Story by Pistolwink. Obviously, Pistolwink neither owns these characters nor the world they interact with.
The horse's snort rang loudly through the rock walls of the narrow canyon as it shook its head. The hunched figure on its back absentmindedly patted its shoulder just forward of the saddle. The man's skin was slightly chapped from his long ride southward from Masyaf, high in the mountains of Syria, and a brief look of irritation flashed across his face. His back and butt hurt from the hard ride and he wasn't looking forward to dealing with the da'i of Jerusalem's Bureau.
Malik al-Sayf. The hooded rider grunted to himself. No doubt he would be subjected to more of the older man's vitriol as soon as he dropped through the roof entryway.
The horse tripped on a stone, no doubt tired itself from the journey. "We're almost there," the man murmured. Then you'll get to rest and my hell will only be beginning, he thought wryly to himself. Footing regained, the animal continued past the end of the rock walls and started down the slope towards the massive gates of the holy city.
Inhaling deeply, settling his nerves, the rider clucked and gave the horse's ribs a gentle jab with his heels to quicken its gait as they wound their way down the windswept road's sinuous curves.
Altaïr dropped through the wooden roof of the bureau's garden, landing on the marble tiles softly. The little piece of Paradise held within the city's walls was a safehaven, the sounds of the streets muddled by its stone walls. A haven, at least, until he had to face Malik.
Last time he was here, he had had to endure a scolding more humbling than the public stripping of his rank he had undergone in Masyaf only weeks before.
"Well, well, well..." The sarcasm in the voice was palpable.
Malik materialized in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and continued. "The fallen one returns." Altaïr could feel the other man's dark eyes boring into him, sharp as the hidden blade held tightly against the inside of his wrist and forearm. Just as deadly, too, he thought.
"Safety and peace, Malik." Altaïr greeted the da'i, hoping to defuse the situation.
The assassin sighed. Today was going to be a long day.
The desert air at night got as cold at night as it did hot during the day.
Their bodies were pressed together, breath leaving little puffs of steam in the frigid darkness. The wind howled outside the tent, muffling their sounds from their companions.
Teeth gently grazed little lines over throats, rough stubble brushing against rough stubble. Little kisses on the sharp ridge of Adam's apples, collarbones. Nuzzling. Fevered touches on cool chests and the hard nubs there, calloused hands running along sinuous arms.
There had to be some release for the heightened state of arousal while on the hunt, and there were cold nights where the heat of a companion under the blankets was most welcome. Yet there was something else present, a trust, an almost tender care for the other. It had existed as tension before it came to a head that night when both men wordlessly sought the embrace of the other, legs wound 'round each other, a silent oath made between the two as they found the relief that they sought in each other.
Altaïr jolted awake, finding himself in a sweat and hard from the dream, almost expecting to find Malik beside him as he once had. As the sleep cleared from his mind, he realized that the cold night air was just as biting as ever.
They had been lovers, once, before everything went wrong beneath the temple mount. How quickly love turned to hate. How quickly the sanctuary they had found in each other turned to a private hell.
Altaïr stared up at the blank firmament of the ceiling, clutching the blankets closer. A shiver passed down his spine and he closed his eyes, drifting into an uneasy sleep.
His mission in Jerusalem done, Altaïr saddled up his horse outside the city gates. Malik had been terse and unfriendly, though not as vitriolic as before, but their last few exchanges repeated themselves in his mind.
"-that you expect praise for merely doing as told, however, troubles me," he had snipped.
"It seems everything I do troubles you, " he had said softly, stung by the older man's words.
"Reflect on that, but do so on your way back to Masyaf," Malik had responded before turning his back to the younger assassin. Altaïr was rarely one to not end a conversation but this time he had nothing to fire back. He had questions for the Old Man back in his mountain fortress, but for whatever reason, even the pressing doubts that had nipped at his heels like dogs were shoved roughly back as his mind continued to linger on Malik's words.
Turning his horse to the north, he kicked it into a gallop, wanted to be away from the oppressive walls of Malik's city as quickly as he could. There were more who needed to die by his hand; he knew that he would be back in Jerusalem sooner than he would like. He had never really thought of love, but if there wasn't anything between them, why would Malik's words salt his wounds so much?
A cloud of dust whipped up behind him, he continued his ride back to the city in the mountains, much weighing on his mind.
At night, he remembers their times together. Tonight his mind wanders to the night before they left for Jerusalem, before everything came crashing down around him.
Altaïr and Malik had just received their mission from The Master when Altaïr had grabbed the coarse white fabric of the older assassin's cloak and darted out the iron gate and into the lush garden behind. Malik had followed, somewhat reluctantly, and hissed into his ear. "What do you think you are doing? Does the word subtlety not mean anything to you?"
He had pressed his mouth to Malik's, effectively hushing him. He had inhaled his lover's scent and tasted his skin, time suspended in Paradise, where there was just him and Malik. No kills to be made, no obligations, nothing but this garden and these rivers that flowed with milk and pure honey.
This was Paradise itself.
More lay dead and only one life remained to take, in Jerusalem. Jerusalem, Malik's city.
He had departed from Masyaf the day before and, rather than take a night to sleep, he had ridden through the dark. Now the sun's first rays broke over the horizon as it started its crawl across the desert sky. The golden rays of the morning sun made the stone of the great walls glow as once again the man and his horse crested the hill.
Altaïr sighed as he headed down into the city. What vinegar would Malik have for him today?
Today when Altaïr drops through the gate on the roof of the Jerusalem bureau garden, he is surprised that Malik greets him again. This time there is no sarcasm in the voice of the da'i that Altaïr can sense.
"Safety and peace, Altaïr."
Careful not to let his surprise show in his voice, Altaïr responded. "Upon you as well, brother."
"Seems fate has a funny way with things..."
What's this? No barbs? Altaïr gave a mental shrug. "So it's true, then. Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem." That man. That man was the reason for all of this- no- revenge was not the answer. But still, Malik would not have lost his arm, lost his beloved younger brother... He became lost in his thoughts momentarily. It wasn't until his mind was brought back to the present that he realized that his concern focussed entirely on Malik. What Malik had lost; not himself.
Shaken slightly by this realization, Altaïr nevertheless continued on with their conversation before beginning his work.
That night, he again stared at the ceiling of the Jerusalem bureau. Again, he remembered their nights together. He wondered if they might ever be reconciled; wondered if he would ever gain the forgiveness of his god. His god- Malik.
He wanted to apologize, wanted to say how sorry he was- but his pride, his damned pride, always got in the way. He knew that this final mission of his may easily not be one that he would return from, knew that if he ever was going to say it, that it needed to be before he left the next day to gather more intelligence and then to do what had to be done.
He drifted off to sleep, this time resting more easily now that he knew what he had to do.
The following day, after returning from his final scouting, he returned to the bureau to find Malik behind the counter.
"You've the scent of success about you, brother." Malik sounded almost- breathless? Altaïr shared what he had learned with the da'i and soon, Malik handed him the white feather to stain with the blood of their foe, giving him his blessing to do their Master's work. Altaïr had turned to leave when he stopped.
"Malik-" he paused. "Before I go, there is something I should say."
"Be out with it, then," came the response, short, but there was no anger in Malik's words.
His throat tightened slightly. "I've been a fool-" he finally managed to say.
"Normally I'd make no argument, but what is this?" Only weeks before, Malik's words would have cut deeply but this time, a gentle humor, chiding at worst, colored his retort. "What are you talking about?" he asked.
"All this time, I never told you I was sorry." The words of his musing the night before came back to him and, not knowing how to best say what he needed to say, went with what he had himself realized all too late. "Too damn proud. You lost your arm because of me, lost Kadar. You have every right to be angry."
A slight pause before the da'i spoke again. "I do not accept your apology."
Altaïr felt a pang of guilt at Malik's words, but nodded. "I understand," he softly replied.
Another moment of silence. "No. You don't." Altaïr knew in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't. He had never lost a limb, lost a family member, due to another's foolishness- there was no way he could ever understand what Malik had been through- no, what he had put Malik through. Then, to his surprise, Malik continued. "I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man who went with me into Solomon's Temple- and so you have nothing to apologize for."
"Malik-" he said. He didn't realize how much like a pleading child he sounded.
"Perhaps if I had not been so envious of you, I- I would not have been so careless myself." Malik looked down. "I am just as much to blame."
This time, it was Altaïr who took the dominant tone, correcting the da'i, although his voice was loving. "Do not say such things..."
"We are one. As we share the glory of our victories, so too should we share the shame of our defeat. In this way, we grow closer-" Malik closed his hand and brought it towards his chest, eloquently gesturing with his words as he always did. Altaïr felt at peace, felt a weight lifted from his shoulders.
"Thank you, brother..." he murmured.
Malik's voice was gentle as well. "Rest if you need to, Altaïr, so that you may be ready for what lies ahead." His face looked relaxed, not drawn taut with stress as it had been the last few times that Altaïr had seen him.
He leaned forward, drawing Malik into a gentle kiss, before starting to pull away. To his surprise, Malik grasped the front of his robes and pulled him to him in a passionate embrace. Altaïr yielded to the kisses of his lover, twining the fingers of his right hand together with those of the da'i's left.
Malik reclined, back on the pillows and the beautiful rugs that covered the floor, pulling Altaïr towards him. Altaïr went willingly, surrendering to his love, his true master. Indeed, it was no god, nor the old man of the mountain, but Malik to whom his will belonged. He was Malik's to command. The older man pulled his lover to his chest, kissing him, nuzzling him. Altaïr sank to his knees, following Malik, inhaling his scent- the musky tones of sandalwood from the censer that was always burning at his counter, the wool of his robes, and the warm smell of Malik himself.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, reveling in the sensation of the older man's lips grazing over his throat, sucking gently at his lower lip, the rasping brush of a couple day's worth of stubble. Fingers explored bodies that had not been touched for a long time and ached for the closeness of another.
Altaïr slid the silver-embroidered black robe from Malik's shoulders, murmuring words of love between heavy, heated breaths.
He stopped for a moment, panting, before whispering into Malik's ear. "I already lost you twice; once when I thought you had been killed and another when you denounced me and cursed my name. I cannot lose you again..."
"You won't, Altaïr." His words of reassurance were matched by a warm nuzzle below Altaïr's jaw and ear, and the warmth of Malik's hand gently cupping his cheek.
Passion renewed if not intensified, buckles were tugged at, hoods and robes thrown off in the heat of the moment. Both men were soon down to nothing, legs tangling together, skin pressed against skin. It was not unlike the first night they spent together, only this time there weren't sleeping comrades in the same area, with little need for silence since their sounds would be muffled through the walls of the bureau.
Little whimpers of pleasure escaped both men's lips as Altaïr's kisses moved downward, along the lines of Malik's toned abdomen, finding the pulsing there between lean thighs.
He takes the older man in his mouth, running his tongue along the ridges of the heat within his mouth.
Malik aches- he's been needing this for so long now. Seeing Altaïr all those times before was more painful than he could ever have admitted, either to the audacious young man or to himself. Now he's thrusting upward and his lover is taking everything he can give him. Suddenly the hot mouth is off of him, and an oiled hand replaces it, then Altaïr's lowering himself onto the hot flesh and- oh God- he can take little more of this exquisite torment.
Altaïr struggles to maintain his own composure but moves slowly nonetheless, reveling in the closeness to his lover, affirming their bond. He will let nothing take his love from him, including his own hubris- he would sooner sacrifice his own life than betray Malik again. He pulls away, slipping fingers down along the junction of thigh to hip.
His chest is heaving now as those calloused fingers explore that most intimate of places with surprising gentleness, their sensitive tips tracking the relaxation of each muscle, carefully reading the signs that Malik's body sends them.
When he feels that the man below him is ready, he oils himself and presses himself to the now-yielding area. Backs arch as he is given entrance and slides in, smoothly, easily, gently.
He doesn't move much; he doesn't have to. It has been so long for either of them- Malik hasn't taken a lover before Altaïr or since he left for Jerusalem; Altaïr hasn't even had an appetite for his hand. Quiet little thrusts do all that needs to be done. They are close; together now, melded into one being. There isn't a thing in the world that can separate them now.
Eventually those small movements and the expression of the love they have for one another build to the point where their mortal bodies cannot take it anymore and the pleasure floods them both, swelling over the walls of their holding back. Hot seed lands in ivory droplets on rapidly rising chests, tight skin over muscled stomachs, heads sink to rest in the neck of the other. Fingers twine, an expression of their inseparability.
This is where they are supposed to be, and they both know now. This is what completion is.
The unspoken bond between them made whole, Altaïr is ready to finish his work.
Malik traces the scar on his lover's face, down over his lips, lingering there slightly before moving on.
"Come back to me, Altaïr."
Altaïr assures him through the look in his eyes that he will. He knows now that he has much to live for, that this will be no suicide mission- there is much left to be done. Robert and his ilk will fall.
A slight blur of white and red cloak and the leather and metal of his weapons, and the assassin is gone. The da'i knows he will soon return, and turns back to his books, a slight smile on his face.
The scars of the past remain, but there is a new day ahead for them both. They are one.