Malik leaned over the railing above the training ring, watching the Mentor play with his two young sons. The two chased him around with wooden swords, but he wasn't really trying to evade them. He allowed the two of them to tackle him to the ground, where they laid, laughing, in a pile. As Malik watched them, he felt a smile tug gently at the corners of his lips.
"What does he think he's doing?" sneered a voice from next to him.
Malik turned to see Abbas. He, too, was looking down at Altaïr, Darim, and Sef, though there was an expression on his face of distaste. His eyebrows were drawn together, and his lips were pressed into a thin line. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his spine was straight; he was not leaning casually against the railing as Malik was.
Malik raised an eyebrow at him. "What does it look like he's doing? He's spending time with his children."
"This is not the way of the assassin." Abbas growled, "Ever since he's become Grand Master, Altaïr has changed the foundation of the order!"
"He is doing his best to improve the order." Malik said calmly.
"He spits at tradition!" Abbas hissed.
Malik released a sigh through his nose. His eyes closed momentarily in an attempt to keep a neutral expression before turning back towards Abbas. "Tradition reminds us of our heritage, but must not chain us to the past. The world is ever changing, and it is our duty and nature as human brings to rise to meet these changes. For Altaïr, that means spending time with his children, rather than having them grow up without really knowing who their father was, the way Rashid Ad-Sinan had us grow up." he added with a wry smile.
If possible, Abbas's scowl deepened. He tore his gaze away from Altaïr and his children, and regarded Malik with an icy gaze. Malik stared back at him, waiting for him to speak.
"How can you support him so?" Abbas demanded, "That man," he jabbed a finger down at the training ring. "Took your arm. Your brother. Your career as an assassin. Don't you think that he should pay for what he's done?"
The easy smile melted from Malik's lips. Honestly, there were times when it seemed like just yesterday that he, Altaïr, and Kadar had crept down into the depths of Solomon's Temple. Some nights, the nights where the phantom pain in his arm was the worst, Malik would awaken with that very question in his mind, and he would question why he was supporting and helping Altaïr. He would often leave his room and walk through the cold stone halls of Masyaf, trying to work through his mood. More often than not, Altaïr would join him, undoubtedly haunted by the terrible visions the Apple showed him. Neither of them ever spoke; they always looked over the grounds of Masyaf, sorting through their dark thoughts, in silence, each grateful for the other's companionship. They grew closer, in those silences.
Malik glanced down at Altaïr again, with his children before turning towards Abbas once more. "No." he said, "That Altaïr, the one we see down there playing with his children, is not the same Altaïr that took away my arm or killed Kadar. Yes, I am angry at the Altaïr that displayed such arrogance in Solomon's Temple. However, that Altaïr is dead. He has been gone for years. I am positive he will not return."
Abbas studied Malik for a moment, his eyes narrowing, before he snorted in disgust and stalked away. Malik stared after him in dismay until he felt Altaïr's presence at his side. Malik glanced at him to see that he was holding up Sef with one arm, who was asleep with his head against his father's shoulder, and the other hand was holding Darim's, who was yawning and rubbing his eyes. Altaïr himself was frowning.
"Conflict," Malik said truthfully.
Altaïr's frown deepened, but he didn't say anything. Malik punched him lightly on the shoulder, the smile returning to his face.
"C'mon, I'll help you put these two to sleep, and then we have some reports to go over."
