My outtake on Altaïr's and Malik's relationship. Be warned, contains angst and hate and gay relationships.
Don't sadly own the characters, Ubisoft does.
Also English is not my native tongue so there might be some mistakes, although le wonderful Kelirehenna betaed this. 3
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They say no one dared to approach the hospital section of the fortress that night. The pained screams of a man who had lost his brother and had his arm sawn off were unbearable to hear. Yet here he was. Staring quietly at the pale, sweaty man lying on the bloodied bed. Altaïr wondered why he had come, he knew that this conversation wouldn't be pleasant. A nervous novice, his innocent features unpleasantly reminding him of Kadar, had come knocking on his door in the middle of the night, saying his attendance was requested in the hospital section. For a split second, his thoughts had been flooding with horrifying thoughts - oh God let him be alright- but before he had been able to even fully register them, they had been gone, like they had never existed.
Few candles were the only sources of light in the dimly illuminated hall. The hospital wasn't that big, but the wide spaces between the beds gave it an abundant feeling. Few of the beds were occupied by other assassins, others moaning with pain. The attack led by Robert de Sable to Masyaf had cost them a great deal of damage. Again, another thought Altaïr didn't want contemplate further. He had noticed he was almost treated like plague in the fortress. All the disapproving whispers and looks always ceased when he passed by, but he was an assassin. He still had the ability to hear things he wasn't supposed to hear even if he didn't want to hear them.
Malik was glaring at him. Even though while suffering from agonizing pain, the intensity in his resentful eyes was not diminished. Altaïr suddenly wished he had his hidden blade with him; its continuous presence was somehow calming. With a slight grimace he remembered how it had been taken away from him. It was like everything in this fortress was set out to make him think of most unbearable things. Malik did not fail to notice this almost indistinguishable change in his seemingly emotionless face, as his lips tightened and the expression in his feverish face became more furious. This man knew him too well.
"How long are you going to just stand there?" Each word was spoken with utmost hate, his voice surprisingly distinct. Altaïr didn't reply, he tried to keep his gaze averted from the bloody, bandaged stump Malik's arm had been reduced to.
"What? What are you looking at? I'm sure you can conjure up at least some half-witted obscenities." Altaïr almost had to admire the incredible perseverance, how Malik managed to turn this pain into indescribable rage. But given the situation, he didn't feel any particular joy witnessing this poisonous display of hateful words, all directed at him.
It was clear that their little talk would turn nasty very quickly now. He couldn't just stand there and take the insults. His pride had suffered enough. Wasn't it the one thing that caused all this...?
"I would have nothing to do with you, yet it was you who had me sent here. So I could ask you the same question." The words came out harsher than he had intended. But, there was no way he could correct the situation anymore. Apologize to him. For everything. He noticed Malik was clenching the sheet with his healthy hand. No going back now.
"You would have nothing to do with me? How gracious of you! Excuse me while I'll go inform my amputated arm of your generosity!" Stop. Stop.
"Don't be ridiculous, Malik. If you have nothing to say to me, I'll leave." It was like he had no control of the words coming out of his mouth.
"RIDICULOUS? I would kill you right now where you stand if I could! Do you think you can just stand there looking indifferent when you alone are responsible for Kadar's death!"
"Every man for himself. I am responsible only for my own life."
"BECAUSE OF YOU HE IS DEAD! MY BROTHER! YOUR ARROGANCE COST ME KADAR, MY ARM AND ALMOST OUR BROTHERHOOD!" Malik's voice was raspy, but it still held so much power Altaïr almost winced. But he wouldn't back down anymore.
"I will not listen to a mockery of a brother lesser than me in skill and rank!"
"No. No, it is you, who is the lowest, the most despicable of us all. And if the word 'brother' ever escapes from your lips again, I will do you in with my own hands!" Altaïr suddenly noted how quiet it had become in the hall, all of the occupants staring at them intensely. "You can try, and see if it goes as well as it went in your last fight", he wanted to reply, but something stopped him before he could voice the severe insult. Instead, Altaïr turned and started walking away, not saying anything. He wouldn't have to listen to any of this.
"ALTAÏR! DON'T THINK YOU CAN JUST WALK AWAY FROM THIS! I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!" The furious voice echoed behind him on the stony hallway. Altaïr hadn't even noticed clenching his fists, his nails were digging inside his palm. He wouldn't have to stand any of this. It had become blissfully quiet in his head. No voice whispering to face all what he had done.
XXXXX
A peaceful day in an assassin's life was always a luxury. You could never expect where the work would lead you or what would happen. To Altaïr those little moments were of great value, something to go back to when he needed the strength to be strong. Like this, sitting on the dry grass, the hood shielding him from the burning sun, watching Malik paddle in the small pond on the side of a tall cliff. Their horses nibbled at the grass, seemingly happy to take a break from the long ride. The ride to Jerusalem would still last hours and they weren't in a particular hurry. It was so serene, like a last hiding place where nobody could find them, before the real world would come and greet them with endless enemies.
The assassin robes Altaïr was wearing felt dusty and sweaty against his tanned skin, but sitting on the shore still seemed like a safer choice for him. He watched, little unnerved, how Malik paddled deeper, the water hugging already his stomach. The man had a content look on his face when he turned, his bare chest muscled and sweaty.
"Are you sure that just looking at the water cools you down? Why don't you come here and try it?" He sounded almost amused, but Altaïr didn't mind. It was rare to see him this relaxed.
"I'm fine like this", he called to Malik, and the man laughed. He should laugh more often, Altaïr thought, he had never noticed how Malik's eyes held so much delight when he did that.
"I won't argue with you if that's what you say, brother." The man grinned, splashed some water on his face. Silence fell between them, Altaïr had to take his eyes away from the other assassin so he wouldn't notice his troubled face.
"Don't you think it's a little late to call me that?" He finally said quietly after a long pause. Malik's hands immediately stopped, but he wasn't looking at Altaïr anymore, his slight smile impossible to read. Instead, Malik looked at the distance, eyes squinting to see something hidden from him in the bright sunlight. Altaïr was afraid to disturb the silence again. He was afraid what was the man was going to say. The relaxed moment was gone.
Finally Malik turned, looking at him with a composed expression. Said something. Something important. Altaïr remembered he had smiled. Happily? Mischievously? Sadly? He could not remember. The words so important, yet they escaped him. Even years after, he could not recollect the words. One more thing to regret.
XXXXX
The tension in the bureau in Jerusalem was uncomfortable, almost unbearable to take. It was always like this when he arrived. Malik found it very hard to concentrate on anything; the boiling rage inside him he could hardly restrain always found ways to set in and the words that escaped from his thin lips were harsh and bitter.
If someone had told him he was going to lose all the things he held dear he would have probably laughed. If someone had told him it was all because of one man he wouldn't have believed it. But the law of every possible thing going wrong that could go wrong, it seemed, was the one thing you could always count on in this world, even though Malik would not have cared to.
His amputated arm hurt. Not in a way that was unbearable, the pain felt more like a loud, constant voice in the back of his skull, only he couldn't make out the words because they were all blurred together and erratic. Sometimes he would to wake up in the middle of the night, feeling sharp pain, like someone was clenching his hand really hard. Only when he reached out to his side he remembered his arm wasn't there anymore.
Altaïr was playing chess by himself on the floor of the bureau, ever emitting that sort of relaxed aura of indifference. Each move he made was the result of careful contemplation. A white knight to the left. A black pawn one panel forward, only to be eaten by a white pawn. Every move plotted like a well executed assassination. One mistake could mean the end of the game. Only one mistake could mean the end of everything.
The assassin paused to take a sip a water from a decorated mug and stole a glance at Malik's direction. Without the hood on his face looked different. Much less like the smug, selfish bastard in Solomon's temple.
"Do you still play this game often?" Casual question in a casual tone. Maybe he was curious. Maybe he was trying to break the ice. Maybe he just chose to ignore the venomous looks Malik was giving him and pretend that everything was normal. Malik didn't care.
"I don't see what I do in my spare time concerns you in any way", he spat, drawing the last line of a building in an angry swipe. Altaïr looked away, for a moment his features showing hesitation.
"I just... " he paused, and actually dared to look Malik straight in the eye. "Do you..." a long, faltering pause. He turned his gaze back to the chess pieces, his whole bearing shrinking. Malik scowled at this sudden chance, he could suffer this undecisive behaviour much worse than the usual nonchalant responses the man gave him.
"Do I what, Altaïr?" He punctuated the words, letting the annoyance in his voice show. Altaïr seemed to regain little of his prideful composition, maybe the hostile responses Malik was giving him forced, encouraged, him to continue, almost in a defiant tone.
"I was just wondering if you remember how we used to play chess...at the fortress, when we were still novices." For a split second, his vision turned red. The sound of inkwell hitting hard on table made Altaïr look up. Malik wanted to hit this man. Scream at him. He could feel the anger pulsing in his fist. He just wanted take all the hate, the pain, eating him from the inside and make this man face the consequences.
"No. I do not", he hissed through his clenched teeth. The man was trying to provoke him. They had an unspoken agreement. Never speak of the past again. Malik wanted to forget. But of course he remembered.
Altaïr grinning at him. Only three pieces remaining on the chessboard, Malik's white piece surrounded.
"I won... again", Altaïr's words bearing the same smugness that he always had when feeling superior.
"Quit being so full of yourself, it will only leave that stupid smirk on your face for the rest of your life if you're not careful." Malik grinning back.
"Loser's attitude doesn't fit you." teasing words, yet their eyes held an intense gaze. Far more intense than it should have.
The look on Altaïr's face changed, revealing glimpses of surprise and anger at his reaction, although Malik could spot something else underneath that. It was the way he held the silence, his eyes following Malik, unblinking. I hurt him. Good. Yet he could not feel any satisfaction. The assassin opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something, but Malik made a fierce gesture with his remaining hand, cutting him off.
"Don't. I do not want another word escaping from your cursed lips." The man's voice had grown terribly quiet, barely above a hoarse whisper. His ears pounding, his whole body throbbing with fury. One word, and he would let it free. Altaïr remained quiet, his eyes oddly respectful of his burst of rage. Maybe he realized he had gone too far. The thought didn't soothe Malik at all. He took out another map, an unfinished one, started recreating Jerusalem from building to building, quill moving on the parchment with brisk movements. Altaïr concentrated on playing chess again, the pieces making occasional snapping sounds whenever they found their prey on the board. Neither of the men tryly noted what they were doing. The silence in the bureau felt unfinished and heavy.
XXXXX
The damp, wooden floor felt cold against Altaïr's bare back. Malik was laying next to him, still slightly panting. Altaïr could feel the man's warmth faintly pulsing against his side. The silence between them felt oddly comforting, eventhough neither of them knew what to say. Drips of rainwater made little puddles on the floor of the abandoned shack. His body was sore from their fight a moment before.
Malik had been in a bad mood the last two days. Altaïr did not ask decision to argue against the man when he wanted to continue their journey back to Masyaf as soon as possible had been the wrong one, because the man's thinning patience for Altaïr had snapped. Altaïr had tried to stop him from leaving the partially scorched house they had taken shelter in from the heavy rain. The fight had turned from verbal to physical one, neither of the men holding back their strength when they exchanged blows. And before they knew it, it had turned to something else, something that had been long hidden behind their friendship and good-natured rivalry.
Their kisses had been forceful enough to leave bruises, hands that traced each other's bodies almost violent in their anger, nails scraping the flesh. They had been anything but tender, but Altaïr regretted none of it. There was no going back now, something in this moment felt so right to him.
Altaïr didn't dare to look at Malik, afraid that he wouldn't be able to see the same reflecting in his eyes. Finally Malik sighed deeply, looking at the ceiling.
"No one will ever know of this." His voice was serious."Especially Kadar." This was not a plea. Altaïr nodded quietly. Perfectly reasonable, yet the comfortable feeling he had before started fading away. This. One-time mistake. He sat up, started slowly gathering his half-torn robes.
Calloused fingers brushed against his back and Altaïr supressed a shiver, looking at Malik in surprise.
"Did I do that?" Malik asked ïr touched his back, found a forming bruise. His fingers touched Malik's briefly, but Malik didn't pull away.
"I guess you pushed me against that shelf harder than I thought", he replied, cautious not to shatter the moment. Malik hesitantly touched Altaïr back again, tracing slowly along his spine. He looked thoughtful.
"...I'm sorry."
Altaïr smiled carefully.
"Why are you apologizing?Look what I did to your lip." A smile slowly crawled up to Malik's face, to bloody lips with a deep cut in the bottom ïr finally dared to look, really look into Malik's brown eyes, and he saw the same things reflected in those eyes.
"No one will ever find out about us", he whispered hoarsely.
"Nothing will come between us."
XXXXX
A drift of smoke formed shapeless figures above his head. The sky was almost dark now, Malik could barely see the dark red linings on the clouds through the ceiling of the bureau. Insects chirped in the distance, every now and then someone yelled something incoherent in an agitated voice. The air was chillier, but the coolness of the late evening felt refreshing. He felt calmer now, and the pain in his arm had subdued for a moment.
Malik put aside the shisha carefully and rose from the cushions so that he was seated. He heard faint sounds coming from inside. Altaïr had come back a moment ago, without saying anything to him. The calmness his posture carried told Malik he had been successful. Malik didn't know how to feel when Altaïr had suddenly left, their fight still lingering in the air. He didn't know how to feel when Altaïr came back. Sometimes everything about his life felt backwards. Malik had expected, almost wanted Altaïr to look at him when he was laying on the soft cushions smoking, to say something when he was walking past him, worn-out leather boots thudding against the stone floor softly. It was easier to fight with him than to silently hold on to this rage inside him. Instead Altaïr had looked away, his eyes missing the usual steely unfaltering look he always had. Like he was sad.
It seemed like their solemn purpose came down to this. The other seeking the refuge of forgiveness, the other coldly denying it. Saying "I forgive you" wouldn't mean anything, if he didn't mean it. And Malik had a very hard time looking past those gray eyes and seeing something else besides the arrogant, foolish actions of this man and the image of his dying brother, still trying to hold on to life when it slowly poured out of him.
Suddenly he felt very empty. He wished the raw, throbbing hole in his chest would heal as his arm healed. Steadily, only leaving a memory of the pain. Instead, its presence was constant, and every morning it didn't feel any easier. Any easier to be. Any easier to think about anything without it persistently reminding of painful things.
Malik got up with little difficulty, his muscles feeling so relaxed his movements turned little sluggish. He stopped at the doorway, leaning against the frame. Altaïr was seated crosslegged on the floor, cleaning his throwing knives. His steady gaze met Malik's in the shadowy bureau, and suddenly he couldn't summon any more of his rage.
"Altaïr." The quiet calling of the name was a signal. Altaïr rose gracefully and took a cautious step forward, never breaking the eye contact. Maybe it was the weariness in his voice, but Altaïr approached him more carefully then usual. He stopped when their bodies almost touched, and Malik didn't object their closeness. The warmth from other man's body, the scent of leather and dust felt so familiar. Gray eyes were studying his dark brown ones, trying to find what caused this change.
"Say something", Altaïr pleaded, not daring to touch him.
"What can I say?" Malik answered quietly, still resting his head on the doorframe.
"What can I say to the man who killed my brother?" He almost managed to hide the sadness that nearly cracked his voice. These were his rules they were playing by, and Malik didn't see Altaïr resisting that. The man didn't hide the hurt in his eyes at his words, but did not look away, continuing to drink his proximity.
"I did not kill Kadar. The templars did." His voice was soft. Malik felt a rush of anger at that, grasped the man's collar with sudden strength.
"Stop hiding behind words", he whispered fiercely, feeling Altaïr's breath trace along his lips, his nose. Altaïr did not answer. The assassin leaned in and planted a ghostly kiss on the dai's lips. Malik's hand found its way to his backside, suddenly noticing the lack of his weapons and belt. Like he knew this was going happen. Bastard. It felt so natural, so comforting to succumb to his touch, to let go.
Afterwards, they were laying together on the cushions, a thin blanket loosely draped over their naked bodies. Altaïr had fallen asleep already, one hand resting on his chest. He had whispered "forgive me" over and over again, sounding so sincere, but Malik hadn't replied, just silently listened to him with his eyes closed. There just was no winning with this man. Malik wished he could just forget Altaïr and never see him again. But in truth, he had no strength. Despite everything that had happened, despite the anger and the pain that never left his side, in the end he had never felt so close to anyone else.
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Comments and especially critique would be welcome! I'm always trying to improve my style and writing.
Also, I'm working on a sequel and prequel to this.