It's been three months since her first time before everything comes to light.
Truth be told, the tiny differences hadn't really bothered her. When her monthly bleeding didn't come three times in a row, she was ecstatic. There was no serious, crippling pain or giant mess she had to deal with. So, she dismissed it as a blessing and continued to do her job to regain her status, reminding herself that Al Mualim had been generous to accept her into the brotherhood and train her. Her breasts had hurt, and hurt badly at times, but she didn't have an option of stopping. So, instead of binding her chest so tightly as she was used to doing, she let her breasts out a little bit, binding them loosely, extremely loosely, and ignoring the leers from the older assassins and the curious stares of the novices and the bright-eyed youths. Her breasts seemed bigger than she remembered, but she had bound them flat against her chest for years. It helped that she was small-chested to begin with, but it seemed that she was inching into a medium-sized chest without realizing it. It hurt, but it was manageable.
Of course, she also started to lose her flat belly with the pain in her breasts. Even then, she didn't care. She simply seemed to take it as a good sign she was finally putting on a bit of weight. Even Al Mualim seemed pleased with it. There was no doubt he had been worried with the amount of weight she had lost after Solomon's Temple. The extra size and the cushiony weight proved to them both that she was finally stepping forward from her losses.
But it's been about three months now since she lost her virginity, and Malik has been even crueler to her. Still, as she sinks into the pillows at the bureau, she can't help but feel good. She closes her eyes, running her hands over her rounding belly and smiling. She's finally gaining weight. She sleeps soundly that night, dressed in just her robes and pants, having taken everything off.
When she wakes and eats breakfast, she's sick to her stomach. Everything comes back up. And it's a violent retching, too. She's trembling and hungry, and she can't even enjoy a simple breakfast. Malik walks by with the remnants of the breakfast, and she vomits stomach acid up into the jar that she'll have to clean later. She remains hunched over the jar, even as Malik brings her water, and she sips it slowly after rinsing her mouth out. There's no way she can do her mission today.
Of course, it helps that violent storms come ripping through Jerusalem, putting off the funeral for an indefinite amount of time.
She lies in the pillows, running her fingers over her stomach and musing that she'll lose this weight, too. Still, she savors the weight while she has it. Malik comes out to fetch her, and she's busy watching the storm rage above the latticework. She's soaked to the bone, but she doesn't want to move. The rain feels good. She misses the odd look he gives her as she continues to stroke her belly, her eyes closed.
She misses dinner that night, but her stomach doesn't complain. She forgets to clean the jar, but when she's there again the next morning, it's surprisingly clean.
This continues for a week, and she's as sick as a dog. The storm has pushed the funeral back forever, it appears, and she revels in the time she can take off to get better.
With the vomiting comes the most disorienting feeling of dizziness. She thinks it's from dehydration, but she's not entirely sure. It certainly doesn't help her twisting stomach. After a week, she begins to get cravings, and surprisingly, Malik fetches the food for her. It's already there when she wants it, sitting on the counter, and Malik doesn't say anything when she dips her fingers into it as if he knew she would want it. It's Heaven when she sinks her teeth into a bite of meat and it doesn't come back up. Her stomach is still growing, despite the fact that she's been retching up every other meal into the jar.
When it continues into a second week at the bureau, Altaïr begins to get worried. She doesn't know what's wrong, but it's not going away. She's stayed out of Malik's way as much as she can, but this is just getting ridiculous.
"Malik," she says as she walks into the main area. "Malik, I need a doctor. I'm still not feeling well."
Malik looks at her, raising an eyebrow. Silence reigns for a few seconds, but she refuses to back down from her request. She needs something to help her get better. It is evening, and the doctors will be going home shortly. Finally, Malik sighs, irritated, and sets down his quill.
"Surely you have figured it out by now that no doctor will be able to cure you."
She frowns. "What nonsense are you talking about?"
She watches as Malik rolls his eyes and rubs his ink-stained fingers across his eyes. "Altaïr, you are, quite possibly, the most unobservant idiot I have ever seen."
She scowls. "Malik. I need a doctor."
"Altaïr, you are pregnant."
She blinks and doesn't believe him. There's no way she could be pregnant. No way at all. The only man she's slept with is Malik, and that was forever ago. Malik sighs and steps around the counter.
"Your morning sickness, your cravings, your weight gain, your… increased chest size—it is all a part of pregnancy. And I will assume that you do not have your monthly bleeding, given that you haven't keeled over in pain yet in my bureau as you normally do around this time."
Her scowl turns into a frown. Pregnant? Surely she's not pregnant. There's no way she could be pregnant. Even as Malik scowls at her, she doesn't think that she could be pregnant.
But then again…
She's seen the pregnant women in the village. She's heard horror stories about their pregnancies. She knows (sort of) what goes on, and it does sound frighteningly familiar to what she's going through, now that Malik has mentioned it. Perhaps there is some truth in what he said, her traitorous mind whispered. After all, her breasts would grow bigger to make milk for the child. She couldn't lose weight because something was growing inside her. She swallows, and her frown is turning into a look of abject horror as it slowly sinks in. She may be pregnant, and the baby would be Malik's. It would have to be. He's the only man she's slept with (and hot damn did it feel good). She knew she should have kept her legs closed, but she had been so eager for him, just once, just once so that she could move on. She can feel the blood drain from her face, and she has to crouch down so that she doesn't fall. She slides to an upright fetal position, perched on her feet with her arms around her legs. She has been experiencing the same symptoms the pregnant women in the village experience. And she has been gaining weight despite the fact that she hasn't been able to keep down a big meal.
"No…" she whispers.
Which would mean that the baby is Malik's—but there's no way he would want it. The fact that she got him in bed was a hard-worked plan she had been trying for months. She swallows again as she begins a tiny rock in her balled-up crouch.
She's pregnant.
And the baby is Malik's.
She looks when Malik looms over her, scowling, and she can't help but whimper. Was this her punishment for Solomon's Temple? Malik shakes his head, turning around and walking behind the counter.
"That's what you get for being a whore, Altaïr."
She lets out a dry sob, fisting her hands in her hair. "I—I can't—"
"If you sleep around, that's what's going to happen," Malik hisses.
Altaïr feels like crying. She looks up at him, and he's glaring at her.
"M-Malik—Malik…" she tries, rocking a little harder and trying to find the words. Then, with a despaired wail, she plants her face against her legs, holding her stomach.
"Malik, you're the only one I've slept with," she manages to say, her mind racing through a million different thoughts.
She has to get rid of it. There's no way she can keep it. Al Mualim won't like that she's pregnant. She supposes she could provoke Malik to a fist fight and take a hit or two to the stomach. Surely that would get rid of it. Of course, Malik might not want to, given how "nice" he's been the past two weeks. Maybe she could go get in a fight with some guards. Then she could work out, long and hard, and get rid of it. She can't keep the baby. She can't. She's not even married—and she refuses to have her child grown up without two parents in a good relationship. Everything should be better for her children than it was for her. Everything.
Her breathing is coming in quick little pants now, and she's short of breath, and hot damn that feeling of dizziness is back. She has to get rid of the baby. She has to. It's for the baby's own good. She has to. She can't bring a child into this world. She has to get rid of it. She has to.
She rises quickly, her mind still in overdrive, and begins to head toward the exit. She has to get rid of it quickly. Dizziness be damned—nausea be damned. She has to get rid of the child in her stomach. She has to act quickly, before it can grow another second, as if it might pop out of her at any given time. She's got to get rid of this child of hatred.
And then a hand clamps down around her wrist.
"And just where do you think you're going?" Malik snarls.
She whips her head around to look at him, sifting through her thoughts as she tries to process what he said. He should understand. He should. She hisses back at him, tugging at her wrist halfheartedly as she waits for the dizziness to disappear from the myriad of swirling thoughts in her head.
"I'm going to get rid of it, what else? I can't bring a child into this world."
"You can't just kill it, either."
"I'm an assassin. A life is a life, no matter what age. Let me go," she says with a snarl, tugging on her wrist again and feeling Malik tighten his hold.
"So you'll willingly murder an innocent child? Didn't you learn from the first time?" Malik hisses.
Altaïr hisses back. "I am not bringing a child into this world. End of story."
"Even if it's mine?"
"What does that matter?"
"Perhaps I wish to keep it!" Malik shouts, snarling.
Altaïr would punch him, should punch him, but she can't bring herself to. She's panicking, and she needs to get rid of this thing before it's too late. It could pop out at any moment. She has to get rid of it before it comes to life.
"That is a laughable matter," Altaïr spits, tugging at her wrist, knocking Malik off balance, and managing to get a few steps closer to the exit before she's stopped again. "It would remind you of me every time you looked at it. I will not let you hate an innocent child. It is my body. I am not even married. I will not bring a bastard child into this world to be scorned and hated."
She tugs again, harder, but Malik remains firm, expecting it. Even though her response is semi-logical, her answer seems to only anger the man more. Her pulse is still pounding, and she needs to go now and get rid of it. She has to, but Malik does not seem quite so keen on that.
"Then we shall get married!"
"And have a loveless marriage?" Altaïr shouts back as panic enters her thoughts at marrying Malik, her voice getting higher pitched as she nears hysteria. She can't handle this, not right now. "I think not! Let me go, Malik! I shall pay for my sins in Hell: just leave me be!"
Malik's eyes are burning with fury, and Altaïr grabs his arm with every intention to break it. She stumbles when she's yanked forward and Malik's strong arm wraps around her.
"And whoever said it would be loveless, Altaïr?"
The question is quiet, and it shuts Altaïr down like a grave injury. Of course it would be loveless. Malik has hated her ever since she was sent to Solomon's Temple (no matter the fact that she had been cramping even worse than normal and Al Mualim sent her there anyway). He hated her rightly, and she had hated Al Mualim for a while for ruining things between Malik and her. She can feel Malik along her back, all solid muscle. Of course would be loveless. She's hated herself ever since she was sent to Solomon's Temple (she should have struggled harder not to go, and Al Mualim should have realized his mistake). She hated herself rightly, and it was often fanned by the flames of hatred for her master. She can feel his arm around her, his hand resting on her belly and stroking it slowly. She could smell him, warm and perhaps slightly musky with the perfumes of incense clinging to him, surrounding her, breaking her down. It was enticing, inviting, like sin, and she wants to melt into his arm and never come back. It's calming her in an unexpected sort of way. Her mind isn't quite so panicked anymore, and even though she's still trembling, her pulse has calmed. She should be fighting him, but she's afraid to, for once, as if her traitorous body is keeping her from provoking a fight to get rid of the baby.
She swallows, and she's fighting the tears behind her eyelids. She had mastered her body, and that one moment with Malik between the sheets has ruined everything she has struggled to master.
"Altaïr, I know that most of your struggle has been alone, fighting to prove your worth to men, but you are not alone. You must understand this."
She's quiet, breathing in deep of the way the man behind her smells. She's trying not to cry, but it's getting increasingly difficult. This is why she was ridiculed as an assassin, because of her emotions, so she killed them, even happiness, but now there's a baby involved and suddenly everything seems to be happening at once. It's overwhelming, and she just can't handle this.
"Why else do you think it hurt so badly when Solomon's Temple happened? Why else do you think I was so upset when you slept with me?"
Her breathing turns ragged, and her eyes are stinging. She's losing the war against her own body. She needs to provoke a fight. She needs to get rid of the baby. But she can't. Her body seems paralyzed in Malik's hold, surrounded by the way he smells.
"It was Kadar who appeared to me in a dream, reminding me that you had been just about to start your monthly bleeding, that you couldn't be held accountable for your irritability and Al Mualim's idiocy at Solomon's Temple. He even laughed and said that he will forever remember when he told Robert that you were a woman and that you would beat him in due time, that his face was priceless."
She brings her hands up to wipe at her eyes. She swallows again, breathing in deep and trying to keep herself from crying. Fight, her mind whispers, fight. But her body isn't moving. The hand on her stomach feels nice. The body against her back is lulling her into believing that she might be able to spend forever with him. Her mind is weak and traitorous. She needs to get rid of this baby. She will never open her legs again.
"It hurt more, too, when you slept with me, and I believed that I was just another man. I believed I was just another faceless person you had slept with. That hurt more than you know. But now it makes sense, in hindsight, your awkwardness with undressing me, your fumbling knowledge of a man's body."
She surges forward, managing to break the man's hold as she stumbles out and falls into the pillows. Malik looks mildly surprised, but Altaïr snarls, despite the feeling of tears down her cheeks.
"Shut up, Malik," she spits. "Shut up! I don't want to hear it!" She looks away. "I'm getting rid of the baby regardless of whether you like it."
There's silence for a moment, and she draws her legs to her chest. Fight, her mind is telling her. She needs to get rid of this problem. She can't let Malik in. He would ruin her reputation as an assassin. This baby would.
"I—I can't—I can't do—"
She hears a sigh, then feels a hand brush against her hair. She can't stop the tears.
"There does not have to be an 'I,' Altaïr," she hears. "But you have to be willing to make the changes—or is your heart so set on getting rid of the child?"
She's quiet as she sniffles, the tears still leaking out. She had never considered having a child before she was ready.
"It would ruin the reputation I have struggled for so long to build," she mutters, still not looking up at him.
There is silence again, and she can't help but think. Now it not the time for a baby. Not as she prepares to kill Robert de Sable at the funeral. The funeral would not wait forever.
"And I cannot afford not to kill Robert at the funeral."
There's silence again. Malik, for once, seems to be at a loss for words. The hand on her head disappears, and she looks up after a little bit. The man is sitting there, looking as if his feathers have been ruffled. He's staring at her, frowning, and she looks away, sighing.
"Altaïr, I will not allowed him to get away."
"Not just that, Malik. After the pregnancy, I'll have to recover, and then breastfeed—"
"We can find a wet-nurse—"
"I don't want a wet-nurse."
"You cannot always have what you want, Altaïr."
"I can, and I will."
"You act like a spoiled child."
"I have earned the right to breastfeed my baby."
"Hardly," Malik scoffs.
"I have fought all my life to be viewed an equal to a man. If I have a child, it will be on my own terms, when I am ready to be a mother and not an assassin."
"Is there nothing that can make you change your mind?"
"Not now, with everything so close. My rank is within my sights, Malik. I cannot just give up everything I have worked for."
The man sighs. "What if the funeral is continued to be put off?"
"There is no way that the funeral will be put off for months. The body will have decomposed by then."
Malik sighs again, and then Altaïr's eyes flutter closed as she feels the man lean in and kiss each eye.
"Stop crying, you moron. You're wrecking your reputation by yourself."
She snorts, wiping her nose and eyes on her shirt. "Shut up."
Malik rises as she yawns. "Now come with me and let's get some sleep."
She glares and leans back into the pillows. "And what happens if I chose not to?"
"You're going to freeze the damn baby out of your belly."
She can feel a smile tug at her lips. All her hard work to school her emotions, and all of it is ruined now. She has a feeling this was just the start of problems far more serious than gaining her rank back. She rises slowly, and Malik snorts.
"You women," the man begins, casting a side glance that told her he was clearly trying to provoke her. "Always so fickle."
"You should be grateful I'm sleeping with you," she said, sticking her nose in the air and staring down it at him. "Most men would kill to get into my pants."
"Most men have killed to get into your pants, given that you are an assassin."
She rolls her eyes, giving him an unamused stare. "The last thing I need is to be reminded about how every man in the fortress stared at my chest when I stopped binding it."
"Most of them stared at your chest regardless of whether you bound it."
Altaïr snorts. "I'm not surprised, but at least they were more subtle about it."
"In such a sexually-restrained castle, such beautiful, bouncing breasts are a treat to see."
She trips him, snorting when he stumbles. "You are so full of bull shit, Malik."
"I speak the truth," he snarls, leading her to his bed.
He is already dressed for the night, Altaïr notices, and he lies down, making room for her. Is it really all that simple, she muses, removing her belts, armor, and outer robes. She's left standing her underclothes. Just a baby, and then the man she's craved for years is hers. Was it truly love he felt, she muses as she stares at him. He meets her gaze. There is no sympathy in his eyes, no pity. It's the same look he gave her before her downfall, when it was just the two of them resting. It's the one she always took as a challenge.
She fancies she sees just the tiniest bit of remorse buried beneath what some might consider love. But even that is quickly masked by the expectant, unyielding look she's used to.
