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Description
Chapter One

The dry dust hung in the air and was captured by the sun-rays cutting through the otherwise dimly lit tunnel. The smell of hot summer days filled the alley covered from above by a large drapery of dark color. Even though the street gave shade from the burning sun, neither beggars nor citizens were present, only two men at a careful distance; Assassin and Templar, born enemies 'til the end of times.

Altaïr and the Templar stood, facing each other, staring at each other, keeping the silence around them as if it were sacred. The Templar looked like any other 'man of god'; armor, white tunica with the red cross and the typical Templar helmet. However, Altaïr knew better than to call Marcella a typical Templar. His armor, as shining as it was, weighed the man down. The tunica was greasy and covered in grime, the cross placed on it looking more like a bloodstain, and his helmet was held under his arm, leaving him vulnerable, in an act of trust. His face also differed from any other Templars' face who had gained his rank. Marcella did not wear a single scar, but the greying hair at his temples was indeed a sign of age, contrasting to the deep raven hair that reared up at his forehead like a two-inch big wave, and the short beard that barely covered his chin. And those slanted eyes. Oh, those wonderful eyes! In time, Altaïr had learned to get lost in those olive eyes, and this time was no different, as they faced each other, merely a few feet apart, unmoving.

They remained like that for several minutes, just staring, as if enjoying the other's emotions in those deep eyes, but they knew better. Yes, both their eyes reflected their emotions, but they were hardly enjoyable. Anxiety, sadness and fear. Terrible fear. The absolute fear of losing, losing each other, losing their sacred silence, losing their lives.

The Assassin shifted, the gravel under him crunching, and the sacred silence was broken. The Italian man still fixed his eyes as Altaïr made the move of turning half-way. It was only then that he saw the tears brimmed and blurred Marcella's vision. His insides tightened as he made two quick strides and took the taller man's face between his hands, crushing their lips together in a desperate kiss. In an attempt to bring them closer, Marcella seized the Assassin's uniform and pulled, ignoring the sound of his helmet hitting the ground, leaning forward, putting pressure on his lips while salty tears ran down his face, mingling with Altaïr's and trickling down their cheeks, finding their way to the corner of their lips. As Marcella softly kissed the salty drops off Altaïr's shaky lips the Assassin refused to separate, and pushed the other's face into his own again fiercely, opening his mouth, flowing tears leaving a salty taste in their mouths, tongues rasping against each other, white teeth clanging at contact.

The passionate kiss was broken as Marcella cried out and pulled away, moving his hands to Altaïr's backside and hiding his face in the crook of his lover's neck, sobbing uncontrollably, embracing the precious man tightly, closing his eyes, not wanting to let go. Altaïr did the same, cried along with the Templar, holding him equally tight, a nagging feeling in his gut, telling him their time was short. Too short. They both inhaled the other's scent one last time, Marcella memorizing the spicy, manly scent of the east while Altaïr memorized the soft, flower-like fragrance of the occident.

Angry voices broke through and both their eyes shot open, quickly breaking apart to look at each other for a second before the voices echoed again. They both franticly took off in the same direction, Altaïr slightly ahead, dragging the Italian man by the hand, knowing he wasn't as quick as him.

They sprinted through the streets like chased rabbits, pushing people aside and breathing heavily, still holding onto the other's hands as if their life depended on that and not their frantic run. Altaïr lead the way to all the shortcuts possible for the heavily armed and handicapped Marcella to take, but the following voices did not fade in the slightest. On the contrary, they seemed to grow louder and louder, throwing both men into a panic that constricted their throats, cutting off the air they needed to keep on with their race against danger. When they reached a gap Altaïr thought to be dark enough, he dipped into it, harshly pulling Marcella along, trying to melt in with the wall. The Templars ran past. They stayed there for a few agonizing seconds, panting, both still holding tight onto the other's sweaty hand. While Altaïr could still bear it, Marcella was simply wiped out.

"I did not even realize they were drawing so close." Altaïr murmured between his pants.
"Mm." Marcella contemplated the bright street with a worried frown, "We are getting slower."

After a few heavy breaths, he brushed sweat off Altaïr's brow, who kept his gaze on the opposite wall that was dangerously close to him, making him feel trapped. He, who was more used to the vast roofs of the city. Marcella's hand dropped to his side and he leant back his head, looking up into the bright-blue sky, realization dawning upon him.

He felt as if his legs were going to give out from under him. His teeth clenched and he wanted to cry out at the torturous bites in the upper parts of his legs, like the feeling of bolts twisting themselves into his flesh. Everything below his knees he barely felt anyway. Stupid legs, they were good for nothing. He wished they would just fall off. He gave a strangled groan as his head started spinning at the sensation, the torment too much for his brain to take, and Altaïr shot him an alarmed look.

"You cannot run any further, can you?"

Marcella leaned against Altaïr's shoulder and clenched his eyes as yet another screw drove itself into his leg, muscles spasming.

"I can- I will."

In a matter of seconds, Marcella gathered his thoughts again and they started flying across his mind, impaling themselves in a wall of conclusion.

"They're going to come back." the Templar rasped and paused, as if reconsidering something for a few seconds, "They're going to come back..."

He turned towards Altaïr whose eyes jumped back and forth between all the people on the main street already taking notice of them, glancing at them, unsure and slightly surprised. He was sure one of them would give them away sooner or later. Marcella still contemplated his lover with tender eyes, but he frowned, troubled, and squeezed Altaïr hand as if he was sorry.

"Go."

The Assassin whipped his head around and stared at Marcella, searching for some sign of hope in the sweat-soaked face, but he failed miserably. His lips pressed together, with pleading eyes, on the verge of breaking down in tears again, and he shook his head.

"Don't..." he breathed.

Marcella's eyes had turned hard, "You gave me your word, Altaïr."

"But -"

Marcella leaned forward, disregarding the people on the main street, and pressed a shaky, soft kiss on Altaïr's lips, "Know that I love you, my dear desert flower, learn to bloom without me... You have to. Now go!"

He pulled hard on Altaïr's hand, making the Assassin stumble further into the shadows of the narrow street while he was propelled into the exposing light of the main street. Immediately he heard the angry voices again and he took off in the opposite direction like a rushed animal. He came to the market and pushed people aside again, but they seemed reluctant, slowing him down until he reached one of the streets where fewer people paced, and he sprinted again, armor clinking, knees wobbling at every step, fists tightly clenched, arms moving in tandem with the seemingly endless cycle of his pumping legs and face distorted in a mask of pain. It had been long ago that he had given up any hope of winning this race, this race against death, but he had to buy some time, enough time for Altaïr to get away, just enough time for his desert flower... He still heard the angry shouts behind him; they had grown distinct, but by now he did not really care anymore. He had distracted them for long enough. He slowed down with a few wobbly steps and tilted his head back, gasping for air, sun glistening on his sweaty skin.

Something crashed into his back and he fell to the earth, and someone bore his knee into his neck as he grabbed Marcella's raven hair and pulled harshly, a pained cry erupting from his victim, throwing him into a back alley after a few agonizing seconds. As Marcella tried to scramble to his feet, he received a hard kick to his stomach, and he curled up and gasped for air before he coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth. He noticed how his mail shirt did not make the kick hurt any less, yet he was just happy to be distracted from his legs for a few seconds.

"Infidel!"

He was kicked again, this time in his left side, and he tried to stand, in vain, collapsing as someone hit his side again. The air knocked out of his lungs, Marcella fell onto his fours, black spots dancing in his vision, limbs trembling, as someone kicked down on his spine and his torso crashed with the ground, crushing his lungs once for all.

"Faithless scum!"

One long inhale without reward later, he was seized and pushed up the wall, only to be punched hard in the face. The back of his head collided with the stone, but the hands crushing his shoulders didn't let go, holding him up and tightly in place. He caught a glimpse of their swords, but he knew they were not going to use them. His uncontrollable legs kicked under him as he gasped for air every time he received a gloved punch. They were going to have their fun with him. Marcella, barely conscious, only aware of the fact that he was hit over and over again, finally sank to his knees, swollen eyes fluttering open, seeing the bright light above him.

"Pater ignosce, quia peccavi..." (Forgive me father for I have sinned.)

"I'm not your Father and it's too late for forgiveness," a cruel voice snarled, and Marcella's head was sent sideways. The only thing holding him up were the hands still gripping his arms.

With clenched teeth, Marcella looked up at the blurry figure of the Templar, blood flowing over his forehead into his left eye, coloring his vision. He literally saw rubin now. He inhaled deeply once, or rather tried, liquid from his nose filling his mouth with copper.

"Pater ignosce enim non dimiseritis nec peccatores peccatorum." he muttered, eyes fluttering. (Forgive me Father for I do not forgive sinners nor sins.)

He was hit across the face with a heavily gloved hand again, and this time he was sent crashing to the ground, coughing and spitting red liquid, copper taste taking over in his mouth entirely. His hand found its way to his split lips and he gingerly touched the blood, looking at it, unbelieving, mumbling quietly.

"Ignosce mihi infidelis.", he still stared at the red splotch on his fingertips, but raised his voice, "Sum infidelis infidelis manebo propter nomen tuis. Domine, tu infideles tuis!" (Forgive me for I am infidel. I am infidel, I will stay infidel for the name of your people. My lord, you are the infidel to your people!)

"How dare you, infidel!"

Another blow across his cheek silenced him, but only for a moment.

"Patris, Tu infideles tuis!" (Father, You are the infidel to your people!)

One of the Templars finally snapped completely. He knelt down and seized the surprised Marcella by the collar, hitting in a regular pattern, right into his enemy's face. The clinking of both armors sounded like a song's rattle. When the soldier reached back, Marcella gasped for air and shouted.

"Templari es infidelis tuis!" (Templar, you are the infidel to your people!)

The clatter of the armors filled the alley.

"Tu infideli!" (You are infidel!)

The Templar made a place for his three followers, who immediately assaulted Marcella, who, in a desperate attempt for protection, had curled up and held his arms over his head.

"Templari ego...! Templarii in vocatur infidelis per Templarii!" (I am the Templar...! A Templar , called infidel by the Templar!)

He barely felt the kicks now. In his weakened state he managed to gather his thoughts again, placing the last pieces of his prayer together.

"Ignosce mihi patre Adam amare et propitius ero te in omni non amare." (Forgive me Father for I am loving Adam, and I will forgive you for not loving at all.)

The clinking of armors, his frantic, short breaths, the bones cracking in his body, the lungs crashing in his torso and the infuriated insults accompanied his last words like a choir.

"Non omnino amare Deum. Adams amore tuo meliori te..." (You are not loving at all, God. Your Adams love better than you...)

In his delusions, sweat, blood and dust covering his face, eyes slowly sliding shut, blood-coated brows slightly pulled together, he finished his prayer in a whisper.

"Adam amat mi meliori te et meum amo Adam melior te amo...", (My Adam loves better than you, and I love my Adam better than I love you...), "Amo meo Adam ... Amo meo Adam..." he repeated, over and over, until he could no more.

(I'm in love with my Adam... I'm in love with my Adam...)

Description
Chapter One

The dry dust hung in the air and was captured by the sun-rays cutting through the otherwise dimly lit tunnel. The smell of hot summer days filled the alley covered from above by a large drapery of dark color. Even though the street gave shade from the burning sun, neither beggars nor citizens were present, only two men at a careful distance; Assassin and Templar, born enemies 'til the end of times.

Altaïr and the Templar stood, facing each other, staring at each other, keeping the silence around them as if it were sacred. The Templar looked like any other 'man of god'; armor, white tunica with the red cross and the typical Templar helmet. However, Altaïr knew better than to call Marcella a typical Templar. His armor, as shining as it was, weighed the man down. The tunica was greasy and covered in grime, the cross placed on it looking more like a bloodstain, and his helmet was held under his arm, leaving him vulnerable, in an act of trust. His face also differed from any other Templars' face who had gained his rank. Marcella did not wear a single scar, but the greying hair at his temples was indeed a sign of age, contrasting to the deep raven hair that reared up at his forehead like a two-inch big wave, and the short beard that barely covered his chin. And those slanted eyes. Oh, those wonderful eyes! In time, Altaïr had learned to get lost in those olive eyes, and this time was no different, as they faced each other, merely a few feet apart, unmoving.

They remained like that for several minutes, just staring, as if enjoying the other's emotions in those deep eyes, but they knew better. Yes, both their eyes reflected their emotions, but they were hardly enjoyable. Anxiety, sadness and fear. Terrible fear. The absolute fear of losing, losing each other, losing their sacred silence, losing their lives.

The Assassin shifted, the gravel under him crunching, and the sacred silence was broken. The Italian man still fixed his eyes as Altaïr made the move of turning half-way. It was only then that he saw the tears brimmed and blurred Marcella's vision. His insides tightened as he made two quick strides and took the taller man's face between his hands, crushing their lips together in a desperate kiss. In an attempt to bring them closer, Marcella seized the Assassin's uniform and pulled, ignoring the sound of his helmet hitting the ground, leaning forward, putting pressure on his lips while salty tears ran down his face, mingling with Altaïr's and trickling down their cheeks, finding their way to the corner of their lips. As Marcella softly kissed the salty drops off Altaïr's shaky lips the Assassin refused to separate, and pushed the other's face into his own again fiercely, opening his mouth, flowing tears leaving a salty taste in their mouths, tongues rasping against each other, white teeth clanging at contact.

The passionate kiss was broken as Marcella cried out and pulled away, moving his hands to Altaïr's backside and hiding his face in the crook of his lover's neck, sobbing uncontrollably, embracing the precious man tightly, closing his eyes, not wanting to let go. Altaïr did the same, cried along with the Templar, holding him equally tight, a nagging feeling in his gut, telling him their time was short. Too short. They both inhaled the other's scent one last time, Marcella memorizing the spicy, manly scent of the east while Altaïr memorized the soft, flower-like fragrance of the occident.

Angry voices broke through and both their eyes shot open, quickly breaking apart to look at each other for a second before the voices echoed again. They both franticly took off in the same direction, Altaïr slightly ahead, dragging the Italian man by the hand, knowing he wasn't as quick as him.

They sprinted through the streets like chased rabbits, pushing people aside and breathing heavily, still holding onto the other's hands as if their life depended on that and not their frantic run. Altaïr lead the way to all the shortcuts possible for the heavily armed and handicapped Marcella to take, but the following voices did not fade in the slightest. On the contrary, they seemed to grow louder and louder, throwing both men into a panic that constricted their throats, cutting off the air they needed to keep on with their race against danger. When they reached a gap Altaïr thought to be dark enough, he dipped into it, harshly pulling Marcella along, trying to melt in with the wall. The Templars ran past. They stayed there for a few agonizing seconds, panting, both still holding tight onto the other's sweaty hand. While Altaïr could still bear it, Marcella was simply wiped out.

"I did not even realize they were drawing so close." Altaïr murmured between his pants.
"Mm." Marcella contemplated the bright street with a worried frown, "We are getting slower."

After a few heavy breaths, he brushed sweat off Altaïr's brow, who kept his gaze on the opposite wall that was dangerously close to him, making him feel trapped. He, who was more used to the vast roofs of the city. Marcella's hand dropped to his side and he leant back his head, looking up into the bright-blue sky, realization dawning upon him.

He felt as if his legs were going to give out from under him. His teeth clenched and he wanted to cry out at the torturous bites in the upper parts of his legs, like the feeling of bolts twisting themselves into his flesh. Everything below his knees he barely felt anyway. Stupid legs, they were good for nothing. He wished they would just fall off. He gave a strangled groan as his head started spinning at the sensation, the torment too much for his brain to take, and Altaïr shot him an alarmed look.

"You cannot run any further, can you?"

Marcella leaned against Altaïr's shoulder and clenched his eyes as yet another screw drove itself into his leg, muscles spasming.

"I can- I will."

In a matter of seconds, Marcella gathered his thoughts again and they started flying across his mind, impaling themselves in a wall of conclusion.

"They're going to come back." the Templar rasped and paused, as if reconsidering something for a few seconds, "They're going to come back..."

He turned towards Altaïr whose eyes jumped back and forth between all the people on the main street already taking notice of them, glancing at them, unsure and slightly surprised. He was sure one of them would give them away sooner or later. Marcella still contemplated his lover with tender eyes, but he frowned, troubled, and squeezed Altaïr hand as if he was sorry.

"Go."

The Assassin whipped his head around and stared at Marcella, searching for some sign of hope in the sweat-soaked face, but he failed miserably. His lips pressed together, with pleading eyes, on the verge of breaking down in tears again, and he shook his head.

"Don't..." he breathed.

Marcella's eyes had turned hard, "You gave me your word, Altaïr."

"But -"

Marcella leaned forward, disregarding the people on the main street, and pressed a shaky, soft kiss on Altaïr's lips, "Know that I love you, my dear desert flower, learn to bloom without me... You have to. Now go!"

He pulled hard on Altaïr's hand, making the Assassin stumble further into the shadows of the narrow street while he was propelled into the exposing light of the main street. Immediately he heard the angry voices again and he took off in the opposite direction like a rushed animal. He came to the market and pushed people aside again, but they seemed reluctant, slowing him down until he reached one of the streets where fewer people paced, and he sprinted again, armor clinking, knees wobbling at every step, fists tightly clenched, arms moving in tandem with the seemingly endless cycle of his pumping legs and face distorted in a mask of pain. It had been long ago that he had given up any hope of winning this race, this race against death, but he had to buy some time, enough time for Altaïr to get away, just enough time for his desert flower... He still heard the angry shouts behind him; they had grown distinct, but by now he did not really care anymore. He had distracted them for long enough. He slowed down with a few wobbly steps and tilted his head back, gasping for air, sun glistening on his sweaty skin.

Something crashed into his back and he fell to the earth, and someone bore his knee into his neck as he grabbed Marcella's raven hair and pulled harshly, a pained cry erupting from his victim, throwing him into a back alley after a few agonizing seconds. As Marcella tried to scramble to his feet, he received a hard kick to his stomach, and he curled up and gasped for air before he coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth. He noticed how his mail shirt did not make the kick hurt any less, yet he was just happy to be distracted from his legs for a few seconds.

"Infidel!"

He was kicked again, this time in his left side, and he tried to stand, in vain, collapsing as someone hit his side again. The air knocked out of his lungs, Marcella fell onto his fours, black spots dancing in his vision, limbs trembling, as someone kicked down on his spine and his torso crashed with the ground, crushing his lungs once for all.

"Faithless scum!"

One long inhale without reward later, he was seized and pushed up the wall, only to be punched hard in the face. The back of his head collided with the stone, but the hands crushing his shoulders didn't let go, holding him up and tightly in place. He caught a glimpse of their swords, but he knew they were not going to use them. His uncontrollable legs kicked under him as he gasped for air every time he received a gloved punch. They were going to have their fun with him. Marcella, barely conscious, only aware of the fact that he was hit over and over again, finally sank to his knees, swollen eyes fluttering open, seeing the bright light above him.

"Pater ignosce, quia peccavi..." (Forgive me father for I have sinned.)

"I'm not your Father and it's too late for forgiveness," a cruel voice snarled, and Marcella's head was sent sideways. The only thing holding him up were the hands still gripping his arms.

With clenched teeth, Marcella looked up at the blurry figure of the Templar, blood flowing over his forehead into his left eye, coloring his vision. He literally saw rubin now. He inhaled deeply once, or rather tried, liquid from his nose filling his mouth with copper.

"Pater ignosce enim non dimiseritis nec peccatores peccatorum." he muttered, eyes fluttering. (Forgive me Father for I do not forgive sinners nor sins.)

He was hit across the face with a heavily gloved hand again, and this time he was sent crashing to the ground, coughing and spitting red liquid, copper taste taking over in his mouth entirely. His hand found its way to his split lips and he gingerly touched the blood, looking at it, unbelieving, mumbling quietly.

"Ignosce mihi infidelis.", he still stared at the red splotch on his fingertips, but raised his voice, "Sum infidelis infidelis manebo propter nomen tuis. Domine, tu infideles tuis!" (Forgive me for I am infidel. I am infidel, I will stay infidel for the name of your people. My lord, you are the infidel to your people!)

"How dare you, infidel!"

Another blow across his cheek silenced him, but only for a moment.

"Patris, Tu infideles tuis!" (Father, You are the infidel to your people!)

One of the Templars finally snapped completely. He knelt down and seized the surprised Marcella by the collar, hitting in a regular pattern, right into his enemy's face. The clinking of both armors sounded like a song's rattle. When the soldier reached back, Marcella gasped for air and shouted.

"Templari es infidelis tuis!" (Templar, you are the infidel to your people!)

The clatter of the armors filled the alley.

"Tu infideli!" (You are infidel!)

The Templar made a place for his three followers, who immediately assaulted Marcella, who, in a desperate attempt for protection, had curled up and held his arms over his head.

"Templari ego...! Templarii in vocatur infidelis per Templarii!" (I am the Templar...! A Templar , called infidel by the Templar!)

He barely felt the kicks now. In his weakened state he managed to gather his thoughts again, placing the last pieces of his prayer together.

"Ignosce mihi patre Adam amare et propitius ero te in omni non amare." (Forgive me Father for I am loving Adam, and I will forgive you for not loving at all.)

The clinking of armors, his frantic, short breaths, the bones cracking in his body, the lungs crashing in his torso and the infuriated insults accompanied his last words like a choir.

"Non omnino amare Deum. Adams amore tuo meliori te..." (You are not loving at all, God. Your Adams love better than you...)

In his delusions, sweat, blood and dust covering his face, eyes slowly sliding shut, blood-coated brows slightly pulled together, he finished his prayer in a whisper.

"Adam amat mi meliori te et meum amo Adam melior te amo...", (My Adam loves better than you, and I love my Adam better than I love you...), "Amo meo Adam ... Amo meo Adam..." he repeated, over and over, until he could no more.

(I'm in love with my Adam... I'm in love with my Adam...)