Nearly three long days had passed on without any such news of Altair's awakening and Malik was growing all the more wary. The rafik had sifted through documents and various letters that Altair had collected from targets and still these truths brought him no confidence. Not a trace of possible sabotage against the Brotherhood was ever unraveled, however, Malik still had a deep pit in his stomach. What was the Templar leader planning? What had Altair truly uncovered? Diverse affairs surfaced and dissolved in a matter of days.
The bleakness of the unpredictable skies above Masyaf were never so grey. Fariha inattentively closed the set of glass shutters within Altair's chambers as the shouts and ringing metal from the training arena below brought forth every trace of impeding war. She quickly shot a glance to the warrior whom still remained comatose then decided to take her leave after tending to him. She halted in her strides momentarily as her green eyes fell upon the many papers spread logically in piles upon the small bedside table. She let her fingertips graze one of the various letters and mappings, reflecting on what Malik had told her.
Sighing, the young doctor gave up her thoughts on the matter and considering how clever Altair must have been to see such small tell tale signs of disloyalty, she turned to his unmoving form. Performing a startled double take, Fariha realized that he had stirred. Now instead of lying upon his back just how she had instructed, he had rolled over on his side. He had his back to her, breathing natural and steady. The medic furrowed her brow and touched the man's shoulder.
"Altair?" she called gently as her fingertips played with the bare flesh at his shoulder. He seemed to shiver to the touch then rolled back over upon his back.
Altair creased his brow and slowly opened his eyes as if he was angered that someone had woken him. Fariha nearly gasped to the color, a pair of bright golden orbs meeting her gaze. He blinked harder as his surroundings finally became clear.
The Assassin parted his lips to speak. "Where am I?" was the first thing he said, startled by how horse and dry his throat was, voice breaking.
"Don't speak." She said shushing him. She seemed very agitated and alarmed, though he had no clue why.
"Where is Maria?" he spoke again, "Is she alright?"
Fariha ignored this and spun to depart, but twirled back round again. "Don't move," she replied franticly, "I must inform Malik, oh God
" and her voice dissipated along with her being as the door swung after her.
Why are women so bizarre? Altair wondered and, frowning, shifted beneath his bedding. He no more than maneuvered his legs as a tremor of pain shot threw his entire body. He yelped and slid back into the cushions while gritting his teeth. He drew in a pained breath and looked down at himself, realizing that every thing hurt, it ached all over. Don't move, my ass
He thought irritably and clenched his left fist, inspecting the sling his arm was held in. White fabric had been wrapped around his midsection that he thought itched terribly. He sighed, nibbling on the inside of his cheek, and decided that he wanted to enter the washroom. Wincing he forced himself into a sitting position then tossed the covers off. Realizing he was nude, he wondered where his robes went.
Actually, he marveled about plenty of dilemmas at the moment. He had no memory of how or when he had came back to Masyaf, only the clash after the fire. He recalled the killing of Sibrand and the horrid storm enveloping the city.
Altair forced out a breath and pushed himself from the bed with feet on the cold floor. As if his legs didn't belong to him they collapsed purposely beneath him and he fell to the wooden floor with a yelp. He urged himself off the floor and held onto the bed with a perplexed expression. His side and back stung to such an extent he couldn't stand up straight. It was even difficult to breathe even, as he prodded at the gauze wrapped around his one thigh.
Swearing to himself, he finally made it to the washroom doorway and leaned against it thankfully. His head throbbed and body trembled. After cleaning himself up and other such necessities he pressed his right forearm against the cool surface of the washbasin, shoulders coiled and muscles stiff. With head hug low, he allowed the water to drip from the contours of his face that he had not yet patted dry.
How did I come to be wounded like this? What happened? Where is Maria? Why can't I remember? He surmised slowly and squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to recollect anything worth a proper answer. In the back of his tired mind he could faintly hear this screaming, a constant cry of echoed suffering. The Assassin opened his amber eyes with a slight scowl and began to hear other obscenities. Coiling chuckles then enraged shouts, the ringing of something metallic, sloshing of blood to the floor, horrid tarring sounds and the pounding of thunder and a frantic heartbeat all intertwined. The dreadful screaming was the core of it all and it was becoming louder.
Altair winced to the noise and lifted his head to meet his reflection's gaze in the glassy mirror. He cringed to the sight of himself, paled, bruised and anemic. Who had done this? He hardened his jaw until it ached as the sounds amplified more so. Gazing into the mirror, he suddenly saw flashes of something dark. It was black and bloody, clips of a ghastly scene. Before his eyes he could see explosions, snapshots in time. He could now see the man's twisted face, his black eyes; he saw the weapon and the blood oozing to the floor. His mouth fell open, but he was locked into the mirror. He could see the steel cells, the repulsive scent of blood, mold, metal, and death.
He couldn't tare his eyes from the glass, the screaming now deafening in his ears. With right hand fallen, he was gripping the side of the washbasin as if for life, his body near collapsing. It was until he recognized the scream to be his own that he could feel. He could feel the barbed blade tare and shed his side, the steel penetrate and impale his arm, the endless brutal lashes at his back and the warm blood rush down his skin. It was happening all over again, his breath seemed hard to capture, stolen. He felt ill, overwhelmingly nauseous and faint, his head spinning. He couldn't escape or push this away.
He suddenly lurched over and vomited whatever was left in his stomach into the washbowl. Painfully gagging from the absence of anything in his gut, he convulsed from the frigid shiver slipping down his spine. He pulled away and fell back against the wall. Uttering short horrified cries, he pushed up against the wall as far as he could as the memories returned in a cascade of heavy eruptions. He could see her face, Maria, as she pleaded to him and wept a final farewell. He had given his life for hers and in turn, destroyed it.