Reffed all to hell, again. There will also be Dean’s necklace at some point. God, I suck so hard at digital paint, it’s not even funny.

Just the base layer for now, and I’m posting it because I doubt I’ll ever have the patience to actually finish it. Oh well.

… I need practice, man, this is sad.

Do remember to customize your fonts and such before you save as template, cause those’ll follow and much simplify the creation of new projects.

There is nothing he can do about the hatred he knows is simmering behind Malik’s eyes; he knows it now as surely as he knows his own name. He has tried before, foolishly, to apologize. It seems absurd now to think he has ever believed an apology would be enough; he no longer tries to utter the words.

Silence always seems best these days, an easy way to avoid the Dai’s sharp tongue and so Altaïr lays arched against the embroidered silk of the pillows, struggling to stifle his growls. Malik’s fingers dig into his throat painfully, constricting tightly around his neck with every sharp jab of the Dai’s hips against him. The slick glide of the man’s flesh within him rakes pain across his nerves; and while it is just as crushing as the sharp bite of the Dai’s tongue, this at least he can shrug off when he limps back outside with the rising sun if he ignores the sting of his bruises.

Malik’s gaze is hard and unflinching, his hand choking and unyielding, and Altaïr forces himself to look up at the man, endure the sight of the maimed arm and scarred shoulder even as Malik shatters above him with a shudder and a strangled moan. His throat constricts unpleasantly, although the Dai has by now released him. Altaïr cannot reach for the man’s shoulder as he slumps over him slightly to catch his breath; his touch would be neither desired nor tolerated. But Malik’s gaze has softened with his release, and he does not hurry to withdraw.

There is little actual contact between them, but Malik remains near until his breathing has calmed, until his trembling has stilled. Altaïr drinks in the sight of the man until the fire slowly returns to his eyes and the Dai sneers down at him, pushing himself up off of him hurriedly. There are words now, heated and hateful, but Altaïr barely hears them; for a moment, the past had seemed little more than a bad memory.

For a moment, he had felt forgiven.

And I’m the one you can never trust
‘Cause wounds are ways to reveal us

He can’t help but return; as he fights his way down his list of nine, he makes his way back to Jerusalem every chance he gets, like a beaten dog to its master. Malik is always there when he jumps down, sometimes silent and working, sometimes turning to him angrily at the first hint of his boots against the pale stone tiles.

Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away
Where innocences burn in flames
A million mile from home, I’m walking ahead
I’m frozen to the bones, I am

The fortress is busy with rampant chaos and panic around him as Altaïr steps out through a low, arched door at the side of the upper battlements. Below him, spread out over the valley, a large body of men is massing, and the noise and din of the army over the plains reaches his ears as a growing buzz.

He blinks numbly down at the massed ranks, letting his gaze float over the grey, shapeless throng of men; they are all the same to him from this distance, faceless, anonymous, impossible to hate. He wants to see their faces, to look into their eyes and see his own scorn and hatred reflected back at him. He wants to release this helpless feeling that is tearing him apart.

The army has been sieging Masyaf for days and no one had expected that first, furious strike against the fortress. Altaïr stands with his back bowed stiffly, resting his arms against the ramparts, his eyes cold and hard as he fights to keep his breathing steady, to keep from breaking, again. He hears Maria approach with soft, hesitant steps behind him, and a faint, worried whimper tells him that Saqr, his youngest son, is standing with her. He cannot turn to face her, staring unseeing at the army.

“I cannot stay here, Maria,” he voices into the still, cold air, glancing up briefly at the darkening skies. His heart is breaking, has been breaking for -days-, and the slow torture is killing him, destroying whatever is left of him. “I am walking out to meet them.”

Altaïr slowly turns to her, and she is staring wide-eyed at him, clutching their son’s shoulders as the boy clings to her legs, staring worriedly between both of them. “You cannot do this, Altaïr.” Her voice is shaky and strangled, caught somewhere between anger and grief. “You -cannot- do this! They will destroy you and you know it. Even with the Apple, even you, cannot face this alone.” She steps closer, her heart-shaped face twisting into an angry, ugly sneer; there are dark circles under her eyes and Altaïr has to remind himself that she too has been grieving, for the one son they have already lost during that first mad rush when the army struck in the night, a mere two days ago.

“It will give both you and Saqr, and the rest of the men, a chance to escape, Maria.” His voice is strangled and close to cracking as he speaks; he has not eaten since the attack and he is exhausted, barely able to stand on his own two feet without collapsing, his own pain almost too much to bear. “We cannot risk another sortie; they could stand this siege for months. You know this.”

There is a long pause before Maria finally disentangles herself from their son, who stands there mutely, a tearful, uncertain look on his young face.

“You are not doing this for us, you selfish bastard!” She steps closer and now there are tears falling freely down her stained cheeks. “He is -dead-, Altaïr, and this will not bring him back. You are a coward, if you cannot face this. -I- am still here. Your son is still here!”

Altaïr shakes his head, once, his face blank and slack, before turning away. He cannot match her outburst, cannot -feel- anything beyond his own grief. And he knows she is right, could not argue with her and cannot stand that look of betrayed anger on her face. “Sound the call for the men to retreat. Take the pass up through the mountains behind the fortress.”

He walks then, away from them both, ducking back inside the dark corridors and pausing briefly, turning to her, burning the contours of her face to memory. “This is all I can give you, now.”

A soldier on my own, I don’t know the way
I’m riding up the heights of shame
I’m waiting for the call, the hand on the chest
I’m ready for the fight, and fate

Altaïr’s feet take him down past his study and through darkened halls. He passes several opened doors, making his way through the empty corridors slowly, forcing his steps to remain even and steady. Behind each door lie the bodies of those lost in the attack and the following attempted raids to cut off the Templar army’s supply routes. Men, women and children, shrouded and waiting for an opportunity to be buried. He ignores each door until he reaches one which is already painfully familiar.

He cannot stand to step inside, cannot survive seeing him like this again, but his feet move him towards the door nonetheless and he opens it with shaking hands, stepping into the darkness. The smell of death is strong, assaults him, burns into his nose and mouth until he can no longer breathe. Altaïr moves further inside, reaches one small cot and all but crumbles to his knees.

His hand shakes as he reaches up to pull the linen slowly off the body that rests on the cot and a strangled, choked sob escapes him. He stares, blinking away helpless tears, at Malik’s whitened, slack face. He had thought all his tears dried but there are more, and they fall down his cheeks despite his mad attempts at controlling them. The Dai’s skin is sallow and tight over his cheeks, his hair mussed and tangled, faint traces of blood still caked at the corners of his lips.

Altaïr slowly stands and sits on the edge of the cot, Malik’s body cold and unyielding against his hip, and leans down to rest his forehead against the man’s chest, hands turning white-knuckled and clawed as he clutches the thin linen still draped over dead flesh. He cries, in great, wracking sobs, until his tears run dry and nothing is left of him but grief.

The sound of iron shocks is stuck in my head,
The thunder of the drums dictates
The rhythm of the falls, the number of deaths
The rising of the horns, ahead

The sentries posted at the gate turn to him slowly; Altaïr ignores them and steps around them, dropping a hand on the shoulder of the man closest to him. “The alarm will sound soon. You should be ready to leave; follow my… follow Maria. She will lead you all into the mountains.”

The man–he is young, so young–turns a worried face towards him, hesitating. “Where are you going, master? … Master?”

Altaïr walks past him, squeezing his shoulder briefly. His white robes feel strange and unfamiliar over his skin but the weight of the belts and weapons slung over him is reassuring and his steps lighten as he walks under the arch of the fortress and leaves Masyaf behind. He shakes his head, unable to answer the men’s questioning calls as their voices rise in alarm.

He can no longer trust his voice to speak, his mind lost in that dark room where Malik rests, but his steps gain confidence as he walks down the twisting path and reaches the ridge of cliff that looks down onto the plains below. The army comes into view, massive, threatening and impossible to overcome. Altaïr’s heart beats a slow, even rhythm in his chest; there is nothing else he can do now but this, and he raises his hands, tightens the buckles on both of his bracers and steps over the edge of the low cliff, landing in a crouch at the edge of the plains.

He straightens slowly, the wind picks up his robes and they fly around him. The army waits and he walks, walks to meet whatever fate he can now find, that leads away from Masyaf, away from that darkened room and the sight of Malik’s skin stretched tight over deadened flesh.

From the dawn of time to the end of days
I will have to run, away
I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste
Of the blood on my lips, again

A voice rises over the throng, jeering; the Templar leader sits up on his horse, barking at him in rapid French which Altaïr almost cannot be bothered to decipher.

“Un seul d’entre vous a le courage de se montrer le nez, assassin? Es-tu venu pour négocier les termes de votre capitulation?” The man, a hulking beast with a scar disfiguring his face from forehead to chin, walks his horse forward, reining the beast in a few dozen feet from Altaïr while the soldiers closest to him approach, the jingle of their armour ringing loudly in his ears.

“No.” He glances up, meets the Templar’s eyes, his face blank and empty under his hood as the wind dances around them both. The horse is nervous, smells the death that sticks to his robes, rears as the man sitting atop its back pulls back hard against the reins. Altaïr feels the eyes of the soldiers on him and he slowly draws his sword, steps closer and stands, his blade pointing at the ground. “No surrender.”

Another jeering sneer and a gauntleted hand rises into the darkened sky. “Then you will die.” The Templar’s hand drops and men rush at him. Finally, blissfully, Altaïr raises his sword to meet steel, ducking under the first soldier’s blade and turning as he slices his sword across the man’s unprotected neck.

He dances now, swirling amidst a slowly tightening circle of men. His blade finds flesh between armoured plates, nicks past defences and slices through leather and skin. The dance is a relief, his mind empty as he fights, ducking under their guard to deal death and pain. The men who fall around him slow the progress of others behind him and soon the soldiers are hesitating.

Altaïr sees nothing but red, feels nothing but the slick glide of his sword into flesh. A man steps too close, and his eyes are wide as he realizes his mistake; his stance is loose and clumsy. Altaïr turns to him, raising his blade, lips turned up in a slight snarl. Another Templar steps closer, brings a heavy mace down over his blade and it goes tumbling out of his grasp onto the rocky ground. He raises his head, staring at the first man’s widened eyes, anger and hatred surging through him.

There is no time now for anything but movement, no time for thought, and Altaïr reaches for the short blade at his back and lunges at the frightened man, the blade singing through the Templar’s neck in a rush of splattering red which does nothing to soften his grief. More men rush him as the man falls dead at his feet. The circle tightens and Altaïr’s movements quicken, an edge of despair sneaking into each strike. A blade snakes past his guard and slashes painfully at his thigh, another stabs into his side, cutting a deep gash into his flesh, staining his robes a deep, dark red.

Finally he turns, meets a soldier’s blade with his own and stumbles back; when he straightens up there is another man lunging at him, swinging a heavy longsword against his guard. His blade shatters as he crumbles to his knees. The man’s momentum carries him forward and Altaïr raises his left hand and slams his hidden blade into the Templar’s unprotected hip, standing up with a grunt and forcing his blade up through flesh and leather until he can pull it out of the man’s chest.

A sharp, blaring sound pierces through his ragged breathing and the noise of his blood thrumming in his ears. Altaïr turns, glances up at the fortress and nods to himself. The Templar leader urges his horse closer, following Altaïr’s gaze before turning back to him and sliding off the horse’s saddle, approaching him with a maddened, angry glint in his eyes. Altaïr stands his ground, but he knows it is pointless now; the fortress has been emptied and he is exhausted, bleeding from half a dozen wounds.

When a gauntleted hand strikes across his face he does nothing to block the blow. It sends him reeling to the ground, a sharp gasp of pain exploding from his parched throat. There is blood and sand in his mouth, gritting and thick. But he laughs, pushing himself up from the ground slowly, reaching up to wipe bloody spittle from his chin. Masyaf is little more than a dark shadow in the darkening sky now; he can no longer see its contours as he draws himself up onto his knees, turning to stare at the Templar leader as the man stalks towards him, unsheathing a long broadsword.

Altaïr’s laugh grows darker and strangled; he reaches down, fumbles with numb fingers into the pouch at his side and pulls out the Apple, its light casting a strange, flickering glow over the circle of men pressing close around him.

“Masyaf has been emptied.” His voice is dead and he forces his ragged breathing to slow as he raises his hand, uncurling his fingers from the Apple slowly. The glow rises, pulses, flares, and a look of shocked fear crosses the Templar’s face.

“Espèce de vil chien sans courage! Tu mourras avec le reste de mon armée, assassin.”

Altaïr laughs, lets the Apple’s strange, numbing light flow over and into him, and nods. “Yes, I will.”

The burst, when it finally comes, is soundless and massive. The Apple discharges in Altaïr’s hand and engulfs half the valley in rush of white, swirling light. He feels pain only briefly, as the power surges through him, and Malik’s voice rings in his ears when his eyes finally close.

“Safety and peace, brother.”

The steady burst of snow is burning my hands,
I’m frozen to the bones, I am
A million mile from home, I’m walking away
I can’t remind your eyes, your face

The valley is decimated and empty when Maria finally manages to make her way down from the mountain and back into Masyaf; what remains of the army is occupying the fortress and she cannot linger long. There are a few men with her as she steps into the valley but she ignores them, walking forward until she reaches the circle of men slumped dead around her husband’s body.

Half the army lies in waste around him, torn and destroyed when the Apple’s power was released into them. The Templar leader’s body is mangled, an unrecognizable mess of flesh and bones and Maria averts her gaze, kneeling slowly down next to Altaïr’s body. He seems almost restful, sprawled on his back where the power has pushed him from his knees. There is a strange half smile curling on his scarred, cold lips and his eyes stare unseeing at the sky.

She cannot cry for him; he was already dead and lost days before, and lost to -her- before she had even met him. Maria leans closer, brushes her lips against his and reaches up to slowly force his eyes closed. When she finally gets to her feet, she has to force herself not to shake; she turns back towards her own men, dismissing their concerned glances with a stiff wave of her hand.

“He no longer has the Apple,” she says, and her voice is as steady as she can manage it.

“… His body?”

Maria turns back, stares at the army lying in ruins around her husband’s body. “Leave it. This… is the burial he would have wanted.”

I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste
Of the blood on my lips, again

The halls of the ancient fortress are empty and desolate, the stones crumbling to dust in places, discarded weapons littering the floor. Ezio had not thought he would fight so hard and so long to rid this ancient place of Templars. He is exhausted, worn and tired but he follows the ghostly figure through the corridors, tilting his head as the white shape of his ancestor turns briefly towards him when it reaches the edge of a long, narrow passage and ducks under the door. Ezio follows, his steps mirroring the ghostly figure’s, tilting his head when he reaches the room beyond.

The large, stained-glassed window is broken and destroyed, the desk rotten and crumbling, but he recognizes the place as Altaïr’s study. Ezio walks towards the desk, stepping over and up onto the raised platform. The shelves around the alcove are piled high with scrolls and books, most of them too rotten or cracked to be read. He raises a hand up and pushes his hood back, stepping closer to briefly run his fingers over the spines of some of the more solid volumes.

Movement makes him turn again; he catches a glimpse of white robes at the edge of his vision and when his eyes fall back on the ancient desk, it’s no longer rotting and broken. The wood is rich and dark and Altaïr is standing there before him. The ancient fortress seems healthy and vivid again as Ezio stares, crumbling stone giving way to strong pillars, the cold light from the window slowly turning warm and brightly tinted as it falls through intact coloured glass. A faint smile is tugging at Altaïr’s scarred lips and Ezio answers it with one of his own.

“Thank you,” the man says, nodding his head at him. Another burst of movement forces Ezio’s head to the side and he stares as another man approaches, dressed in dark robes that contrast strangely with Altaïr’s pale shape. Ezio doesn’t recognize this dark stranger but the man approaches Altaïr with the easy grace of long familiarity, wrapping his single arm low around the assassin’s waist and shooting Ezio a wry grin which doesn’t quite reach his eyes. This newcomer’s face is sharp and dark, brows heavy and apparently perpetually furrowed.

But Altaïr seems not to notice a dark mood in the other man, leaning into the other’s touch with a soft sigh that surprises Ezio. The white shape of his ancestor reaches out and tugs the other man firmly closer, embracing him tightly and Ezio has to turn his face away; there is something altogether too private there, too raw, that he doesn’t quite want to witness. He hears the rustle of cloth and when he turns back the contours of the study are dimming again, the stone turning back to the dim grey it was before, the window shimmering faintly before the glass disappears and the light filters through, pale and washed again.

He sees two figures locked together, leaning against the ruins of a desk which is no longer standing, moving as one as hands ghost over and under robes which he can barely discern as they both fade. Ezio smiles, looks up again at the destroyed window. Below, he can see the craggy shape of the mountains around the fortress; the wind rustles through the broken glass, picks up dust and swirls it around the darkened room.

When he turns to leave the two shapes have completely disappeared but the desolate, empty halls no longer seem to reek of death and pain. He makes his torturous way slowly out of the fortress and back outside, pausing to turn his collar up against the wind and pull his hood back over his head. Masyaf lies behind him now and he walks down the mountain path, starting the long trek back home with a relieved sigh.

Everything should be pretty well moved by now; if you find any broken links, feel free to report them.

Curious about the new host? Feel free to saunter over to sharkspace.com to give them a once over.

There was a long, drawn-out pause as Sephiroth collected his thoughts. His anger, having flared at the mention of Hojo, was slowly dissipating, replaced with a growing sense of inevitability; he had always suspected himself of being capable of the worst monstrosities, had always known that, eventually, the carefully constructed walls he had built against his own rage would crumble. It had simply never occurred to him that Hojo’s forceful meddling could send him spiralling out of control. His one small lapse in concentration and self-control had destroyed Nibelheim and turned him into the most destructive force their planet had ever known.

He slowly unclenched his fist and felt a sudden, warm gush of blood drip from his opened hand. It was a small comfort to feel that warmth; with everything he now knew about himself, blood was a strangely comforting familiarity. He had half expected the green glow of mako to mock him, to seep out of his wounds like so much dark poison. He raised his eyes from his hand to find Zack staring at him nervously, with that slightly worried look still on his face.

Sephiroth grimaced and shook his hand out at his side, splattering the floor with little drops and streaks of blood; the tiny wounds his nails had dug into his flesh were already closing.

Zack’s eyes followed his hand before traveling back to his face. “I want to ask you how you’re feeling, Seph, but with everything you’ve just learned, I can’t even begin to imagine how you could answer that question.”

The former general sighed, taking a moment to drag his uninjured hand through his hair before allowing his fingers to settle over the bridge of his nose. He found it difficult now to meet Zack’s gaze. “The file states that it was Strife who stopped me. You knew him, before all this?”

Zack shrugged, and Sephiroth felt the relief radiating from the younger man. Sephiroth couldn’t blame him; in the face of all that he had learned, the young cadet’s involvement seemed to be an easy topic to discuss.

“Well, you know how it was in those days; the kid got dragged into the ranks for entirely the wrong reasons. I just thought he might appreciate a friendly face, you know? That’s how it started anyway; Cloud’s personality is a little addictive, I guess.” Zack shot him a lopsided grin. “He was just so carefree, it was hard to stay away. Guess he took to me as well, despite the difference in ranks. Why d’you ask?”

Sephiroth shook his head. “You said it yourself, Zachary; he didn’t belong in the army. He was ill-suited to the mindset and unused to combat. Care to explain how he managed, apparently without help…” Sephiroth stopped and picked up the file again, rifling through it swiftly. An unpleasant little sneer escaped him as he read. “To throw me into the reactor core at Nibelheim, it seems. And then again, later on, to best me in single combat, twice.”

Zack’s grin faded as Sephiroth spoke. “How do you know so much about him? I’m pretty sure I only mentioned him in passing.”

Sephiroth’s heart leapt in his throat for a full second as he realized he’d divulged too much information; in his haste to get away from the subject of Hojo and ShinRa, he’d forgotten how Zack tended to focus on the small details. Damn. You’re still an observant little tit, aren’t you? Outwardly, he shrugged, keeping his face carefully neutral. “I saw him following you around and checked up on his files since he didn’t seem to fit the standard for cadets. I was right, apparently; his instructors had few compliments to write about him.”

“A lot’s happened to him, man. Don’t be an ass about this. Cloud has got a lot more nerve than most people give him credit for and he’s strong as hell.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow at his friend. Zack waved his unspoken comment away. “Not just strong, physically. I mean, he is, obviously, otherwise you would’ve kicked seven kinds of shit out of him. He’s just a lot more tenacious than a lot of folks, is all I’m saying.”

“… Tenacious?”

“Yeah,” Zack countered.

There was another uncomfortable silence, during which Sephiroth kept his eyes trained on the younger man. “You’re full of shit, lieutenant.”

Zack almost laughed. “Sorry man, that’s all I can say; it’s all I know from what he’s told me. If you want a better answer, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Ask him yourself. Sounds easy enough, Sephiroth thought. “I got the distinct impression that Strife would have preferred to be anywhere but here in the lab, Fair. I don’t believe a conversation with him would be pleasant.”

Zack shrugged. “Who said any of this would be easy?”

Sephiroth stood angrily and slapped the folder back down on the desk next to Zack, who jumped slightly and had the decency to look sheepish about it. “If all you’ve told me is true, Zachary, then why on Gaia am I even here? I was already dead and gone, and it seems the world must have been a better place for it,” he snarled.

Zack’s face was calm, his eyes betraying nothing. “That’s another question I can’t answer directly, Seph. I’m just along for the ride because Cloud asked for my help.”

“You can’t possibly be suggesting that this was all his idea.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Fine,” he huffed, picking up the folder again. “I’ll talk to Strife.”

“He’s in Hollcomb’s office, it’s just down the hall,” Zack said, suddenly chipper again. The black-haired man jumped off the desk and gingerly slapped Sephiroth’s shoulder. “Hey, the old band’s getting back together, eh? I’ll walk you there.”

He followed Zack out, noting with a hint of trepidation that Zack’s shoulders and back were rigid with tension, even as he chatted with the nurses and military personnel on the way out into the hallway. Sephiroth dumped the folder unto a nearby steel table as he walked past it.

* * *

Cloud awoke from blissfully dreamless sleep to find himself slouched against the smooth mahogany of Hollcomb’s desk, his head pillowed against his arms. He blinked his eyes slowly as they adjusted to the gloom; he couldn’t remember turning the lights off but the office was lit only from the slight sliver of artificial light that filtered through under the door. The blond raised his head painfully and felt his tendons and muscles scream in protest. He pushed himself up off the desk and raked a hand through his hair sluggishly. He probably hadn’t slept for very long, because he still felt exhausted, with the added bonus that his shoulders and back were now raking their own versions of hellish pain across his nerves.

Sighing, he got up and took a few wobbly steps towards the door before freezing completely; as he’d got to his feet he’d felt something brush past him, a dim sense of a presence nearby. Narrowing his eyes, willing himself to see clearly in the dim light, he swiftly surveyed the room. Hollcomb’s empty office, furnished with its narrow desk and overflowing shelves, seemed darkly sinister in the gloom. Heart beating erratically, he scanned the darkness nervously once more before turning back to the door with another sigh.

“Looking for something, Cloud?”

The blond’s breath caught in his throat, a smooth and tremulous hiss that sounded ridiculously loud in the quiet room. Sephiroth’s voice had come from directly behind him and Cloud forced himself to turn around nonchalantly.

“How the hell d’you get in here?”

The silver-haired man shrugged, and the slightest ghost of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. Cloud’s heart fluttered and he forced himself to scowl at Sephiroth.

“The door wasn’t locked.”

Which was in no way an explanation for the fact that the blond hadn’t seen him when he’d peered through the gloom or why the man had simply been waiting there in the dark. He shot the taller man a tired, dismissive look, forcing every single bit of impatience he could behind his expression. “Right. Have you spoken with Zack?”

Another nonchalant shrug was his only answer and Sephiroth’s smile grew slightly wider, curling and twisting its way treacherously through Cloud’s rampant thoughts and straight to his groin. This is… definitely not good. What are you, sixteen? Get a grip on yourself!

“Zack is unimportant.”

Cloud froze, cursing the darkness; Sephiroth had moved slightly to his left and into a dim pool of light. The shadows that flowed across his handsome face turned it harsh and threatening, all sharp angles and glowing green. He stared at Cloud now, awaiting a reaction.

“What?”

“Zack doesn’t matter. Your little rebel friends don’t matter. Reeve certainly doesn’t matter and neither does his little neo-company,” Sephiroth intoned, walking outside the light to Cloud’s left. The blond jumped when he felt a hand brush against his shoulder and then the silver-haired man was standing right behind him.

Sephiroth’s hands travelled up both of the blond’s arms to rest lightly on his shoulders and Cloud struggled to maintain his facade of detached anger. He tensed, opened his mouth to protest and prepared to whirl around and push the other man back when Sephiroth leaned in and continued, breath rushing out in a soft caress against Cloud’s ear.

“But you, Cloud, matter very much.”

It was little more than a soft, whispered hiss, barely audible over his wildly beating heart. He was frozen, unable to think, to concentrate, to move, as the silver-haired man chuckled softly behind him. He felt one of Sephiroth’s hands leave his shoulder to cup his chin, fingers splaying against his throat, and he closed his eyes, unable now to even breathe.

Another breathless chuckle against his neck forced a shiver through him and he struggled to regain control of the situation before everything went to hell. Sephiroth’s presence was devastating; it filled his entire world, forced the air from his lungs and left him reeling and dizzy. He had to get out of here. He twisted his head slightly to jerk it out of the man’s grasp but Sephiroth reacted with lightning speed, squeezing his hand around his throat and dragging his chin firmly back into place.

Cloud’s heart lurched as his stomach twisted in violent fear. He raised his arms to the hand that was wrapped around his throat and tried to pry the man’s fingers off. No sooner had he moved that another shock sent him reeling and he probably would have stumbled to his knees had Sephiroth not been supporting him.

The silver-haired man pulled Cloud’s head further to the side and ran a hot, moist tongue up the side of the blond’s neck all the way up to his jawline, where he nibbled slightly before withdrawing.

Cloud couldn’t have stopped the moan that wormed its way from deep in his throat and past his treacherous lips if his life had depended on it. The man’s touches were liquid fire against his flesh and he found himself pressing backwards against the other’s taller frame almost involuntarily; he doubted if he could manage to stand on his own without fluttering like a leaf. He couldn’t clear his eyes or focus his gaze. Behind him he heard, and felt, as Sephiroth sighed and shook his head.

“Everything I’ve done, Cloud, has been for you.”

Of course that pierced through the thick haze of lust that he was floating in. He struggled to clear his head. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Everything… You wanted to follow me out of Midgar, Cloud, and I took you away. You wanted to be scared of me, you wanted to hate me and so I made myself a great threat to you and everything you loved. I left destroyed creatures and burned memories for you to find and revisit.”

Cloud shook his head slightly, disbelieving. He struggled now against Sephiroth, but the man held tight.

“You wanted to be rid of the girl, Cloud, because she complicated things,” he continued, voice now turning accusatory. “I took care of that for you, Cloud. You wanted to be left alone, so I made them fear you; I made you a puppet and a tool. You wanted Tifa to stop chasing after you, and I made myself hard to forget.”

There was a pause, and Sephiroth’s voice was vicious when he spoke next. “You wanted to be alive again, to fight for something again, so I came back for you, Cloud. I’ve given you everything you’ve ever wanted… Everything!”

Cloud desperately fought to struggle out of the man’s grasp. He was spun furiously around and pushed back roughly until his thighs slammed against the edge of Hollcomb’s desk. Meeting Sephiroth’s gaze was like a slap to the face; the man’s features were angry and sharp, his eyes narrowed and pupils dilated. He held both of Cloud’s struggling hands in his own and leaned closer.

“You will give me this in return, Cloud.”

And Sephiroth’s lips came crashing down against Cloud’s in a kiss that buckled his knees. Panic ignited within the blond in a thunderous wave. No, no, no, no, no, NO! Not like this. Never like this! He pushed against the older man, snarling, and struggled to free his trapped hands. Sephiroth pulled back with a smirk; there was a sort of twisted laughter dancing in his eyes, and as Cloud shoved, hard, against Sephiroth’s weight, he simply released one of the blond’s wrist and back-handed him with the flat of his hand.

Cloud’s head flew to the side and he crumpled against the desk, raising a trembling hand to his cheek. He made the mistake of checking for blood, eyes leaving the silver-haired man for slightly less than a second. When he looked up, the edge of Masamune came to rest against his exposed neck and he froze, his right hand instinctively traveling halfway to his hip. It was a pointless reaction; he’d left his sword by the door when he’d entered Hollcomb’s office.

“I offered to do this the easy way, Cloud.” Sephiroth offered him a small, twisted smile and a shrug. “You’re just so damned difficult to please.”

Pinned in an awkward crouch, the blade pressing against the tender skin of his neck, Cloud could only glare up at the man. “What the hell have you done with Zack? He would never have let you out of that lab. Not like this.”

Sephiroth met his glare coldly. A slight frown creased his forehead and he sneered at the blond. “You’re not concentrating, Cloud. I said before, Zack is unimportant. What I’m here for…” He paused, and a twisted smile was the only warning the blond got before Sephiroth’s sword arm swung sideways and back to drive the blade deep into Cloud’s shoulder.

His scream was cut short as Sephiroth closed the distance between them and slapped his free hand against the blond’s mouth, using his weight as leverage to drive the blade through Cloud’s flesh and between two of his ribs. When the blade had penetrated through to the wood, Sephiroth gave it a last push until its tip was several inches deep into Hollcomb’s desk, effectively pinning the blond in place.

His hand left Cloud’s mouth and the blond looked up in panic at Sephiroth’s face as the other leaned towards him, smirking.

“What I’m here for, Cloud…” Sephiroth repeated before dipping his head into the hollow of Cloud’s neck, trailing a path of feather-light bites down to his collarbone.

Cloud’s eyes were unfocused and staring, and his breath came in large ragged gasps. The blade in his shoulder was agony, and each intake of breath sent a fresh wave of pain and nausea coursing through him. He felt Sephiroth’s teeth on his neck sharply, felt the weight of the man press down on him as he leaned forward, felt a hand travel down to his shirt and push the material out of the way.

Felt the silver-haired man’s breath against his flesh as the words were breathed out just under his earlobe.

“… Is you, of course.”

The man’s touches sent waves of fire raging against his skin and Cloud bit back a sob of despair at how utterly fucked up he was. He could no more fight the man than fight his own heart, his own lust. Every touch, every brush of Sephiroth’s fingers against his skin pierced through the searing pain of the blade and the throbbing in his jaw. A small part of him wanted to fight, wanted to pull the blade out of his flesh and tear this man to shreds, but it was drowned out by the rushing noise of his heart thrumming in his ears.

He forced his mouth open, willing himself to react, to fight back, to scream, to do something to stop this madness.

There was really nothing he could have said to prevent what was happening, but he was given no chance to speak out. Sephiroth’s grinning face was only a few inches away and then those smirking lips were pressed against his own again, nibbling and teasing and unstoppable.

When he felt a strong hand reach down and snake its way into his pants to grip him in one long, languid stroke, Cloud threw his head back and moaned.

Amidst the swirling green of Sephiroth’s eyes, he surrendered.

* * *

The hallways were no different in this side of the wing and Sephiroth felt a slight sneer tug at his lips; in the design and architecture of this place he could recognize ShinRa’s trademark efficiency although he could now correctly attribute it to Reeve’s Neo-ShinRa corporation. The halls were bare, devoid of any decoration or personality and following Zack through the labyrinthine passages was like a trip back through time for him; the nurses and technicians they encountered did little to clear his already tumultuous thoughts. Turning a corner and coming face to face with a ShinRa scientist had never been easy on his nerves and the actual label on the uniforms felt now like a useless detail.

Here, it seemed, he was surrounded by scientists, weaving through small groups of technicians engaged in whatever task they were currently assigned to. Several people had been busily disassembling a rather intricate piece of machinery in the great hall they had first encountered upon leaving the office. As they walked past the big double doors and into another identical corridor, Sephiroth forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand; if everything he’d just learned was true, then a conversation with Cloud, even under his second in command’s supervision, seemed like an unbelievably bad idea to him.

But Zack was making his way purposefully forward, sending half-smiles and nods to people he recognized, driving them both towards an unseen goal with an air of confidence and an easy grace. If Sephiroth had not known him as well as he did, he might have been reassured; but Zack was tense, the set of his jaw strange and hard, his shoulders rigid, his entire demeanour twitchy and nervous to Sephiroth’s trained eye.

The short walk had taken little more than a few minutes, but it had given him plenty of time to think; there were too many unanswered questions still tumbling angrily through his thoughts, none of which he suspected he would get an answer to today, if Zack’s behaviour was any indication. When the lieutenant stopped in front of an unmarked door, Sephiroth held back a few paces behind him, waiting for his cue.

Zack turned and shot him a grin and a ‘thumbs up’ before knocking sharply twice on the dark oak wood of the door. Then, surprisingly, he turned again and slapped a hand against Sephiroth’s shoulder, pushing him forward slightly. Sephiroth shot the man a questioning glance, but the other simply shrugged.

“I told you, Seph, if you want any more answers, you’ll have to ask Cloud. I’m not about to babysit you two and besides, I gotta go back up to check on Reeve and the rest of the kids.”

A sudden surge of panic flamed within Sephiroth’s chest but he quelled it, settling instead for an angry glare which earned him nothing more than a soft chuckle and another pat on the back. He frowned, watching Zack saunter off back down the corridor. He turned back towards the door, a grim expression set firmly on his face. Bad idea… Definitely one of Zack’s stupidest plans, and that’s saying a lot.

Shaking his head slightly, he reached a hand up to repeat the knock. He needn’t have bothered; as he raised his hand the door opened inwards in one quick motion and he struggled for words as he studied the face of the one man who had ever managed to defeat him.

Cloud stood in the darkened doorway, his blue eyes dark and angry. Nothing in the young man Sephiroth saw there could possibly be related to the cadet he remembered. This Cloud was older, harder and infinitely stranger to him than he would comfortably admit. Whatever hardships he had endured had definitely changed him; he was taller as well, although not quite as tall as Zack and certainly still shorter than him.

For a second, as Sephiroth studied the man, he saw a strange, unreadable expression flicker across the blond’s face briefly; it seemed to flutter by as fast as a heartbeat but settled for a few seconds more in the blue eyes before being smothered by the angry glare. Fear. And something else, but definitely fear. Sephiroth almost sneered at his own stupidity; of course the boy—young man now—would fear him, after everything he had put him through.

“Sephiroth.” The blond’s voice was cold, so very angry and cold that Sephiroth almost turned back to follow Zack out of this damnable lab.

“Strife,” he answered, feeling his own voice grow cold as well. But of course your ego won’t let that slide. How hard would it have been to use the boy’s actual first name, you idiot?

“I suppose Zack told you what happened these past few years?” As Cloud spoke, he kept his eyes trained on the wall behind Sephiroth, glancing only briefly at him, possibly still too angry to acknowledge his presence. The filtered, second hand light in the hallway danced its shadows across the blond’s face and Sephiroth stood in helpless bewilderment, wondering how the world could have changed so much around him. He nodded, feeling strangely conscious now of his bare chest and missing the comforting presence of Masamune at his side. Not that being armed would help much, in this particular case.

“He has.” There was long, drawn out pause, and Sephiroth truly considered backing away from this strange ghost; Cloud’s face was haunted and drawn and exhaustion as well as anger danced across his features. The blond finally gave a heavy sigh and stepped aside to allow him inside the room.

As Sephiroth stepped forward he noticed that the blond kept his back to the wall and turned to follow him, his blue eyes now not leaving him, his posture tense. This room was also bare and undecorated, although it had clearly seen more action than the office he had previously occupied with Zack; it was littered with books and files of all sorts and a jumbled mess on the desk indicated it had been used recently by someone whose idea of efficiency differed greatly from his own.

Cloud’s voice broke through Sephiroth’s thoughts and contemplation, accompanied by the sharp sound of the door closing shut behind him. “I guess you have questions,” the blond stated.

Sephiroth fought a snort and a laugh, nodding his head once. “Questions… I have a few, you might say.”

* * *

Cloud woke up to the sound of knocking and almost stumbled out of his chair in panic. The dim contours of Hollcomb’s office slowly became clear to his confused eyes and he got up quickly, walking to the door automatically before terror seized him again.

The details of the dream floated back to him in a blur and he gave a strangled moan, reaching a hand against the desk to steady himself. He felt dizzy, the room spinning slightly around him, a sort of hushed buzzing in his ears. His face felt flushed and hot, his heart rate quickly escalating as the memory of the imagined encounter replayed itself in his mind.

The images floated past his closed eyelids as he stood there swaying, fighting both a rising blush and a bout of intense nausea; the idea that he had surrendered again, the fact that he had barely fought the silver-haired man, made the bile rise up in the back of his throat. And yet the images would not leave him, taunting him, mocking him.

Cloud’s breath left him in a dangerously wavering laugh, his thoughts grim and angry. Let’s face it, this is all depraved and so very, very wrong. How many times am I supposed to live through those false memories again? None of that happened! I know how it went; I survived him! The panic receded slightly and he repeated the words in his head for a few seconds. I survived him… We all did.

He knew he could fight the man if he had to—he had done it before—yet every dream, not matter how violent or twisted, ended the same way: in complete, utter and above all impossible surrender.

And now he needed restful sleep, could not afford to linger on like this much longer; he could recognize the early warning signs, his body on the verge of exhaustion, his thoughts a jumbled mess. If he didn’t stop this madness soon, he would surely collapse and that was a thought worse than any dream he could conjure up. With Sephiroth here, alive and so close, he could not afford to falter.

Voices came to him from beyond the door, Zack’s smooth tones and a parting laugh that gave him strength. Before he could change his mind, he forced his feet to take him forward, took several deep breaths and opened the door wide.

The swirling green of Sephiroth’s eyes assaulted him almost immediately; the man had been standing right outside, and was poised with a hand outstretched as if to knock again. As Cloud felt his heart race beyond his control, Sephiroth lowered his hand gracefully, his green eyes locking on to him, holding him in place. Cloud’s chest constricted painfully and terror ignited in his chest; he could not, would not meet that gaze. This was the confrontation he had tried to avoid, the conversation he had forced Zack to have in his stead.

He closed his eyes briefly. I can do this… I can do this, I’ve done it before. It’s just one damned conversation. With his eyes closed he could almost imagine he was alone, the silver-haired man nothing more than a difficult memory. But the darkness brought forth memories of its own; images of Nibelheim and blood and pain assaulted him instantly so he forced his eyes open again.

Reality was not much kinder. Sephiroth’s eyes were studying him curiously, raking over his features, searching his face. He forced the fear and the pain down, felt the old walls coming back up; but they were crumbling, so weak and so very close to utter destruction. It’ll have to do. Just let me fight my way through this one conversation. And then I’ll sleep. I’ll have to…

His thoughts a jumbled, incoherent mess, he was almost surprised to hear his voice so steady as he asked the silver-haired man if he had questions. Moving aside to let the other in had taken all of his willpower and he turned to follow the man’s movements. Part of him wanted to flee, to run as fast and as far away from this place, this man, as it could. Another part screamed and blindly wanted to destroy him. And another observed, with a stammering heart and in breathless wonder, the grace of the General’s movements as he turned and surveyed the room.

Cloud had never seen Sephiroth from this close, only glanced from afar, stolen looks in the barracks and training halls. Even without his impressive armour the man commanded attention, exuded grace and a lethal power that Cloud knew he could never, not even now, match. In the dim light the man’s features were both breathtaking and strange, the smooth skin of his bare shoulders and chest unmarred and perfect, his fine silver hair draping down his back and swaying slightly with every graceful step.

A slight laugh shook Sephiroth suddenly and Cloud realized with a start he was laughing at his own question, his inquiry about whether the man had questions of his own. He almost blushed, fought his body and his own stupidity. Idiot blond… Of course he has questions, that’s why he’s here. Wake up!

He forced himself to nod and walked forward to sit on the edge of the desk, shooting Sephiroth a look he hoped would pass for impatience. The other man regarded him calmly, still with that same calculating expression on his features, for a few seconds. And then a look of pure confusion passed across the General’s face and he shook his head slowly before sinking down heavily into a chair right next to Cloud, who could only stare in open-mouthed amazement.

The man now seemed almost as exhausted as he himself felt. It was only another reminder that this Sephiroth was different from the one he’d known and fought before and still the man’s reaction to everything he had learned could only be described as stoic. Cloud found he had a hard time taking it in stride, his addled mind trying to superimpose the image of the bloodthirsty murderer he knew and the man sitting slumped in the chair beside him. The images clashed terribly; Sephiroth’s face, although still somewhat composed, held the hint of a distraught self-hatred and helplessness that sent the blond’s emotions reeling.

As the silver-haired man slunk into the chair he reached a hand up to his face and pressed it heavily against his forehead and Cloud knew, in that moment, that the revelations had shaken him greatly; he had never seen, in all of his cadet days, the General as anything but utterly composed and graceful.

Facing this version of the man was somehow even harder than facing him as a maddened murderer in combat. Images from the files he’d reviewed too many times to count flashed before his eyes—a screaming child in helpless agony—and Cloud felt his body shudder almost imperceptibly.

When Sephiroth finally lifted his head to meet his gaze, Cloud shrank back, unable to keep his posture steady, unable to trust his voice to speak. You’re a fool. A fool to think you could chicken out of this; you brought him here, and it’s your responsibility to ensure that whatever happened before doesn’t happen again. And though the thought was difficult to accept and even more difficult to act upon, Cloud nodded slightly at the other man, urging him to speak his mind.

“You stopped me.” It was more of a statement than anything else, but Cloud nodded again anyway. Sephiroth’s eyes went back to his hands for a few seconds and he flexed his fingers into fists lightly a few times, deep in thought.

“How?”

Cloud started visibly, unsure what to answer. “Wha—What do you mean?”

“How did you stop me, Strife, that first time in Nibelheim? You were only a trooper then and if I understood Zack correctly, even he couldn’t hold his own against me for very long in that reactor core. So tell me, how could a trooper barely out of his teens manage to do what a Soldier First Class could not?” Sephiroth’s voice grew as he talked, slowly regaining some of his old composure. His eyes were now burning into Cloud and the blond shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t know. When I entered the core room you were distracted… I… I suppose I got in a lucky shot.”

A slim silver brow rose elegantly and Cloud forced himself not to look away. “You threw me into the core itself, Strife; I’d hardly call that a single lucky shot.”

Mind racing, Cloud could only shrug slightly, feigning indifference. His heart felt now like it was ready to burst out of his chest; he could not, would not, talk of his own desperation that day, of being ready to die to get back what had been stolen from him. There was no way he could explain how he’d reached through the pain of Masamune embedded in his chest and wrestled himself from the brink of insanity only to be drawn back in as swiftly as Hojo could get his claws into him.

He could especially not explain it to this man.

But he could tell that the General wasn’t buying it; Sephiroth’s eyes were still trained on him, that calculating gaze pinning him in place as surely as Masamune ever could. Now though, Cloud could see beyond his own fears and doubts; as he forced himself to meet that gaze he thought he could recognize a mirror of his own memories of pain shimmering there, in the green.

And then Sephiroth asked the one question he couldn’t give the man an answer to.

“Why, Strife? Why would you even entertain the idea of bringing me back, after everything I’ve done?”

I know. Another one. I’ve been neglecting On Silver Wings like there’s no tomorrow, but I feel so damned far away from the fandom, it’s hard to get back into everyone’s heads. Assassin’s Creed, though, I have no trouble with. Damn you Ubisoft.

Also, anyone else notice how they keep pumping out sequels to the series every goddamned November, reg’lar? That’ll make NaNo easier on the nerves, yeah, staring at an unopened package of delightful Italian assassin…

Anyone want to beta for this? Oh please, anyone? I’ve never really written these two, and I desperately need help. Feel free to spam away with C&C. Putting this up, even in its current state, because I have to get it off my chest before NaNo2010, otherwise I’ll never get it out there.

Assassin’s Creed (1)
Altaïr/Malik
Eventual smut, slightly AU, so new and fresh it’s still dripping wet. Don’t expect updates, especially with November around the corner.

1 – Into Darkness

It always surprises him. No matter how many times he goes through the motions, that first felt impact of his blade ramming home within his victim and the ensuing squirt of blood takes him by surprise. A look of disbelief flashes in the guard’s face as he feels the sharp knife puncture his chest and Altaïr grins slightly, holding on to the man with his free hand and guiding his body gently to the floor.

Around him the city lies blissfully ignorant of the drama that is unfolding on the rooftops. Here, a man lays dying, fighting for a breath he can no longer take and staring into the cold eyes of his murderer. The man fights him even as his life leaves him, tries to push Altaïr’s hand away from his neck. His breath comes now in ragged gurgles, and blood rushes anew against Altaïr’s hand, already slick and greasy with it.

And then, blessedly, he dies.

Altaïr stands, wiping the blood off his hidden blade on the hem of the dead guard’s tunic. Around him, the maimed and dead bodies of several others lie where he has thrown them; his flight through the narrow streets has ended here, in the shadowed rooftop between two larger buildings, and the guards that had been pursuing him for the better part of an hour have now finally succumbed to his blade.

He counts seven dead men as he walks away to the rooftop’s edge. He pauses, takes a moment to look briefly around him before raising a hand to push back his hood; his hair is soaked with sweat and plastered to his head. He is far out of his way—nearly at the edge of the rich district—and he has no choice now, with daylight slowly fading, but to make his way back to the bureau empty-handed.

He will have to wait several days for news of what has happened in the souk to die down before trying to approach his contact again; another delay he doesn’t need, another mistake he can’t afford. It should have been an easy enough task—a simple meeting with an informer known to the bureau to possess knowledge of his mark’s guarded fortress—but the souk where he had been told to meet the man had been peppered with armed guards. He should have known better than to expose himself in such a situation. His informer had thankfully fled in the ensuing chaos, but Altaïr is certain that he will hear of this again. Returning to the bureau now seems like it will only aggravate his current situation, but he has no choice; he is out of throwing knives, out of energy and out of time. The sun is already low on the horizon, and he doesn’t fancy a night of sleeping on the rooftops, not with so many guards out looking for him.

He sighs, pulls his hood over his head once more and starts to make his way back tiredly. It is almost dark by the time he finally hears the chimes that signal the rooftop entrance to the bureau and he almost breathes out a sigh of relief. He clambers over the edge of the last building and lands rather ungracefully onto the edge of the bureau’s roof, then jumps over the latticed entrance and hangs a moment before dropping down, landing with a thud that sounds like thunder in his ears. He cringes inwardly when he hears a quiet voice scoff from the bureau’s library.

“As graceful as usual, I see.” There is a short pause, and Altaïr eventually manages to force his feet to take him into the library.

Malik is sitting behind the desk, hunched over a worn piece of vellum, writing quill forgotten in his hand as he leans his head on his fist. Altaïr tries to return the malevolent stare the other man sends his way, then turns his head to the far wall. He doesn’t trust himself to speak; the last thing he wants is to antagonize the man further.

But it seems Malik doesn’t need his help for that. “The brother you were supposed to meet in the souk has come here and gone, hours ago. A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into!” Malik shakes his head at him, eyes dark, lips pressed into a thin line, disgust evident in his voice.

“Safety and piece, br—”

“Don’t,” Malik interrupts. “Your attitude makes a mockery of those words, and we both know I will not return the greeting.” The man drops his hand back onto the desk and lays the quill next to the parchment. “Since you’ve thoroughly botched what should have been a simple task, and since we now have to wait before you can act again, I suggest you find something to do to keep yourself entertained.”

There is a long pause, and Altaïr nods into the silence.

“Find yourself something useful to do, mind, and preferably somewhere a long way from my bureau.”

“As you wish, brother.”

Another quiet scoff accompanies Malik’s sneer and Altaïr makes his way back outside to rest on the cushions in the bureau’s entrance. As he leaves the library, Malik’s voice rings out once again, dripping with venom.

“Don’t come back here again until you have something of value to offer to this mission, Altaïr.”

He nods, even though he knows Malik can’t see him now. He is angry; angry at Malik for daring to disobey the creed—the man has no right to refuse a brother asylum, no matter how much he may despise him—for his spite, angry at the guards for having chosen such an inopportune moment to chase him, angry at the informant who couldn’t keep the guards off his tail, but mostly, angry at himself. He can feel a sharp pain developing against his right side with every breath now that his flight is truly over; a glancing blow must have caught him during the fight. In the chaos following the mess he had made of his meeting with the informer, he hadn’t even noticed.

Two months ago, he would have shrugged the wound off as a mere stroke of bad luck and marched right back into the fray.

Two months ago he would have savagely fought back against Malik’s verbal insults.

Now, with his pride, his rank and his life in tatters around him, he can only nod and swallow back his guilt and his pain, in the hope that, somehow, he can regain his position as beloved of the brotherhood and as friend to the man who now hates him.

* * *

Malik hears Altaïr’s ungraceful return and pauses in his work, putting aside the map he has been working on since the young informer has returned with news of what had happened in the souk.

The young man’s excited report had left him breathless and angry, a now familiar hatred flaring within him as he had heard that Altaïr had, once again, made of spectacle of the brotherhood. He had shooed the novice away after hearing his full story, then gone back to his own work. Waiting for the assassin’s return has not improved his mood.

He forces his voice not to betray any emotion as he calls out to the assassin, but his words, unbidden, come out taunting and angry all the same.

“As graceful as usual, I see.”

Malik stares at the darkened doorway, shaking his head slightly at his own immaturity. It his duty as this city’s rafik to help any assassin that drops through the gate. Having accepted the position after having been robed of his arm, he had vowed to make the best of it; he had simply not anticipated how excruciatingly difficult it would be to deal with the other man.

When Altaïr finally steps through the doorway into Malik’s private rooms, his already frayed nerves force his voice to raise by several degrees. Malik is surprised at the amount of scorn he hears in his own words. As he stares at the other man, his cowl, robes and belt proudly bearing the marks and colours of the brotherhood, the image of his brother burns briefly before his eyes, then is gone.

“The brother you were supposed to meet in the souk has come here and gone, hours ago. A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into!”

He sees Altaïr flinch, an almost imperceptible twitch under the cowl of his hood. “Safety and piece, br—”

Malik’s eyes narrow dangerously, and he forces the words through a knot in his throat and belly. “Your attitude makes a mockery of those words, and we both know I will not return the greeting.”

The stump of his arm itches furiously, and he drops his quill to force his remaining hand not to shake. He throws another insult at the man, halfway hoping for a confrontation, an angry glare in return for his own, anything to betray the character of the man he once knew. He gets nothing for his trouble. If anything, Altaïr looks even more dejected than he did before, and Malik is surprised, and slightly ashamed, at the small flame of pleasure that rises in his gut.

Malik gestures towards the door, trying to ignore the fact that the assassin looks exhausted and is holding his hand to his side uncomfortably. He all but throws the other man out of his bureau, knowing full well that he has no right to refuse Altaïr help should he request it.

Once the assassin has finally turned away, Malik unclenches his hand and lets out a long, drawn out breath. This acidic hatred and anger, an uncharacteristic feeling, rises with every glance he throws at the other man. He longs to be free of it, but cannot force himself to move past the memories of Kadar, cannot betray his brother’s death with forgiveness.

Altaïr’s presence is overpowering his better judgment, his moral sense, his entire sense of self, and all he can think of to save himself from the memories of Solomon’s temple is to turn his acerbic words — the only weapon he has left — against the other man.

“Don’t come back here again until you have something of value to offer to this mission, Altaïr.”

* * *

The rooftops are blessedly silent in the descending night as Altaïr all but flees the bureau. His side still aches painfully but he ignores it, using the dull throbbing pain to force his thoughts back to safer ground, away from the equally painful memories of his all too recent failure, and the crooked path that has led him there. Around him, the sounds of the city slowly preparing for sleep barely pierce the calm of his rooftop pathways and he tries to focus instead on the present, on the many tasks he must still accomplish if he is to redeem himself.

He reaches the end of the bureau roof and leaps gracefully across its edge, landing in a perfect crouch on the ramshackle tannery that sits next to Malik’s scribe house. There he pauses, turning on his heels to sit against a ledge, one knee pressed against his chest, the other dangling over the roof. He fingers his bruised ribs with a hiss, pressing sharply to assess the damage; a nasty bruise is already forming, but nothing feels broken against his hand.

Up here, Altaïr can breathe again. Uneasy inside any building even at the best of times, he could not have wished for anything more than to be out of that darkened bureau. Malik is a stranger to him now, no longer the easygoing brother he once knew so well. He cannot blame the man for his distance. Looking over the rooftops into the darkening skies, he wonders, not for the first time, if he himself would have gone after the man responsible for his brother’s death, had he been in Malik’s place.

He almost smiles as he contemplates the question. I would have torn him to pieces. Malik has a patience, and a wisdom, that I can’t pretend I have.

And so, if Malik wants him to deal with this mission on his own, with no guidance from Jerusalem’s rafik, then that is exactly what he will do. Lowering his cowl, Altaïr checks his bracer and the mechanism of his hidden dagger for faults. Finding none, he draws his sword slowly, inspecting its blade with a critical eye; it is notched and stained, but its edge doesn’t yet need sharpening. His dagger goes through the same careful examination. He tightens the armour around his midsection with a pained groan and gets up, eyeing the fading daylight to the west. There had been two additional guards after him when he’d fled, and they’d emerged from a side street near the rich district.

He’d start his search for his target there.

Shortcodes are awesome for this. When you’re writing or editing a post, you don’t want to bother jumping into the HTML editor just to add a shiny CSS button style to your markup (well, at least, I certainly don’t want to…).

Shortcodes work like such:

[shortcode_name attribute="chosen_attribute"]This is your nifty content.[/shortcode_name]

Now, apparently WordPress can be made to recognize any number of custom shortcode combinations with a few simple lines of code. This can be added either to a plugin, which can be a bit of a pain to write, or directly to your theme’s function.php file.

Here’s the gist of it:

add_shortcode('your_shortcode_name', 'your_function_name');

function your_function_name($atts, $content=null, $shortcodename ="") {
$content = strip_only($content, 'br'); /* this strips any stray <br /> tag */
$return = '<div>'; /* this begins your markup for your stylesheet */
$return .= do_shortcode($content); /* this echoes the content between your shortcode tags */
$return .= '</div>'; /* ends your markup */
return $return; /* echoes the whole sha-bang */
}

Next, all you have to do is decide on your markup structure, create your shortcode functions and write your CSS classes, adding styles and pretty icons along the way. What does it do? Here’s a few examples:

So there you have it; I’ll be honest, I have no idea where I picked up some of those styles. I also quite like Rockettheme’s RokCandy Joomla extension, although it sports, in my opinion, way more styles than I would ever need. There’s also quite a few good CSS3 button tutorials out there. I’m letting this little plugin framework free into the wild. If you like, feel free to modify it, tweak it, add styles and any number of other stuff to it. Link back to your modded shortcodes if you want.

This plugin will therefore just parse your shortcodes and output them as HTML, styled with CSS. The relevant files are automatically added, via a function hook, to your theme’s header.php. There’s a documentation page in the backend under Settings -> WiPcandy examples which lists the various shortcodes you can use along with screenshots of what they output in the frontend. I’ve also added, for convenience, a TinyMCE shortcut button which pops up a window where you can “build” your shortcode. Press the OK button and, Presto! Your shortcode is added to the editor window. Currently, the automatic insert can strip any existing shortcode and replace it with a new one; just select some text in the editor, click the WiPcandy button, rebuild your shortcode and press OK. The plugin should replace your existing shortcode with the new one, while keeping your content intact.

Give it a whirl, tell me what you think. If you find bugs, comment below and I’ll -try- to work them out. If the bug has something to do with the RegExp function that strips out any previous shortcodes, keep it to yourself, because I couldn’t find the way around that stuff if my life depended on it.

Finally, this plugin is distributed because I feel like, and absolutely as is, with no guarantee that it won’t completely explode your WordPress installation. Please don’t blame me for corrupted databases, lost posts, weird display bugs and climate change.

Thanks. :)

I’m not too happy about lugging this whole database with me, but there you go. SQL-import, here I come. I toyed with the idea of opening up a Cloud Server over on Rackspace, but the sheer resources I suspect I would need would make this little blog financially unstable.

EDIT: Apparently, I require too much functionality for this to be an option. Woe is me, I seem to be stuck here.

Keep yourselves posted for more updates on the move as it happens.

Much love,

-roelani