Altaïr knows how a river feels. He knows the ceaseless tumble and roll, the quiet rush of the liquid against the ground as it traverses off toward the sea. He knows how it feels to be continually pushed along through time without ever realizing (until it's later suddenly) that time has passed at all. He knows, too, how it feels to be consumed by the depth of a larger body of water when you are but a small river. He is consumed likewise by time, and it goes on, and on, and on, and on.
Even now, as he hides around the corner of the door to watch his friend's son, to watch his own son, he feels it. He feels like he is being thrown back and forth through time endlessly.
Another Assassin's son is being babysat in the ebbing light of the sun as it sinks below the horizon out of one of the windows of Masyaf. Tazim has the toddler in his arms, rocking, while Darim is reclined in the wide frame of the window's sill. Tazim hums; it's an old song, soft and slow. It's a lullaby, wrapped in the exotic Arabic dialect they all know well. Tazim's figure blurs momentarily.
Altaïr can't decide if it's the Apple's madness twisting his vision, or if it's tears.
It's not really Tazim anymore, swaying in the fading orange light of the room. It's Malik, the Malik who Altaïr knows—knew. With one arm, the man is holding a baby, holding tiny Darim close to the dark robes of the dai, chanting low and gently while the child nods with sleep. Woven basket on the women's heads. Figs and dates for lunch.
Lamb is served for dinner with bread. Father eats it with a crunch.
Malik stops to look up at the door, only now it is not the one-armed man from just after the birth of Altaïr's first son. It is Tazim again, who is Malik, who is still Tazim-with-two-arms, Tazim-the-young, Tazim-almost-his-father-but-not-his-father. It pains Altaïr to see the image fade into another generation, and Tazim, unknowing, slowly spins back around toward Darim and the window.
"Woven basket," he is singing, "on the women's heads…"
Darim is curiously watching, doesn't notice his father around the door. "Where did you learn that?" he asks.
Tazim continues to hum, arms and shoulders rocking the toddler who has long since been asleep. "My father," Tazim finally says in reply, eyes down at the beginning of life in his arms. There is something strangely different about holding a baby (and it is Altaïr who thinks this; he knows what it is like) rather than holding a blade.
"Do you know any more?" and Darim's voice sounds teasing when he asks.
Altaïr can't see what kind of look that gets his son, but he already knows that it is probably flat and not amused. Tazim is his father's son. Tazim is Malik, yet not Malik all at once.
"I didn't know you wanted a lullaby, too," Tazim retorts, but then the silence that follows, even with Darim's half-smirk, is an obvious attempt at making his voice more soft, a voice that can be interwoven with song. Tazim sings, though it's more like a chant, and while a woman could have held the melody a little better, the husk to Tazim's voice is hypnotic.
The words are not the same as the time Altaïr feels is slipping steadily away. The words are simple, and they are short and fleeting. The song hangs only briefly in the air of the room while the rays of the sun are swallowed up by the Masyaf mountains. Although he thinks that he hasn't completed half of what he wants to complete, he has finally, agonizingly, come to the realization that it will soon be time for him to move on into another world. It will be time for him to pass on all of himself, all of his work, to his son and his son's friend, his friend's son. His chest pinches, but he trusts Darim and Tazim with Masyaf.
He has out-lived all of those who he has loved with unfortunate luck. There is an acceptance, however, that has settled calmly over his mind, the mind crazy with still lingering grief, with still lingering illusions of the Apple. He misses the warm, tanned skin of his brother, of Malik, of the smell of sandalwood and incense sticking to the dark robes. He misses his wife, her soft flesh and dark hair, the stern scold to her voice when she reprimanded him, the delicate quake to it when she spoke to their children. He misses Sef, the boy's light-colored hair that smelled like hay, the yelp or jeer, the waving of a wooden sword, or the faint rise and fall of breath during the night while sleeping and dreaming childish dreams.
Tazim's voice turns into the rolling depth of Malik's, and in the words of the song, Altaïr can hear the voice of his friend beckoning him to come home soon.