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Failures (chapter 1 of idk)
series: Assassin's Creed/The Walking Dead
characters: Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf, Altair Ibn-La'Ahad
rating: PG-13
summary: What if the Apple had the power to bring back the dead? Would it really bring them back or would it all just be a cruel trick
He hears Kadar’s screams before he sees what’s actually happened. He kills everyone around him before he can pull together any coherent thoughts, stabs the closest place on the body nearest to him, doesn’t think about making the deaths quick and painless as he’d always been taught to do, only thinks of getting these men away from him and his brother, only thinks of causing them the same kind of pain they caused Kadar. How long it’s been since he started, how many he’s killed is unimportant, nothing matters except for getting Kadar out of there. Even the artifact that they had been sent to retrieve is second to Kadar.
His moves are automatic, he doesn’t think about anything as he picks up Kadar and runs as best he can with the weight of his brother in his arms and the Templars still trying to come after them. Kadar has the artifact, must be using it to keep them away because this is too easy—even using the word easy lightly – this get away is far too simple. Or maybe it’s the numbness that makes him think that. Maybe it’s the way that he refuses to let himself feel or hear or see anything—not the pain from his many wounds, not the sound of Kadar’s ragged breathing, or the utter massacre around them. He simply runs; runs until he finds a place hidden enough that it should buy them some time. Not much time, but some; maybe enough to figure out a plan, to figure out how they’re going to get out of this mess.
Those are foolish thoughts, he knows. It won’t be a “they” that escapes from this place, if there is any escaping at all. Kadar is dead; the sensible part of his mind knows this. The other part, the part that’s controlled him for so long, that’s made him do every stupid thing he’s ever done for the sake of his brother—that side refuses to acknowledge the truth. Kadar is dead by the time Malik lays him down. His breathing had stopped only seconds ago, his pained moans silenced, and the weak grip Kadar had managed to hold on to Malik’s hand with is now completely gone, but even so the truth doesn’t completely process for him.
“Get up, Kadar. Now is not the time for a nap. You will have plenty of time for that when we get back to Masyaf.”
There is no response. It’s not surprising, not really, but somehow it angers him. Kadar should be responding. He should be responding and talking and doing something other than laying there because Kadar was the one who was so excited for this mission. He was so excited and now he’s just lying there uselessly.
“Kadar, I said get up! Do you want to get us into any more trouble?”
Again, there is no response and the anger continues to bubble up; just more useless anger that won’t do anything to help. All Malik wants to do now—all he can think to do now, is to grab Kadar and shake him and yell that he’s the older brother, he’s in charge, and so Kadar has to listen to him; he has to listen to him so why doesn’t he get up and help figure out a way to get out of here. Malik can’t do all the work. He’s tired and injured and there’s no way he’ll be able to make it out alone, no way he wants to make it out alone. It doesn’t work, it will never work, and Kadar will never wake up because he’s not napping, but he can’t accept that now. He made a promise and if Kadar doesn’t wake up that means he broke his promise and that means he’s a liar and Malik hates to be the liar. He hates it, had hated it since he was a little kid because he’s never been very good at it.
His eyes are burning and his head is spinning and his wounds are bleeding and Malik doesn’t understand any of it. This is all strange and new and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. He doesn’t like this new way that Kadar has of not listening to him, doesn’t like that he doesn’t know what to do because he always knows what to do, and he doesn’t like that he feels so useless—like he’s failed everyone that has ever mattered in his life (and it occurs to him sometime later, when he’s lying in his sick bed, having regained most of his senses that he has failed them all—his mother, his father, his brother—he let them all down).
And then it all falls away. His thoughts of the past, his refusal to accept what he knows is true—those things are all forced away by the sounds of screaming. Terrified screaming coming from the sanctuary he just left. For a moment he thinks that the cause of the screaming is backup—other Assassins that were sent to help them, but the idea is quickly thrown out. Al Mualim wouldn’t send backup unless he had some reason to and this was a mission involving the Great Altair—backup is likely the farthest thing from his mind. There is no way Altair made it back to Masyaf already to request that Al Mualim send others in to help and even if he had, it’s likely that Altair wrote Malik off as dead (he would likely write Kadar off as dead, as well, but it seems silly to think of in those terms when Kadar is dead).
He can hear the broken Arabic of the Templars, can hear Robert’s heavily accented voice yelling for his men to retreat, but the command is cut off by more screaming. Screams of pain and terror and—and sounds that aren’t screams at all. Moans—they sound more like moans. Moans and growls and noises that are just inhumane. His first instinct screams to run—run out of the Temple, cut his losses, and forget about the artifact that they originally came here for, but he ignores it. His curiosity is too great, his second instinct to go and investigate too strong.
For a moment he turns back around, back to Kadar’s body. The thought of leaving him hear makes Malik sick to his stomach, but he knows he has no choice. With the Templars still out there, there’s no way for Malik to carry his body to safety. And then there’s whatever has the Templars screaming like that, whatever’s got them that frightened. He bends over just enough to press his lips to Kadar’s forehead, a promise that he’ll come back for him, just like he always does, and checks to make sure he has his sword.
Later on, he’ll wish he’d burned that image of Kadar into his mind—a peaceful image and one so much more fitting of his brother than the violent and disgusting one he’d be left with later. But now, in the present, Malik doesn’t realize that, doesn’t realize that he should have listened to his first instinct and ran. Now, he only knows that he wants to know what’s going on, knows he wants to be informed.
He doesn’t understand what he sees when he re-enters the room. He sees without really seeing—sees that there are more Templars standing than there were before, sees that there are Templars attacking Templars for reasons he doesn’t understand, and he sees that even when Robert looks in his direction, he can only manage a sneer before he’s throwing one of his own men off of him with a blow to the chest that should have killed anyone else. This man does not go down, though. This man gets back up and attacks Robert again and that’s when Malik sees— really seesthat the flesh on this man is rotting. This man is one that Malik killed himself and yet he is standing again, standing and attacking his master, and then—and then that very same master is running his sword through this dead man’s head and that’s when he goes down.
“If you are smart, Assassin, you wil— ugh!“
It’s Robert’s voice calling out to him that catches him off guard at first and the scream that cuts the rest of his words off that make Malik’s heart race and thoughts turn towards any possible exits, but it’s too late. These fallen men, these men that have seemingly risen from the dead to attack the living have seen him and they’re headed in his direction. His moves are slow, sluggish, and he’s lucky that the dead Templars are slower because although they are dead, they are strong, and it makes it that much harder to fight them off. He remembers what he saw when Robert was being attacked, remembers how the sword through the chest didn’t kill whatever these things are, but the sword through the head did. He makes sure to do the same and he manages to get rid of quite a few of them that way, but then—then there’s pain in his arm, a blinding pain that has him screaming louder than he ever remembers screaming before and he’s turning quickly to push whatever is cutting into him off.
Except it wasn’t that anything was cutting into him, it was that something was biting into him, and Malik barely has time to process this before that same thing is coming at him again and he’s forced to look away from his wound to it.
It takes him all of five seconds to wish he hadn’t looked up.
He hasn’t been dead for long, but Malik can already smell the rotting flesh on Kadar’s body, the blood from the wound that killed him still drying, and the blood from Malik’s arm staining his lips. Malik has never had a weak stomach, has never had trouble looking at the bodies of dead men or seeing blood, but this—nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him to see his little brother, the most important person in Malik’s life turned into a mindless thing.
“Kadar! Kadar, stop!”
He knows it’s useless to yell like this. This thing is not his brother—just an empty shell of what used to be his brother, but it’s an instinct. To see Kadar walking gives him a false hope, one that he might scorn anyone else for having, but one that bubbles up in him no matter how hard he tries to fight it. He backs away, trying to keep from using his sword for as long as he can. What if there is some way to wake Kadar up? What if he can get his brother back? He can hear Robert leading his men out, can hear him asking where the artifact is, and out of the corner of his eye, Malik can see something glowing. There! That must be it! But he has no time to focus on that because Kadar is coming at him again and this time Malik manages to dodge.
“Kadar, I am your older brother, listen to me!”
He feels like a petulant child trying to get his younger brother to listen despite being fully aware that yelling will get him nowhere. But unlike the times when he was just a child yelling to get his younger brother’s attention, lowering his voice and promising to play with him won’t help. Malik knows that, and so he continues to yell as though that will make a difference until he trips over one of the bodies strewn across the floor and his breath catches in his throat.
It’s only seconds after Malik hits the ground that Kadar all but throws himself down, too, and it’s instinct that forces Malik to kick him in the face just to try and keep him away. The guilt he feels is ridiculous, he knows, but he can’t help it. For everything that’s happening, this is still Kadar’s body, he might not be acting the part of Kadar, but the appearance alone is enough to make Malik all to reluctant to fight back. Wasn’t it only a short while ago—maybe not even an hour ago—that he was trying to convince himself that Kadar was taking a nap instead of what he knew to be the truth? It was—it was barely an hour ago, if that, and now he may very well be forced to re-kill his own brother.
There’s a lump in his throat that refuses to go down no matter how hard he swallows and the burning in the back of his eyes won’t go away no matter how much he blinks. It feels like there’s a brink in his chest replacing his heart and his breathing comes out in short gasps despite his best efforts to stay calm. He knows what he has to do and for the first time since before his parents’ deaths, he is about to cry.
The next sequence of events happens in a blur. It feels as though it takes forever, as though his movements are being slowed down by some invisible force, but Malik knows that isn’t the case. Time hasn’t slowed down and neither has he. Malik gets up from his place on the floor and in the time it takes Kadar to get to his feet Malik devices a plan—one to get this over with quickly and one that will hopefully cause the least amount of pain. He lets Kadar grab at him, but Kadar is clumsy like this, clumsier than he ever was in life, and he falls over when Malik backs away slightly from his outstretched hand. It’s a risky move, but Malik catches him, holds his face away enough that Kadar can’t bite him and lets his armor do the work of protecting him from scratches.
Another second passes and even that feels like it takes an eternity to go by. He takes a deep breath, tries to force down the lump in his throat by swallowing again, and lets the first few tears escape his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry for so many things. He’s sorry for never letting Kadar be the Assassin when they would play Assassins versus Templars. He’s sorry for nearly abandoning Kadar when they were children trying to find their way to Masyaf. He’s sorry for watching Kadar so closely and making it seem as though he could never fight any of his own battles. He’s sorry for not putting up more of a fight when Al Mualim said that Kadar would be accompanying them on this mission and he’s sorry for putting his sword through Kadar’s head.
Kadar is still now. As still as he was when Malik first laid him down to rest, but unlike that time, Malik isn’t yelling. Malik isn’t trying to convince himself that Kadar is just napping or anything like that. This time, Malik is crying.
He doesn’t think about any of his actions after this. He moves subconsciously, letting his feet and arms do what they want and barely even noticing when he grabs the artifact. He hears the Templars outside, hears them backing and there are orders being shouted, but he doesn’t fully process them. He hears them, but he doesn’t understand what they’re really saying. He doesn’t notice when he gets on his horse, doesn’t notice that he’s arrived at Masyaf until he’s handing the artifact to a nearby informant and walking into Al Mualim’s study.
And then he becomes aware of everything he’s doing. He becomes aware that he’s yelling at Altair, aware of the blame that he’s putting on Altair when all he can think of his how Malik was the one to put the sword through Kadar’s head. Altair left them there, but in the end it was Malik who killed Kadar, not Altair.
And then the next thing he becomes aware of is the pain in his arm. The blinding pain that has him screaming so loudly it’d be a wonder if no one in the castle heard him. The bite on his arm was infected, wouldn’t heal, and the only thing they could do was to rid him of it. He doesn’t care. For the longest time, Malik doesn’t care about his arm. All he cares about is what he did in Solomon’s Temple. All he cares about is that his brother is dead and Malik had a direct part in killing him.
After that Malik doesn’t think of it any more. He pretends it never happened, pretends that the worst thing about Solomon’s Temple was the way Altair acted, like he isn’t disgusted with himself. He puts the blame on Altair even though he doesn’t truly believe that Altair is to blame and he forgives Altair for a crime he doesn’t believe Altair needs forgiveness for because after that—after his arm is amputated and all of the marks from that day heal, Malik pretends that none of it ever happened. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to not put his sword through his own head if he pretends that it never happened, if he pretends to forget about what he did to his little brother.
Malik doesn’t think of any of this until months later; months later when the nine Templars and Al Mualim are all dead and Altair has been named the Order’s Grand Master. He’d had a nagging suspicion that it was the Apple—the artifact they’d been sent to claim—that was behind everything; behind the terrified screams of the Templars, behind the dead rising, and Kadar attacking him and the actions he was forced to take immediately after. If it could create illusions, if it could control men’s minds, why couldn’t it also control the dead?
Unfortunately, Altair was not aware of this. Altair didn’t know what Malik had seen in Solomon’s Temple and so it was easy for him to fall under the Apple’s spell.
“You should get rid of that thing, Altair. I doubt it will do us any good. I would think, after everything, that you would have realized that.”
“You saw the same thing I did, Malik. I can’t get rid of it. Before I had meant to destroy it, to get rid of the cause of all the trouble we’ve been through recently, but not now. It has too much to teach us, to show us.”
“It will teach you how to bring about your own destruction.”
Malik clenches and unclenches his fist. After everything that has happened, how could Altair not see that no good could come from keeping that thing around? It was the Apple which brought their Master to ruin, it was the Apple that cost Malik his arm, it was the Apple that cost Malik his life and turned him into that—that thing. If it weren’t for the Apple none of this would have ever happened (part of him thinks that that includes their newly repaired friendship, but he’s lost too much because of that damned thing to think even that is worth keeping it around). But how could Altair see what he’s talking about? He wasn’t in Solomon’s Temple to see the dead turn into monsters. He wasn’t there to see how it forced him to put a sword through his brother’s head. If he’d been there, he’d know.
“Malik, you saw—“
“I have seen more than you think, Altair. You have not seen what that thing will do to a man.”
Altair finally looks away from the Apple and to Malik, expecting him to go on and explain what it is that Malik had seen that Altair hadn’t, but now he isn’t sure he wants to. Just thinking of what had happened without recalling the details made him sick, but having to explain it? Malik has never considered himself to be weak of stomach or mind, but to even think of having to explain the details of all that had happened in Solomon’s Temple makes his stomach churn and his mind want to stop all thoughts completely so that nothing could bring back those memories. Malik hadn’t simply lost his brother that day, he had to kill him—he had to kill his last remaining family member, the one person that meant more to him than anyone else in the world.
“Do what you want with it, but do not come to me when you are forced to suffer the consequences of keeping it around.”
He turns and walks out of the room without looking back. He doesn’t want to see Altair turn his attention back to the Apple, doesn’t want to see how he’s already so taken with it. His words are a lie, of course. If Malik has his way, Altair won’t have to go to Malik when he’s forced to suffer the consequences because he intends to do everything he can to keep those consequences from ever happening. The things Malik saw, what he had to do—he can’t leave Altair to suffer those things, can’t leave him to possibly become one of those things.
characters: Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf, Altair Ibn-La'Ahad
rating: PG-13
summary: What if the Apple had the power to bring back the dead? Would it really bring them back or would it all just be a cruel trick
He hears Kadar’s screams before he sees what’s actually happened. He kills everyone around him before he can pull together any coherent thoughts, stabs the closest place on the body nearest to him, doesn’t think about making the deaths quick and painless as he’d always been taught to do, only thinks of getting these men away from him and his brother, only thinks of causing them the same kind of pain they caused Kadar. How long it’s been since he started, how many he’s killed is unimportant, nothing matters except for getting Kadar out of there. Even the artifact that they had been sent to retrieve is second to Kadar.
His moves are automatic, he doesn’t think about anything as he picks up Kadar and runs as best he can with the weight of his brother in his arms and the Templars still trying to come after them. Kadar has the artifact, must be using it to keep them away because this is too easy—even using the word easy lightly – this get away is far too simple. Or maybe it’s the numbness that makes him think that. Maybe it’s the way that he refuses to let himself feel or hear or see anything—not the pain from his many wounds, not the sound of Kadar’s ragged breathing, or the utter massacre around them. He simply runs; runs until he finds a place hidden enough that it should buy them some time. Not much time, but some; maybe enough to figure out a plan, to figure out how they’re going to get out of this mess.
Those are foolish thoughts, he knows. It won’t be a “they” that escapes from this place, if there is any escaping at all. Kadar is dead; the sensible part of his mind knows this. The other part, the part that’s controlled him for so long, that’s made him do every stupid thing he’s ever done for the sake of his brother—that side refuses to acknowledge the truth. Kadar is dead by the time Malik lays him down. His breathing had stopped only seconds ago, his pained moans silenced, and the weak grip Kadar had managed to hold on to Malik’s hand with is now completely gone, but even so the truth doesn’t completely process for him.
“Get up, Kadar. Now is not the time for a nap. You will have plenty of time for that when we get back to Masyaf.”
There is no response. It’s not surprising, not really, but somehow it angers him. Kadar should be responding. He should be responding and talking and doing something other than laying there because Kadar was the one who was so excited for this mission. He was so excited and now he’s just lying there uselessly.
“Kadar, I said get up! Do you want to get us into any more trouble?”
Again, there is no response and the anger continues to bubble up; just more useless anger that won’t do anything to help. All Malik wants to do now—all he can think to do now, is to grab Kadar and shake him and yell that he’s the older brother, he’s in charge, and so Kadar has to listen to him; he has to listen to him so why doesn’t he get up and help figure out a way to get out of here. Malik can’t do all the work. He’s tired and injured and there’s no way he’ll be able to make it out alone, no way he wants to make it out alone. It doesn’t work, it will never work, and Kadar will never wake up because he’s not napping, but he can’t accept that now. He made a promise and if Kadar doesn’t wake up that means he broke his promise and that means he’s a liar and Malik hates to be the liar. He hates it, had hated it since he was a little kid because he’s never been very good at it.
His eyes are burning and his head is spinning and his wounds are bleeding and Malik doesn’t understand any of it. This is all strange and new and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. He doesn’t like this new way that Kadar has of not listening to him, doesn’t like that he doesn’t know what to do because he always knows what to do, and he doesn’t like that he feels so useless—like he’s failed everyone that has ever mattered in his life (and it occurs to him sometime later, when he’s lying in his sick bed, having regained most of his senses that he has failed them all—his mother, his father, his brother—he let them all down).
And then it all falls away. His thoughts of the past, his refusal to accept what he knows is true—those things are all forced away by the sounds of screaming. Terrified screaming coming from the sanctuary he just left. For a moment he thinks that the cause of the screaming is backup—other Assassins that were sent to help them, but the idea is quickly thrown out. Al Mualim wouldn’t send backup unless he had some reason to and this was a mission involving the Great Altair—backup is likely the farthest thing from his mind. There is no way Altair made it back to Masyaf already to request that Al Mualim send others in to help and even if he had, it’s likely that Altair wrote Malik off as dead (he would likely write Kadar off as dead, as well, but it seems silly to think of in those terms when Kadar is dead).
He can hear the broken Arabic of the Templars, can hear Robert’s heavily accented voice yelling for his men to retreat, but the command is cut off by more screaming. Screams of pain and terror and—and sounds that aren’t screams at all. Moans—they sound more like moans. Moans and growls and noises that are just inhumane. His first instinct screams to run—run out of the Temple, cut his losses, and forget about the artifact that they originally came here for, but he ignores it. His curiosity is too great, his second instinct to go and investigate too strong.
For a moment he turns back around, back to Kadar’s body. The thought of leaving him hear makes Malik sick to his stomach, but he knows he has no choice. With the Templars still out there, there’s no way for Malik to carry his body to safety. And then there’s whatever has the Templars screaming like that, whatever’s got them that frightened. He bends over just enough to press his lips to Kadar’s forehead, a promise that he’ll come back for him, just like he always does, and checks to make sure he has his sword.
Later on, he’ll wish he’d burned that image of Kadar into his mind—a peaceful image and one so much more fitting of his brother than the violent and disgusting one he’d be left with later. But now, in the present, Malik doesn’t realize that, doesn’t realize that he should have listened to his first instinct and ran. Now, he only knows that he wants to know what’s going on, knows he wants to be informed.
He doesn’t understand what he sees when he re-enters the room. He sees without really seeing—sees that there are more Templars standing than there were before, sees that there are Templars attacking Templars for reasons he doesn’t understand, and he sees that even when Robert looks in his direction, he can only manage a sneer before he’s throwing one of his own men off of him with a blow to the chest that should have killed anyone else. This man does not go down, though. This man gets back up and attacks Robert again and that’s when Malik sees— really seesthat the flesh on this man is rotting. This man is one that Malik killed himself and yet he is standing again, standing and attacking his master, and then—and then that very same master is running his sword through this dead man’s head and that’s when he goes down.
“If you are smart, Assassin, you wil— ugh!“
It’s Robert’s voice calling out to him that catches him off guard at first and the scream that cuts the rest of his words off that make Malik’s heart race and thoughts turn towards any possible exits, but it’s too late. These fallen men, these men that have seemingly risen from the dead to attack the living have seen him and they’re headed in his direction. His moves are slow, sluggish, and he’s lucky that the dead Templars are slower because although they are dead, they are strong, and it makes it that much harder to fight them off. He remembers what he saw when Robert was being attacked, remembers how the sword through the chest didn’t kill whatever these things are, but the sword through the head did. He makes sure to do the same and he manages to get rid of quite a few of them that way, but then—then there’s pain in his arm, a blinding pain that has him screaming louder than he ever remembers screaming before and he’s turning quickly to push whatever is cutting into him off.
Except it wasn’t that anything was cutting into him, it was that something was biting into him, and Malik barely has time to process this before that same thing is coming at him again and he’s forced to look away from his wound to it.
It takes him all of five seconds to wish he hadn’t looked up.
He hasn’t been dead for long, but Malik can already smell the rotting flesh on Kadar’s body, the blood from the wound that killed him still drying, and the blood from Malik’s arm staining his lips. Malik has never had a weak stomach, has never had trouble looking at the bodies of dead men or seeing blood, but this—nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him to see his little brother, the most important person in Malik’s life turned into a mindless thing.
“Kadar! Kadar, stop!”
He knows it’s useless to yell like this. This thing is not his brother—just an empty shell of what used to be his brother, but it’s an instinct. To see Kadar walking gives him a false hope, one that he might scorn anyone else for having, but one that bubbles up in him no matter how hard he tries to fight it. He backs away, trying to keep from using his sword for as long as he can. What if there is some way to wake Kadar up? What if he can get his brother back? He can hear Robert leading his men out, can hear him asking where the artifact is, and out of the corner of his eye, Malik can see something glowing. There! That must be it! But he has no time to focus on that because Kadar is coming at him again and this time Malik manages to dodge.
“Kadar, I am your older brother, listen to me!”
He feels like a petulant child trying to get his younger brother to listen despite being fully aware that yelling will get him nowhere. But unlike the times when he was just a child yelling to get his younger brother’s attention, lowering his voice and promising to play with him won’t help. Malik knows that, and so he continues to yell as though that will make a difference until he trips over one of the bodies strewn across the floor and his breath catches in his throat.
It’s only seconds after Malik hits the ground that Kadar all but throws himself down, too, and it’s instinct that forces Malik to kick him in the face just to try and keep him away. The guilt he feels is ridiculous, he knows, but he can’t help it. For everything that’s happening, this is still Kadar’s body, he might not be acting the part of Kadar, but the appearance alone is enough to make Malik all to reluctant to fight back. Wasn’t it only a short while ago—maybe not even an hour ago—that he was trying to convince himself that Kadar was taking a nap instead of what he knew to be the truth? It was—it was barely an hour ago, if that, and now he may very well be forced to re-kill his own brother.
There’s a lump in his throat that refuses to go down no matter how hard he swallows and the burning in the back of his eyes won’t go away no matter how much he blinks. It feels like there’s a brink in his chest replacing his heart and his breathing comes out in short gasps despite his best efforts to stay calm. He knows what he has to do and for the first time since before his parents’ deaths, he is about to cry.
The next sequence of events happens in a blur. It feels as though it takes forever, as though his movements are being slowed down by some invisible force, but Malik knows that isn’t the case. Time hasn’t slowed down and neither has he. Malik gets up from his place on the floor and in the time it takes Kadar to get to his feet Malik devices a plan—one to get this over with quickly and one that will hopefully cause the least amount of pain. He lets Kadar grab at him, but Kadar is clumsy like this, clumsier than he ever was in life, and he falls over when Malik backs away slightly from his outstretched hand. It’s a risky move, but Malik catches him, holds his face away enough that Kadar can’t bite him and lets his armor do the work of protecting him from scratches.
Another second passes and even that feels like it takes an eternity to go by. He takes a deep breath, tries to force down the lump in his throat by swallowing again, and lets the first few tears escape his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry for so many things. He’s sorry for never letting Kadar be the Assassin when they would play Assassins versus Templars. He’s sorry for nearly abandoning Kadar when they were children trying to find their way to Masyaf. He’s sorry for watching Kadar so closely and making it seem as though he could never fight any of his own battles. He’s sorry for not putting up more of a fight when Al Mualim said that Kadar would be accompanying them on this mission and he’s sorry for putting his sword through Kadar’s head.
Kadar is still now. As still as he was when Malik first laid him down to rest, but unlike that time, Malik isn’t yelling. Malik isn’t trying to convince himself that Kadar is just napping or anything like that. This time, Malik is crying.
He doesn’t think about any of his actions after this. He moves subconsciously, letting his feet and arms do what they want and barely even noticing when he grabs the artifact. He hears the Templars outside, hears them backing and there are orders being shouted, but he doesn’t fully process them. He hears them, but he doesn’t understand what they’re really saying. He doesn’t notice when he gets on his horse, doesn’t notice that he’s arrived at Masyaf until he’s handing the artifact to a nearby informant and walking into Al Mualim’s study.
And then he becomes aware of everything he’s doing. He becomes aware that he’s yelling at Altair, aware of the blame that he’s putting on Altair when all he can think of his how Malik was the one to put the sword through Kadar’s head. Altair left them there, but in the end it was Malik who killed Kadar, not Altair.
And then the next thing he becomes aware of is the pain in his arm. The blinding pain that has him screaming so loudly it’d be a wonder if no one in the castle heard him. The bite on his arm was infected, wouldn’t heal, and the only thing they could do was to rid him of it. He doesn’t care. For the longest time, Malik doesn’t care about his arm. All he cares about is what he did in Solomon’s Temple. All he cares about is that his brother is dead and Malik had a direct part in killing him.
After that Malik doesn’t think of it any more. He pretends it never happened, pretends that the worst thing about Solomon’s Temple was the way Altair acted, like he isn’t disgusted with himself. He puts the blame on Altair even though he doesn’t truly believe that Altair is to blame and he forgives Altair for a crime he doesn’t believe Altair needs forgiveness for because after that—after his arm is amputated and all of the marks from that day heal, Malik pretends that none of it ever happened. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to not put his sword through his own head if he pretends that it never happened, if he pretends to forget about what he did to his little brother.
Malik doesn’t think of any of this until months later; months later when the nine Templars and Al Mualim are all dead and Altair has been named the Order’s Grand Master. He’d had a nagging suspicion that it was the Apple—the artifact they’d been sent to claim—that was behind everything; behind the terrified screams of the Templars, behind the dead rising, and Kadar attacking him and the actions he was forced to take immediately after. If it could create illusions, if it could control men’s minds, why couldn’t it also control the dead?
Unfortunately, Altair was not aware of this. Altair didn’t know what Malik had seen in Solomon’s Temple and so it was easy for him to fall under the Apple’s spell.
“You should get rid of that thing, Altair. I doubt it will do us any good. I would think, after everything, that you would have realized that.”
“You saw the same thing I did, Malik. I can’t get rid of it. Before I had meant to destroy it, to get rid of the cause of all the trouble we’ve been through recently, but not now. It has too much to teach us, to show us.”
“It will teach you how to bring about your own destruction.”
Malik clenches and unclenches his fist. After everything that has happened, how could Altair not see that no good could come from keeping that thing around? It was the Apple which brought their Master to ruin, it was the Apple that cost Malik his arm, it was the Apple that cost Malik his life and turned him into that—that thing. If it weren’t for the Apple none of this would have ever happened (part of him thinks that that includes their newly repaired friendship, but he’s lost too much because of that damned thing to think even that is worth keeping it around). But how could Altair see what he’s talking about? He wasn’t in Solomon’s Temple to see the dead turn into monsters. He wasn’t there to see how it forced him to put a sword through his brother’s head. If he’d been there, he’d know.
“Malik, you saw—“
“I have seen more than you think, Altair. You have not seen what that thing will do to a man.”
Altair finally looks away from the Apple and to Malik, expecting him to go on and explain what it is that Malik had seen that Altair hadn’t, but now he isn’t sure he wants to. Just thinking of what had happened without recalling the details made him sick, but having to explain it? Malik has never considered himself to be weak of stomach or mind, but to even think of having to explain the details of all that had happened in Solomon’s Temple makes his stomach churn and his mind want to stop all thoughts completely so that nothing could bring back those memories. Malik hadn’t simply lost his brother that day, he had to kill him—he had to kill his last remaining family member, the one person that meant more to him than anyone else in the world.
“Do what you want with it, but do not come to me when you are forced to suffer the consequences of keeping it around.”
He turns and walks out of the room without looking back. He doesn’t want to see Altair turn his attention back to the Apple, doesn’t want to see how he’s already so taken with it. His words are a lie, of course. If Malik has his way, Altair won’t have to go to Malik when he’s forced to suffer the consequences because he intends to do everything he can to keep those consequences from ever happening. The things Malik saw, what he had to do—he can’t leave Altair to suffer those things, can’t leave him to possibly become one of those things.