A/N: So if I remember correctly this was my first Maltair fic I've ever written. Also one of the first I've written in English. Betaed by the wonderful TheAllPowerfulOz. I thought I just post the fic instead of the link and stay 'anon'.

Summary: If Altair had known that Malik would be his downfall he would've never made friends with the other boy. But after all love was a luxury they both couldn't afford. In the end the only thing that was left was the little question of 'what if'.

Sometimes, so it seemed to him, in moments like these he thought he was particularly close to the world; maybe because every leap could mean death – one slip and it was over. In moments like these when he was falling, the wind brought tears to his eyes and he felt unique, complete and free - alive. For a few seconds time stood still as his heart was beating wildly inside his chest. One moment of absolute bliss; only a short one though.

When he fell back first into the hay, he stayed there for a few seconds to savor the rush further, a little bit longer. When he closed his eyes he had the feeling as if he could taste the clouds and the world was silent; so silent that he believed he could hear the flapping of a butterfly's wings. He was one, one with the world and all of its wonders and animals and for the blink of an eye his heart pulsed in total sync with the heartbeat of every single human being. The chains of his fate, his destiny were forgotten and all the screams of the poor souls that he had killed went silent and the eyes that had starred at him while his targets took their last breaths, stopped following him.

For only one moment.

Because time didn't stand still and the blood was still on his hands. His weapons and equipment pressed into his body and the cold fist of fear took a hold of his heart once more and urged him to get up to move again.

His body started to react before his mind began to work again. With tense muscles he rolled over his side and jumped from the hay wagon out on the busy streets of Jerusalem. When he turned around he faced a group of women. As he stood suddenly in front of them, two of them let a surprised high-pitched scream loose and he pulled his hood deep into his face. With a wave of his hand he brushed the last remaining hay from his clothes and turned into a less busy side street and pressed himself deep into the shadows of a line of houses.

With his back against up a wall he waited for hurried shouts of bored guards who followed their task to patrol the streets of Jerusalem only half-heartedly on a hot summer-day like today, but they also were easy to draw their blades to shed some blood. But all he could hear were the goings-on of Jerusalem's citizens and the sound of muttering voices which reminded him of a swarm of bees.

His gaze fell on the opposite wall of a building and before he wasted any more of his time his hands grasped for the first protrusion and he climbed quickly up the front before he pulled himself over the edge It was hot on this afternoon, too hot as if he wanted to run above the roofs and be exposed to the sun, but the aggressiveness of the guards left him with no other choice. On a day like this only those who absolutely had to who couldn't afford to stay in the cool shadows of their homes left their houses. He again could refrain from guards who started to lose their minds from the heat

He leaped from roof to roof and his shadow was flying above the earth. He lost his balance once and caught the edge of a roof-garden just in time and pulled himself up. He cursed silently as the pain from his hand collapsed like a wave over his body. The few archers he met were seeking the shadows of walls and nearby roofs and he suppressed a grin as he crept behind their backs and kept going unnoticed.

Sweat was running over his face and his clothes were sticking to his body by the time he let himself fall through the roof-opening of the Jerusalem's bureau. For a moment he stood still and breathed deeply before he yanked his hood down and shook his head, small droplets of sweat flew in every direction.

"You lousy dog!"

He recognized the voice and Altair closed his eyes as a barley visible smile was creeping over his face.

"Safety and peace". His words sounded rough as his throat was dry and he hadn't used his voice for hours. He opened his eyes and turned around slowly. His gaze fell upon Malik who hadn't outgrown boyhood yet, and he watched him standing with bare chest near the water fountain in the courtyard while he let the cold water run over his hands and arms.

Malik snorted. "Well, hardly since you're here now." He eyed him from head to toe. "You stink." he grimaced before he held his head underneath the fountain and let the water flow over his shoulders and back. The grey clothes of a novice laid next to his feet. Altair turned to his side and shifted his weight to lean backwards to peer around the corner of the bureau's entrance.

"The rafiq, is he here?", he asked Malik without looking at him.

"The heat," he answered and took up the clothes by his feet and rubbed his head with them to dry his hair, "— is getting to the old man. He's resting."

Altair gritted his teeth and his hands closed to fists. He couldn't afford any more delays. For a second he thought of just getting the feather that lay behind the counter by himself. He had all the information he needed, he knew that his target would be vulnerable the most at sunset – he couldn't wait for the old man and his permission to accomplish his task!

He felt Malik getting closer and he stopped just one step behind him. He held his robe in his hands as droplets of water ran over his throat down to his chest, his black hair tossed. Where he had used the clothes to dry his hair the grey fabric was slightly darker. Altair starred at him.

"If the heat's getting to the old man maybe he should make room for a younger one", he snarled. "Time's running out."

An ugly grin lifted the corners of Malik's mouth. "Three months an assassin and you're full of arrogance. Altair, it's good to see that you're still the same bastard."

Altair suddenly lifted his head and glared into Malik's dark eyes but soon they softened. "It's good to see you my friend." He thought for a moment if he should give the other man an embrace and as he watched Malik's fingers faintly twitching neither of them stirred, he knew Malik was thinking about the same but neither of them acted. Silence laid upon them like a dark cloud and he could hear the shouts of the merchants from the nearby market carried to them by the wind. Altair's look fell on his left hand where three months ago had been his ring-finger and all that remained was a stump which wasn't healed yet and still ached with dull pain. "What brings you to Jerusalem?" he finally asked Malik and his voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Malik fumbled with the sleeves of his clothes before he pushed them over his head and straightened them out so they fell properly over his chest.

"Assignment from my master," he answered and Altair almost didn't understand him because he had spoken so fast. He knew how much it made the older man feel aggrieved that he had been allowed to take the tests that would let him become an assassin while Malik was still learning.

"Your robe," Malik said finally and Altair looked up, "it's torn." He gestured to his right hip.

"Just a beggar", Altair explained and turned to his side to take the fabric between his hands to look at it thorough. "He was confused, probably by the heat. He asked for money and held on to me. As I wouldn't give him anything he asked if I was afraid. I told him 'No'."

Malik looked up.

"He laughed and called me stupid."

"He was right", Malik said.

Altair scoffed. "He was an old man, just a fool."

"Then he was wise."

Altair blinked with his eyes for a few times and looked at Malik. He asked himself where the days had gone where they acted careless around each other, about the time when their friendship had been innocent and wasn't stained by blood. Gone in the shadows of reality, he guessed. After all in the life of an assassin there was no room for friendship or love – it was a lonely, hard and short life. Each of them knew that just a little too well. Altair had never known is mother and he had lost his father far too early. Malik, just like Altair, had been born into the Order of the Assassin's. Even before Malik was conceived his fate had been sealed – Altair was no exception. Their lives had one purpose and one purpose only: to serve the Order, to live for and by the Creed and to murder for it. That was their purpose till the end of their days. Only a few, only the best lived long enough to die a natural death. Altair's father died by the blade of a traitor. On that day he swore to himself that he would be the best of all the assassins and damn, he was the best. Al Mualim himself, the Grand-Master of the Order, had chosen him as his pupil. Al Mualim had watched his training, trained him personally, pushed and challenged him. When Al Mualim would tell him 'Run' he'd run. Altair would run until his feet started to bleed, until his skin showed blisters from the sun burning down on him and until he threw up. When the other novices achieved good results, Altair's were never good enough. When Malik and his brother Kadar laid in their beds and slept exhausted by the efforts of the day, Altair sat at his Master's desk and learned the languages of countries far away while a candle gave some light.

Altair watched Malik's face thoughtfully. When they were young they shared a deep friendship. They rarely tried to surpass one another, instead they tried to learn by the mistakes of the other. Malik had always been better at swordplay than him, but the younger one's stamina was by far better than Malik's. They had learned and fought side by side. In those years they had spent together they created an iron front no one could break. But when Malik hit his seventeenth birthday he was chosen by a Master-Assassin to become his novice. Only three days later Malik left on a black stallion. Altair remembered all too well how he had sat secretly on a cliff to wish his friend farewell.

"Malik! Wait, Malik", he had screamed and waved wildly with his arms to get noticed. Malik pulled hard the reins of his horse and it stopped in a cloud of dust. "Altair", he hissed at him and starred at the boy above him, "What are you doing here? You're supposed to clear out the stables." His face was an angry mask but a smile had stole its way into his voice.

"Where are you going?", he had asked him and wished for the ground to open and swallow him as he heard his voice breaking. Those last few weeks his body had changed. There grew hair were none had been before, his shoulders were broader and his voice had started to change – now his words sounded like the squawk of a raven. Restless he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Malik was his friend, his only friend and in the last years there hadn't passed a day they didn't spent together. Altair would have never admitted it, but if Malik left he would feel just as lonely as he had when his father had died. "Go back Altair! The master sent me on a mission." And he had pressed his heals in his horse's flanks and rode away at a fast speed without leaving another word or a goodbye. Altair had noticed how much pride swung within Malik's voice. "But Malik!", he had called after him and thought about to jump down the cliff but it was too high and Malik was already too far gone. He could only watch how the boy was swallowed by the horizon.

In the first few weeks Malik had been gone, he and Kadar, Malik's younger brother of five years, had missed him and shared their sorrow. It wasn't like Altair and Kadar shared a deep friendship. He and Malik had spent many hours tormenting the boy or played a prank on him when they were children. Still, Altair knew that Kadar was a good fighter and he respected him for that. He just could never break the ice that had formed over them before a friendship had had a chance. But it took more than two years for the older brother to return. At that point Al Mualim had already taken Altair as a novice. Since then their friendship had never been the same as it had been before Malik's departure. Their training had forced a wedge between them they couldn't bypass it.

Before the memories could return to him completely, Altair pushed them quickly to the side.

He shook his head as if he wanted to shed the chains of the past, but the knot that had built inside his chest wouldn't loose. "I see, the words about my promotion has reached even you. Haven't you been in Damascus?", he asked and started to loosen the straps of his weapon-belt.

"Indeed. I arrived three hours ago and wait for further instructions."

His throwing knives fell to the ground and Altair stopped with his sword in his hands before he laid it on the floor carefully. He sat down and started to remove his boots.

"Didn't you have a mission you wanted to accomplish as soon as possible?", Malik asked and watched Altair while he was slowly stripping of his clothes.

"The sun's about to settle and since the old man would rather sleep than follow his duties as a rafiq I might as well clean myself and get some rest", he answered.

"Show some respect to your elders, boy!" a firm voice sounded behind him and both men looked up. The cane which the old man used to hold himself up hit Altair at the back of his head. He lifted his hands in a protective manner and cursed quietly as he rubbed the spot where the cane had hit him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Malik grinning.