How long had it been since their last 'encounter'?

Eight months?

Nine months?

Altair lowered his head and sighed. He was seated at what was once Al Mualim's study, but now his. His allies, the Assassins, had chosen him as the new Leader of their Order and tasked him with the responsibility of rebuilding the former glory their Brotherhood once possessed. The burden of his duty to his people never ceased upon his shoulders; the weight of his decisions and actions only continued to build upon him.

He looked over his shoulder at the great window behind him. It provided him with a view of his entire city.

Masyaf, home and tomb of the Assassins. It was this beautiful yet dead town that he protected with his life. He couldn't comprehend how much he'd sacrifice for this city. But then he'd be pestered by those niggling thoughts of 'what haven't you done for Masyaf?'

Altair looked back at the paperwork he had been examining. One of their spies from Damascus was once again sending word that there wasn't any suspicious cruelty taking place. And once again, he was replying with his ever so usual, 'Very well, Brother, keep me informed if there is any change in the circumstances. Safety and peace.'

It irritated him. The fact that something irritated him irritated him, even. Yes, his heart was content and currently at peace, knowing that the Templars and their corrupt attempts at world domination were gradually decreasing. The pesky threats that they loved to send to the Assassins were becoming more and more of a weak attempt to earn some attention.

Unwanted attention. He should have been uplifted by the knowledge that the Cross' order was becoming nothing more than a group of squabbling mercenaries, but again, the more rational part of his mind questioned this. Why would the Templars try to seek the Master of the Hashshashin's merciless stare? Why would—

"Altair?" The heavy, raspy voice pierced Altair out of his thoughts. Never moving his head from the parchment, Altair raised his eyes to the intruder of the safety of his mind. It wasn't his fault, though. It was Altair himself that had placed him in charge of such disturbances. Disturbances that he needed more and more often, now that the thought of—

"What is it?" A hint of temper escaped the Master's lips. He had no desire to be disturbed, but it was necessary. So, oh so necessary...

"Altair, it's your horse again. The beast won't stop kicking at his stall!" Malik sighed and slouched his shoulders when the man's response was to blink his eyes and wear the expression that read, 'Did you honestly interrupt me from my blissful thoughts to complain to me about a damn horse?'

Grunting, he merely looked at Malik. His job was to keep his people safe. His job was to deem what man should fall by an Assassin's blade. His job was not to worry about his horse. "I believe there are stall hands for such matters, Malik." He removed his gaze from the one-armed man and diverted his attention back to his papers. He wanted Malik to leave that very moment. He wanted to return to his brooding and sulking in his mind over—

Throwing his arm into the air, he exclaimed, "If you just paid it a visit now and then, we wouldn't have this problem! But, no! You simply choose to be closed off in this... this..." He motioned his hand to the books collecting dust on the many shelves of the study, his eyes gleaming with disapproval at the novels littering the floor. "This! Altair, these antics are becoming more ridiculous by each passing day, now. Go and see the horse before it breaks down the stalls just for some attention from his—"

"His what?" Venom escaped Altair's throat at his eyes narrowed at his ally, daring him to finish his rambling. He didn't want to hear his damn complaining. Just throw some hay in the stall and his troublesome horse should be happy once the beast learned food had been 'awarded' to it.

Taking a deep breath that he did not release, he looked at Altair with steel darts protruding out of his eyes. Malik angled his head to the ceiling so that it forced the Master to look up at him. With a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he simply walked away from Altair and began his descent of the stairwell.

Sighing in relief from the absence of his presence, Altair drooped his head over his shoulders, his hands rubbing at his face in frustration. He had to finish writing his letter to the spy. He had to check up on his blasted horse. The thought annoyed him. The scheming stable hands were probably causing the horse to throw such ill-behaved acts just so that the people could witness Altair as he came to the rescue to save his darling horse from such peril.

The image caused his thumb and forefinger to find his temples on either side of his face and rub in a soothing, circular motion. Still, he had to admit to himself, for him to do such a thing would be... amusing, to some extent. No doubt Malik would be satisfied. The fool was always trying to make Altair 'open up to the public'. A leader should not show such banter to his people. A leader must be strong and willing to sacrifice anything for his people.

Taking a quill and a small vial of ink from his desk, he began to pen his response. How sloppy his handwriting had become! Maybe Malik was right. Maybe he was spending too much time in this study brooding over the loss of—

"HIS GOOD FOR NOTHING, ASSHOLE OF A MASTER!"

The sudden sound made Altair jump out of his seat, bumping his desk in the process, causing the ink to spill onto his papers. Damn. Several shouts from the guards at the base of the fortress were heard echoing throughout the hallway, much to Altair's dismay. He wanted silence at the moment. He wanted silence so that he could just think. He wanted to think things through. He needed to know where his place was with her.

'So much to do...'

Damiel lied sprawled out across the rooftop of the church, eyes closed, listening to the soft patter of rain and the preaching taking place inside with a numb mind. He exhaled as he contented himself with being a bystander. He had no intentions of sitting on an uncomfortable bench just to hear some old, bald man in fancy, elaborate robes give his opinions of God.

What was God anyway? He had wondered this most of his life. The old bald men said that He is a divine being that humans are reunited with when they die. Reunited? How could people believe that? Damiel could not remember ever meeting this "divine being" in his whole life. When was there any proof in his life that a God even existed?

Never. What gave these robed elderly men the right to say such things? What made them so special and connected to this Holy Lord? Sometimes he thought that priests were too busy sticking their heads further up their behinds to even listen to what they said.

'Nothing,' he thought to himself. He opened his eyes and smirked at the stars above. 'You watchin' me, O' Great One? Well, want to know what I have to say to you?' He shrugged one of his arms toward the sky so that his hand was raised with his palm facing himself. He curled his fingers, except his middle finger, into a fist. He chuckled to himself and folded his hands behind his head, completely smug and undisturbed. There was no God.

The shuffling of feet coming from the church made him rise slowly from his current position. He stretched his arms out, then his legs, and moved both hands to his back and pushed in with them. There was a satisfying pop! as his bones cracked from being in the same position for so long. Running his fingers through his hair, he shook his head free of water droplets.

He strolled across the rooftop, careful not to slip on the wet tiles. These nights were becoming more and more common; the damp humidity was too familiar to the boy. Drizzles would sprinkle across the English countryside, accompanied by the duet of thunder and lightning.

He didn't mind so much; if anything, the rain would wash away the piss and turds in London's streets.

Damiel glanced about, idly noting that only a few of the houses and towers surrounding the church still had their candles lit. He sniffed the air, smiling when he caught a whiff of baking bread. The bakeries must have reopened for the Christians strolling out from their church. He'd have to snatch a loaf or two later.

The people clad in decent, modest clothing left the House of God, conversing with one another of what they were to do when they arrived home.

"She needs me to wash it for her."

"Did you hear about Jane?"

"Tomorrow, I plan on buying some eggs."

"The brat of a girl doesn't even know how to clean her own clothes."

"Didn't she fall?"

"Why would he do something like that?"

His eyes searched through the crowd for the reason he even bothered to come to this disgusting church. A smile slowly crept onto his lips as he found her. Her long, beautiful, golden blonde hair cascaded down her slender yet wickedly gorgeous shoulders. There, these delicious locks rose as they slid their way onto her luscious mounds of flesh hidden beneath her ever prudent dress, teasing and daring any man who risked casting one look her way.

"Hildegard," he murmured. He made his way over to the other side of the rooftop of the church and leaned himself over the edge. He twisted backward and began to climb down the wall.

"... And she was saying that it wasn't possibly her fault that the blanket was ripped—err, Lady Hildegard? Is something wrong?"

The beauty kept her gaze at the church wall. She could have sworn she saw something there... "Oh? Oh, I'm sorry, Richard, I... I have some business to attend to." She gave her nod to the man called Richard, who was her escort this evening. She gently picked her dress up on either side of her and walked hastily away from him. 'What an annoying little man.'

Damiel had his back to the church wall, arms crossed over his chest, his head down. There was just a lovely shadow being cast over his location, many thanks to the moon for that. He lifted his head as he saw the woman making her way to the side of the church he was at. Stepping out of his shadow so that she could make him out, he gave a boyish smirk her way. 'Don't make this difficult for me, Hildy.'

As their eyes connected, he turned his back to her and made his way farther away from her. He knew that being seen with her was dangerous. Anyone who made contact with one from the Rose would be wise to pack their bags immediately and leave London.

Just as planned, Hildegard followed him through the slender corridor. She narrowed her eyes at the boy. 'What on Earth does he want from me this time?' She stepped over loose brick on the ground and walked around puddles of sickening color. The moonlight wasn't offering her any help in finding her way to Damiel, so she was somewhat startled when she walked into his back. Grabbing her arm, he lightly threw her against the wall of the church and leaned next to her. She looked expectantly at him.

"Well?"

"She hasn't come out for weeks, Hildy. I'm starting to get worried." Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he looked past Hildegard to the busy street of London. People were coming out now to chat amongst each other.

"That's nothing new, Damiel. I thought you were used to her being silent?"

"That's not the point, Hildegard." Sighing, he wiped imaginary sweat off of his forehead. "She won't even let Benny talk to her—she hasn't eaten anything either."

"Has she had anything to drink?" Hildegard frowned, her beautiful face tainted with lines of worry for her friend.

"No."

"She's still devastated then. Who can blame her, Damiel? She—"

"Hildy. That was a year ago. Over and done with. Can't she just-"

"No, Damiel, you don't understand how a woman feels about things like this. I'm sure she feels…" She waved her hand, struggling to conjure up an appropriate word.

Folding his arms again, Damiel mimicked his friend's frown. "Feels what?"

"Exposed, used... Dirty..." Hildegard shuddered at the thought. She knew that feeling all too well.

"Then let's find the man. Let's find him, and run him through. I'm sure she'll be happy then."

"Running him through would kill her. She still loves him, Damiel."

"He hasn't replied to a single one of her letters. And all the trouble we go through to make sure they're delivered..!" Turning his head left and right, the boy made sure that no one heard his sudden rise in volume. As if making up for his turn in volume, Hildegard's voice was soft as down feathers.

"We can't force her to feel anything, Damiel." A lump started forming in her throat. Swallowing it back, she shook her head as if to convince herself that there was nothing the two of them could do. "Only time can heal something like this." She watched him closely, vaguely making out his face in the darkness of the night. What she could see was an impatient, thin-lipped expression on his usually carefree face.

"Yeah, well, I'm tired of hearing her sobs in the middle of the night. I'm tired of hearing her scream his name over and over again. And I'm tired of her saying that nothing's wrong when Hell, something is wrong."

"Damiel," Hildegard sighed. She placed a comforting hand on his arm and smiled weakly. "Go back to her. You may not know it, but just having you there by her side while she's suffering is helping her. She needs you—you and Benjamin to be there for her."

"What she needs is for that damned man to come back, get on his hands and knees, and beg for her forgiveness," he hissed irately at Hildegard, but immediately regretted it. She did nothing to him. He wished to see this bastard man himself and introduce him to his spear. Head first.

Saying her farewell to her friend, Hildegard stepped lightly from the side of the church back into the busy streets of society. Although it was almost midnight, there were still people out. This was common in London. It was beautiful, exciting, romantic, and dangerously seducing. There were many secrets in this city that even the Assassin's did not know about. Secrets that the Templar's were dying to get their hands onto.

Benjamin paced back and forth through the gloomy corridor in the long abandoned chapel of Saint Mary. Not that the people had anything against Saint Mary—they were Christians, after all—but a new chapel had been built to honor her heavenly being. This church had not seen people walk its halls until almost two years ago. It was a sacred place, a place where the Templar's were even afraid to set foot. It granted the Order of the Rose protection from their corruption.

Benjamin was an Englishman, same as all the others living in London. His fair skin had vague traces of discolored patches where the sun was not in his favor. He was a veteran; he fought alongside Crusaders nearly for two decades, his loyalty and oaths never turning false. Benjamin Mills was a legend among the soldiers. Rumors had it that he faced twenty men all at the same time—not one of them harming him as he slaughtered each one of them, eager to please his commander. Unfortunately for him, due to overconfidence from being boasted of so heroically, it had cost the ex-soldier an eye. He now wore a cloth that diagonally ran across his face, covering his left eye, tied securely in the back. Those were the good old days for Benjamin, when he was still young and had his looks.

Oh, yes, he had truly been one for the ladies, but like most boys, eventually calmed and settled down. His beautiful wife, Rosaline, blessed his soul with four healthy, handsome sons that were now grown and taking their lives into their own hands. Unfortunately, Rosaline had past away several years ago when a deadly illness had hit home.

Hands clasped behind his back, he made his rounds back and forth in front of her closed door. Should he knock? No, she'd just tell him to go away. Should he try telling her one of his battle stories? Well, he would, only he had told her all of them. Should he—

"Ahh, Hell with it, Benjamin, boy," he said quietly to himself. "She needs time alone—" His haggard voice cut off as he coughed and cleared his throat. His aging was showing with every step that he took. He used to have a spring to his step. He used to be able to run for hours without tiring. He used to be able to hold his own during combat. But, now, he relied on her and Damiel to protect him when danger approached. He hated it. Although, there was nothing he could do about changing time. It was completely out of his hands. But oh, what he would give to be young again!

Scratching his stubble across his chin and jawline with his rough, calloused and dry hands as he paced, he began thinking of options. What should he do? It seemed she'd been locked in her room for millennium. His dirty blonde hair that used to be a bright, cheerful blonde, slight wrinkles, and dull blue eyes told the tale of how much agony he'd been through lately. He had enough to deal with: the Templar's were already hot on their trail, and now this. He wished Damiel was there with him. The boy was like a fifth son to him, and they always found comfort in each other's humor and friendship. But he had gone hunting down Hildegard, leaving him the babysitter of this heartbroken woman.

Damiel didn't even think she should feel anything. Still, Damiel was only nine and ten years old, barely a man yet. Yes, Damiel was tall, he was strong, he was muscular, he had a peculiar olive skin tone that was none too common amongst English folk. Damiel was a man on the outside, but not in the inside. He was still that troublesome teenager that loved causing mayhem, chasing girls, and thinking himself greater than everyone else.

The veteran had to admit that his skills with a spear were unlike anything he had ever seen before. He had never seen so many heads taken off with a single swipe with a weapon. The thought frightened yet comforted the old man. It was good to have a man like him on their side, and not the Templars'.

'Damiel will understand these things one day.' He hoped. Benjamin knew how she felt. He knew how violated and unloved and empty she must feel. He knew because he had healed Hildegard's wounds that had the same symptoms as hers. Only, she wasn't letting anyone near her wounds. The sound of quiet sobs made him lift his head to gaze mournfully at her door. He wanted to go in there. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. He wanted to tell her that she was worth so much more than that... that...

A year. Altair realized it had been a year.

The Master stared at the water, the steam welcoming him into the tub, as if it were beckoning him with invisible hands.

Beckoning him... like she did that night...

He hoped she was doing well. Business at Masyaf kept him from seeing her. What of his letters, though? He had sent many of them, and not one of them did she ever write back. The thought made his teeth clench together. Was she teasing him?

Lowering himself into the water, he leaned back against the tub and sighed. It felt refreshing to be allowed one moment of peace and quiet. At least, partly peace and quiet. Whenever his mind was not busy with Assassin business, she would always come creeping up into his brain. His mind told him to forget about her. His heart told him to find her and love her and make her his again.

Altair closed his eyes and tried to bring her image to his head. It was difficult at first, and for a moment he feared he'd forgotten her features.

But he had luck on his side.

She had a strong jaw, determination etched into her very flesh. Her skin was light—light as the moonlight itself, except her cheeks. They weren't exactly pronounced, yet they weren't non-existing. They were... perfect. Perfect and a beautiful, natural light pink. Her chin was angular yet rounded all at the same time, a slight curve making out the end of it. Above her chin rested her lips.

How much he craved those lips.

She had a thin upper lip with a lower lip that made up for the loss of flesh. Whenever she smiled—not counting her provoking smirks—it brought a blanket of warmth over his heart and invaded his thoughts with romantic nothings.

The woman's eyebrows neatly decorated the ridges above her eyes. They were thick from the inside, and thinned out when they expanded their length in a calm arc halfway to her temples. Her nose wasn't tiny and snooty either. It was normal, with a slight point to the tip of it. It sloped so that it was visible where her forehead and nose met, but not visible in a way that screamed to take your eyes off of it.

And her eyes...

Altair smiled, the image becoming clearer and clearer. Her eyes were a deep shade of grey. One would mistake them for a deep shade of blue, but he was so close to her that night that he could perfectly see the difference of colors.

She had a beautiful mane that had its own personality, to say the least. Mainly, he had seen her with it tied up in a bun on top of her head. Rarely did she ever let her hair fall free from the hellish bonds that held it high above her shoulders, restricting her beauty from flowing down and gracing herself even more. But when she did wear her hair down...

It was so dark a color. Altair had seen many, many dark haired women in the Holy Land, but none like this. Their hair was always a deep brown or dull shade of black. He thought black was just black before he saw her locks. They were so deep a black that when the moon reflected its beauty onto it, it almost had a midnight blue shimmer to it. And when the sun decided to sprinkle its purity onto her, it would shine so gorgeously that all the Assassin wanted to do was to hold her tight and breathe in those wavy, silken strands that cascaded down her strong yet thin neck, down her shoulders that had triumph written all over them, and finally resting just above her breasts in neat, looping curls.

Thinking of her this way made him feel that she was with him. He felt her hands cradling his cheeks, lightly kissing his lips. She was there.

Removing himself from the tub, he dried himself off and, without bothering to change into clothes suitable for sleeping, tumbled into bed, never opening his eyes from her image embedded into his thoughts.

She was there. She was snuggled up next to him, completely nude, her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her cheek against him. Smiling from the thought of her being with him, Altair stretched his arm out, then curled it back, as if he was holding her closer to him. He could feel her stomach rise and fall from breathing with his hand on her waist. He could feel her bare, exposed breasts resting their soft ample beings on his side.

Sleep claimed him within moments. But, however satisfying his fantasy might have seemed, he knew deep down that when morning came, his moment alone with her would vanish like the wind.

It had been a year since he and Maria Thorpe had made love.