik's heart. Though, out of habit, he let his tongue wag unchecked.

"As it always does," he said. "Shall we continue the search in the morning?"

Altaïr scoffed in reply. "You know as well as I that there will be no hope in the morning."

Malik looked his Master up and down, watching as he once again spurred his horse into movement, eyeing the ground and its sparse foliage for any signs of disruption. As he looked on, Malik let his brow climb, debating whether Altaïr was still truly following the trail on the ground, or if he was giving way to the trail etched in his heart.

"There may be none now," Malik replied, at which Altaïr whipped about in his saddle, his nostrils flaring and his dark eyebrows meeting in a sharp V above his piercing eyes.

"Do you plan to help me or to badger me?" Altaïr asked, his voice rising, though only minutely, in both pitch and volume. "For up until now you have been little more than a nuisance."

The implication was clear, and up until now was vague enough to send Malik's mood spiraling downwards, if it had not already done so before. He refused to be goaded though, and urged his young horse into a trot, speaking over his shoulder as he did.

"Let's away then, Master. We would not want to while away the twilight in debate."

Altaïr followed, paying less attention to the road as there were steep crags squeezing the path from either side. Precluding flight, there was nowhere else to go.

"As opposed to whiling it away in petulance?" Altaïr replied.

Malik clicked his tongue in annoyance. "You knew that the language of the earth means little to me and yet you insisted I follow anyways. I can still hold my own in a fight, yet I am worth only half – if that – of many of the other Assassins. Still, you bid me to follow. Tell me, Master, what would you have me do?"

"I would have your eyes sharp," Altaïr answered him loudly, his voice dancing from one rock face to the other. "I would have your mind determined. I would – "

"Altaïr!" Malik hissed. The man in question turned to berate him eye to eye but, at his outstretched arm and extended forefinger, any thought of further dispute dropped from his mind. His hand immediately came to rest on his blade and he sat straighter in his saddle, turning to scan the distant valley with his aptly named eagle vision.

"What is it?" he hissed, keeping his voice low in case of any nearby enemies. Though, even as he enquired, he spotted a fairly thick, gray plume of smoke rolling towards the sky in the distance. His eyes narrowed as he let the vision dissipate.

"An awfully dry time of year for such heady smoke," Malik remarked softly. "Some of the wood must have been soaked."

"And it appears to be too small a flame for a building of any kind," Altaïr answered in turn. "A signal?"

Malik rubbed chin, looking thoughtfully down at the smoke as it began to billow even more violently. "But of what kind? That valley contains little more than wilderness. It could be a group of vagabonds looking for gullible targets."

"I'm inclined to agree," replied Altaïr, earning a mildly surprised look from Malik. "Though I have hope."

Malik inclined his head in acknowledgement as patted the dagger sheathed at his side. "So either we cleanse this good Earth from a bit of its muck or we find your woman and you live happily until the end of your days."

Much to Malik's amusement, the corners of Altaïr's lifted, though only slightly. "Or we are met with something far more sinister."

Malik nodded and answered simply, "Notwithstanding."

The sun had just begun to kiss the horizon as they came upon the fire, having left their mounts some distance back as to approach in silence. Both men's hands were poised upon their weapons, watching the fire licking at a pile of branches and a few thicker slabs of wood as they circled it slowly, methodically. Much to their surprise, they saw no one. Malik raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Why make a signal and then leave it unattended?" he whispered.

Altaïr shrugged. "Why plant a bed of roses and leave them to dry?"

Malik frowned, his lip curling in disdain. "Just full of wisdom today aren't we?"

"Someone has to be."

To Altaïr's surprise, laughter flickered in Malik's shadowed gaze. "Touché."

Altaïr thought to chuckle to himself, though as the emptiness of the area testified, his mission was essentially a failure. And as the flames climbed higher still, he groaned.

Dammit, Maria.

Even in the midst of the fire, the air began to grow bitter as the sun sunk behind the rock face of the valley. Malik, though most oftentimes intentionally tactless, thought to stay quiet for a moment as Altaïr gazed unblinkingly into the flames.

"Perhaps we should stoke it," Malik said quietly after a while. He looked about and spotted a telltale glitter in the distance. A lake most likely, or a wide stream. He pointed towards it as he looked over at Altaïr who, though still appearing otherworldly, was looking in Malik's general direction. "Over there."

They walked in silence towards the water, their highly trained movements creating hardly a sound even in the quiet of the evening. Malik considered whether or not he should attempt to console his companion, thinking better of it one moment and then nearly speaking the next. However, at his last attempt, he spotted a figure sitting on an old bridge and promptly unsheathed his weapon. Altaïr, as he discovered, was a hair's breadth ahead of him, crouching low in preparation. Though, as they moved closer, he startled upwards, nearly dropping his blade. For a moment, Malik thought he was going to run to her.

"Maria?" he called instead. And Malik would have pointed out how reckless it was to give away their position should the figure turn out to be someone else besides – that is, were it not for the desperation that colored Altaïr's normally schooled features.

At the sound of Altaïr's voice, the figure in question turned and dropped its hood, revealing a familiar pair of icy blue eyes.

"Altaïr," she answered. Though Malik did not know the woman very well, there was unmistakable mirth dancing in her eyes. For several long – torturously so, in Malik's opinion – moments, the man and woman, two halves of the same, two sides of one, stared at each other. And then, as if breaking out of a spell, Altaïr took four long strides, his robes billowing wildly about his waist, before he reached her, enveloping her in a crushing embrace. And Malik, perceptive as he was, knew that he might as well have fallen off the face of the Earth. He looked on several moments more, shuffling his weight from side to side, before moving to take his leave.

"I'll just…" he started. Altaïr seemed oblivious, though his woman's head rolled on his shoulder, one of her eyes opening to peer over at Malik from beneath thick lashes. "…go."

And go he did, realizing that perhaps he and his Master had been hoodwinked. And by a former Templar, no less. Malik found himself smiling as he and his stallion raced away.

Meanwhile, Altaïr showed no sign of relinquishing his grip, and though the warmth of his body did wonders to chase the chill of the night away, her ribs began to compress over her lungs.

"Let me breathe," she said laughingly. She could feel his head nodding against the side of her own, though he still took his sweet time disengaging his limbs from hers, once more drawing the boundary between where he ended and she began. Maria, free from his hold, inclined her head as to look into his eyes, expecting relief at best, anger at worst. However, she could hardly gauge his mood before his lips collided roughly with hers, the sweet taste of his lips delectably contradictory to the roughness of his touch – to the scratch of his stubble against her cheeks, the force of his tongue as it moved with her own. Moments later, though, he pulled back and she whined softly, petulantly. She thought to yank him back to her before she spotted the scowl darkening his features.

"You knew," he accused, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arms. Still, though, he did not let her go. And this close, Maria noticed that anger seemed to, somewhat paradoxically, lighten the golden color of his eyes.

"Knew what?" she asked, fighting a smile.

He scoffed, his upper lip curling downwards in unbridled frustration. "That al-Adiba resents your handling, that she knows the route home, that my heart would make a new home in my throat. Take your pick."

"Then I pick the second," she answered somewhat heatedly, wriggling her way out of his arms. "It is certainly not common knowledge that your damnable horse throws its riders at the drop of a hat."

Even though he admired her flares of passion, he could not help but to answer in turn. "And which hat would that be?" he seethed. "Wading rivers? Jumping cliffs?"

Her nostrils flared and she crossed her arms over her chest in indignation. "Jumping logs, if you must know. And I hardly think that an egregious enough offense to get me thrown."

Altaïr shook his head and mirrored her stance. "Egregious enough to get anyone thrown. She is prized for her speed, not for her daring."

"Train your animals!" she shot back.

"Not until you train your voracious appetite for danger!" he retorted.

She seemed to have no reply, and for a long while, they simply looked into one another's eyes, their postures rigid and their scowls fierce. However, as the calming sounds of the nocturnal fauna and the distant crackling of a dying flame began to permeate the silence, the near toxic atmosphere dissipated. It was Altaïr who relented first, letting his arms drop to his side. The small smile that graced his lips told of his recognition of their juvenile behavior, that they had skirted dangerously near the boundaries of having an 'is too, is not' conversation. Maria answered with a barely perceivable upturn of one corner of her lips as she took a few steps to close the gap between them once more. Slowly, tantalizingly, she snaked her arms around his neck. Altaïr reacted in kind, letting his arms hang loosely around her waist. He touched his forehead to hers and breathed deeply, instantly intoxicated by the smell that could only be hers mixing with the smoke and the cool air.

"Though it wasn't intentional…" Upon seeing his Altaïr's raised brow, she conceded, "Not entirely intentional, consider this payback for that little stunt you pulled last week."

Altaïr snorted uncharacteristically. "You must be joking."

"Absolutely not." Maria feigned indignation and he sighed.

"Fine. Truce?"

Maria made a show of hemming and hawing. "For now, I suppose," she answered finally.

Altaïr nodded, once more disengaging from her arms. "Let us leave, then, before Malik thinks us both dead."

Maria trilled her lips in incredulity. "Don't peg him as much a mother hen as you, Altaïr."

Altaïr ignored her jab. "Stoke the fire, then?"

"No," she answered immediately. "Let some other suffering from paranoia happen upon it. In the meantime, I've been wandering for long enough. I want to go home."

Altaïr turned the way she said 'home' around in his head for a few precious seconds before nodding and heading towards al-Abida, who had witnessed the entire spectacle in silence. As they approached, she whinnied at the site of Maria, who gave her a pat on the neck and Altaïr found himself narrowing his eyes at her in suspicion once more.

"What?" she asked innocently. Altaïr just shrugged and made to hop on before Maria's hand stopped him. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"I'm riding in front," she insisted. Altaïr just laughed as she swung herself up into the saddle.

"As you wish."

Though he would have been hard pressed to admit it, Malik hovered near Altaïr's study, awaiting his return. As the moon rose high in the sky, and many of the apprentices headed towards their chamber, whispering to one another about the Master's whereabouts, Malik still waited, finding many of the books and scrolls in disarray (even if he had to muss them up himself). For several moments he would consider abandoning his vigil but, thinking of practicality, reminded himself that he was the only man in the Order aware of Altaïr's location.

Something could always go wrong, Malik thought to himself.

Luckily, boredom only had the chance to nibble at his heels before he heard Altaïr approaching, given away as he was by the tenor of his voice and the distinctly feminine pitch that followed close behind. Malik made to skirt away before he could be seen, but stopped at the sound of his name. He turned to give Altaïr a nod, though, bid by the man's stance and expression, he waited for Altaïr to bid a brief farewell to Maria as she sauntered on towards their shared chambers.

Then they were alone, and Malik considered feeling apprehensive, although the expressively kind emotion flickering in Altaïr's eyes had him hesitating.

"Yes, Master?" Malik said, unable to keep the tiresomeness out of his voice – not that he gave it much effort.

Altaïr inclined his head, still looking decidedly amiable. "Malik," he said, taking a few steps forward so that they did not have to strain their ears or to disturb the sleep of the other members of the Order. "I want to thank you."

Malik's brow furrowed. "It is my duty to do as you ask, Master."

"Malik," Altaïr said, his tone dropping. He took another half step forward and placed his hand lightly on the other man's shoulder. Thinking back to their earlier argument, he added, "I would have you be my friend."

To say Malik was taken aback would be an understatement. Although, as years had passed since the man he knew know had been the man he hated then, he should not have been surprised at Altaïr's many metamorphoses. So instead of cracking wise or feigning indignation, he simply cocked his head to one side.

"I just might be," he said, and was, again, surprised at the truth of it. Altaïr nodded, turned and left without any of the pretenses or expectations of the propriety exercised from one acquaintance to another. Just might, he thought, turning the thought over in his head. And maybe the woman too. But then he thought of her boasted skill with a blade, her air of superiority, her command over the most powerful man in the Order, in the entire Eastern Abbasid Empire, even.

Malik snorted softly as he made way towards his own chamber. Maybe not.

And he smiled.

A/N: If there are any mistakes, please let me know. It's like ridiculously-late o'clock where I live and I might have tripped up, especially there at the end. Also, review if you want. It would make me happy and might make Malik less annoyed with all living things, yay!

Oh, and for those of you who find history interesting, the Abbasid caliphate (a caliph is like a king, in some ways) ruled the Arab/Islamic Empire until the mid thirteenth century, after which the Mongols were like 'yeah, leave' (and by that I mean they totally sacked Baghdad – actually they had one of the later Abbasid caliphs rolled up in a carpet and trampled to death by horses – gross right?). Anyways, I'm taking a class on it, and there's actually stuff about that Assassins (Hashshashins) and Masyaf and I'm all like LOLOL the whole time and everyone else is like 'what's the matter with you?'

But enough about that. Hope you enjoyed it!

Armidion