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Breaking Free	By : Imoshen Category: +A through F > Assassin's Creed Views: 1305 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed nor do I make money by publishing this story.

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Breaking Free - Part 1

Malik al-Sayf had never known his mother. When she died he'd been too young to understand, too young and innocent to fully grasp the meaning of why god took his mother and blessed him with a brother. His brother was everything he had left and when he grew older his father had told him that Kadar hold the same eyes his mother had had and how much he reminded him of her whenever he looked at the younger brother. Malik had tried to remember what she looked like but the few years they had hadn't been enough for him to picture her in his mind's eye. There was no memory, nothing which would keep her alive in his heart. There was only one big black shadow, a grey haze which separated him from the woman who gave him life.
Most inmates cried for their mothers. Grown men, soldiers, beggars and freelancers cried like little boys and called out for their mommy when the merciless torturers of the Templars used their tools on them, ripping the flesh off their bodies, pulling out their nails and hammering nails through their joints.
Malik didn't. As it was Malik never had had a mother. Why should he call out for her now?
A long time ago he maybe would have called for his brother. But Kadar was lost, dead, fallen in the war against the Templars when Altair's arrogance had betrayed them both. There was nobody Malik could cry for, no one who could offer him some comfort. There simply wasn't anybody left who would be able to rescue him now. Nobody who would have mercy with him. Why should they? He was a cripple and nothing but a burden even for the Brotherhood so Al Mualim had sent him to Jerusalem.
Jerusalem. Malik almost scoffed. Al Mualim could have just as well executed him. One of the most dangerous cities, one of the most fiercely fought over cities of the holy land. No other city had seen so much sorrow, so much death and chaos as Jerusalem had. The grounds of no other city were covered with as much blood as Jerusalem's. Malik had known instantly what Al Mualim wanted to tell him as he had sent him as a Dai to the city. Malik hadn't done anything wrong and Al Mualim couldn't kill an innocent – but he could send him to a city which would kill him sooner or later.
And as it looked like Al Mualim's plan had worked.
Malik didn't know with whom he was more furious. Should he be angry at himself? Because he had let himself get captured and was stuck in this foul, rotten hole which called itself a prison, chained to a wall? Should he be angry at Altair? Altair, who not only had taken his brother and arm, but also his title as an assassin? But Altair wasn't the same man he'd been eighteen months ago now was he? Or should he be angry at Al Mualim, because he had sentenced him to death when he sent him here? No, no – maybe he should focus on the dirty Templars which had overpowered Malik and beaten him unconscious? Of course he had shown resistants and Malik had been very proud that of the half dozen of men he had wounded one and killed two before they could take after him. Of course that had caused more beatings in the end and his left eye was swollen shut, one tooth lose another missing and one of his ribs felt broken.
He'd been here for three days now. They had given him water and he'd only drunk it reluctantly since he had seen how they had pissed into it. But he needed to drink or else he might risk to die of thirst. They wanted to break his will, they wanted to see him beg for his life but Malik wouldn't do them the favor. Never. They hadn't given him food. Of course not and his body was weakened now. The skin on his wrist was gone, the chain only left raw flesh behind. His shoulder hurt and his arm was numb because it had been kept chained above his head for too long now. He couldn't stand up, he couldn't lay down and his back hurt and the muscles in his legs spasmed every so often.
He was alone with his thoughts, with his pain and the cries of other prisoners were a poor companion.
He startled when he heard the rattling of a key as it was turned in the lock of the door leading to his cell and was opened. Malik thought the smell in his hole which his guards called a prison cell got only more bad as the warder stepped in front of the bars, grinning down on him.
They had no idea who he was. A cripple couldn't be an assassin, right? Malik would have almost grinned about the ignorance. They had asked him about the Dai which was currently leading Jerusalem's bureau. Of course they had found out about their secret location. That was the only explanation for them overpowering Malik in the first place. It was truly a shame. He had grown fond the bureau, the small rooms and old smell of papers and books. He would need to pack so many of them, so many cards he needed to stow away, he would need a donkey and a cart to move all of his belongings. Ugh, he hated moving but it couldn't be avoided now that the Templars knew where the assassins were hiding in Jerusalem. Yes, it truly was a shame and Malik didn't want to do all the extra work – assuming he would leave the prison alive.
He didn't doubt it though. He was a cripple who was working for the Dai. The Dai who had shown mercy to a broken man like Malik and took him in because fate had been cruel with him. At least that's what the Templar had said, grinning mockingly at him as the words had left their mouths with a foul breath. What a bunch of fools they were, a group of bastards and the sons of whores. Their arrogance was as toxic as Altair's.
He would probably spent a few days in prison. They would question him. They would torture him. But he wouldn't say anything and they would keep assuming in their arrogance that he was nothing but a helping hand (in the true sense of the word), worthless to them. They would let him go then, too lazy to get their hands dirty on him.
Finally, Malik looked up at the man standing in front of his cell. He grinned down on him as he opened the door. "The commander wants to question you", he laughed while he stepped closer to free Malik's hand. He spit at the warder and the spittle hit his chin. Malik grinned satisfied and it earned him a blow to his ear so for a few seconds all noise was swallowed by the ringing inside his head. Oh, it was worth it. A hand grabbed him underneath his arm and pulled him upwards and he moaned as his muscles and bones were protesting underneath the sudden movement. A kick to his rips was the answer to that.
"You fucking lazy dog, get up", the warder growled at and as he saw that Malik wasn't able to move faster, he pulled his arm further upwards and for a few seconds Malik honestly believed the man had dislocated his shoulder.
"God you're smelling awful."
Malik clenched his teeth. Three days without bathing, three days in which he hadn't been able to move to relief himself. Of course he stank of sweat and piss.
The hallway the guard was leading him through was long and they passed several cells. When Malik watched the crowded rooms, he was almost grateful that they had kept him for whatever reason isolated from all the other prisoners. There, where more than a dozen inmates had to share a tiny room, the smell was even worse and he almost threw up.
The warder kept pushing him through another door. Two guards stood on the other side and the smell of shit, burnt flesh and blood overwhelmed Malik's senses all at once. They were here now and he couldn't deny the fact that he was nervous. He was always nervous in situation like these – it kept him alive. Being nervous meant that he was afraid. Being afraid meant you weren't dead yet and cherished your life. He took a look around the torture chamber. It was large and full of nooks and crannies. There was something like a front room in which they were standing right now. Several prisoners hung from the high ceiling, their hands chained together above their heads. He was certain that two of them were dead, at least when he judged them by their bad smell - the color of their skin only confirmed Malik's speculation. There was a stairs leading down to another room and more cells. Malik could see a man there, his skin hanging in stripes off his back while a torturer let the whip dance across his skin over and over again. Another stairs which lead upwards and Malik was pushed towards it. As he climbed the stairs he saw that the whipped man didn't even have the strength to scream anymore but as he looked closer he saw that no, he did have the strength to scream but simply couldn't since they had cut out his tongue.
As Malik reached the top he saw that they were alone here. The room looked more like an oversize balcony from which one had the perfect view over the torture chamber. Malik kept his gaze in front of him and he saw a man standing with his back towards him, framed by two more guards. That must be their commander and he gritted his teeth, preparing himself for whatever might come now. When they had walked across the room, a hit met the back of Malik's knees and he fell to the ground with a muffled groan. The commander stood so close now that Malik could see the many embroideries on his robes. No doubt that he hold a high rank within the Order. Sweat was running into his eyes and he had to blink a couple of times.
"Sir, that's him", the warder behind Malik told him. "The cripple who works for the assassins."
"Ah, is he now?", were the Templar's words and they were thick with a French accent. The commander's hand reached for his head and he pulled down the heavy iron hood and bald skin came into view. A knot built inside of Malik's stomach and contracted painfully as foreshadowing twisted his heart painfully.
The Templar turned around and Malik hold his breath as all the blood left his face and he felt ice cold.
No. Just, no. This couldn't be, not him! This wasn't fair! How could he do this to Malik? Hadn't he done enough already? Hadn't Malik suffer enough?
"Just a cripple?", the man asked again, amused, and arched one elegant eyebrow. "Is that so?"
He reached with his hand for Malik and he bit after him. Before he could catch a finger, the man pulled his arm back. He laughed quietly and made a small gesture with his hand.
Malik's head was painfully pulled back as the warder buried his finger tightly in his hair to keep him in place. Again the Templar took a step forwards and closed his fingers around Malik's chin, turning his head to one side and then to the other as if he was nothing but an animal, ready to slaughter. His gaze fell on Malik's empty sleeve.
"It's you indeed", he finally said and his eyes narrowed while the corners of his mouth were pulled into a grim smile. "You've taken something which is rightfully mine", he hissed and his fingers dug deeper into Malik's cheeks.
"Sir?", one of the guards behind him asked and the Templar straightened his back as he let go of Malik. He chuckled again and Malik felt as if he had to throw up. He could already taste the acid in his mouth and needed to swallow heavily to keep it all down. It was rarely that Malik felt helpless, but now, now he felt the agony of reality eating him alive and it the pain was maddening.
"Do you lousy dogs even know who you brought me here?", he asked and looked over his shoulder and at his two guards – their hands rested loosely on their swords, ready to draw them should Malik made one wrong move. He didn't even wait for their answer. "This is one true assassin", he murmured quietly and run his thumb over Malik's face once his eyes had set back on him again.
With the last of his strength Malik pulled his head free and glared at him, his teeth gritted so tightly that his jaw hurt. They probably wouldn't let him go now. Not now when they knew who he really was. They would torture him. They would take revenge on him and they would probably put scatter parts of his corpse all over Jerusalem for everybody to see as a warning, to make sure that all knew what would happen to those who dared to fight against the Templar.
The Templar snapped his fingers and one of the guards brought a chair for him to sit in front of Malik. Robert de Sablé leaned back in his seat and Malik kept still as his foul breath brushed across his face. "I think there are a few things we need to talk about, don't you think?"
Reality sunk into him, its claws ripping at his soul, tearing it apart. He hadn't been prepared for this. He hadn't been prepared for Robert de Sablé. The murderer of his brother, the man who took his arm was sitting right in front of him and now, now Malik felt the need to cry as all of his nightmares became alive, all of his fears collapsing over him, drowning him, pulling him deeper into the dark abyss of his memories of Solomon's Temple.
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Breaking Free