[AN: Well, my first fan fiction in years. O.O; I got Revelations for Christmas, and playing the Altair missions had me missing AC1 so much I had to go back and restart it again. xD As I was playing the beginning I remembered one of doubleleaf's images from deviantart that was Altair tending to Malik's arm after it was amputated. It was and is so beautifully done and touching that I knew I had to try and write a scene about it! I haven't tried writing fan fiction in years, not since the really horrible Inuyasha one I tried to do when I was 11. So please, give me some good critique! I'd really appreciate it, as I'd like to continue and get better... this was more fun than I was expecting!
I'll stop rambling now, so I hope you enjoy! Thank you again to doubleleaf for the amazing and inspiring artwork that gave me the muse to write!
EDIT: After a review from KonigreichPreussen, I've added in some actual paragraph structure! It looks so much more balanced now, thank you for the suggestion love!]
Altair paused from his work, his bloodied hands stilling as he fought the revolting nausea that was threatening to crawl up his throat. Never in his life had he felt such revolution for anything, not even his first kill had made his stomach curl like this. There was something extremely unnerving about sitting over the man who had once been his peer, washing blood and pus from what was left of his arm.
The infection was considerably less than it had been, the lower part of his arm had been blackened with dead flesh and rot, and while the amputation seemed to prevent it from seeping further, the open end of it was still fevered enough to be of concern. The doctor had done what little he could, the rest would be up to Malik's body. It would either recover, or die. It was as simple as that, the surgeon had said sadly, the fever had already set into the young Assassin's body before the rotting limb had been removed, they could only hope now that the shock of the loss wouldn't fuel it further.
Sitting on a rough stool by the bedside of the one he had considered to be a friend, Altair worked with his leather gloves off, laid off to the side so as not to carry dirt into the still raw wound. But for the exception of his gloves he was in his usual Assassin garb, stripped now of his weapons and experienced tools. The only notable change was that his hood was now laid back, a rare sight for the young man. His eyes appeared almost fully lidded as he focused on cleaning what was left of Malik's arm, his dark amber eyes hidden both from view and from betraying any emotion.
Choking down his reeling nausea, Altair continued his gentle washing, dropping the now bloodied rag in exchange for a clean one from the bowl of water beside him. Thankfully Malik was in a drug induced sleep, what the doctor had mixed into the foul smelling potion used to achieve this Altair didn't particularly want to know; it worked well enough and that was all he cared to know about it. Malik could still slip in and out of consciousness, giving out faint, mewling cries of pain that were too weak to really be considered a shout or cry, but for the most part the brew kept him quiet, and oblivious to the person tending him. Altair was certain that his doctoring ministrations would not be well received if Malik his senses about him.
The doctor had left clear instructions for the care of the wound, while it would be up to Malik to fight off the on setting fever, he was adamant in that the arm itself should be kept as clean as possible to prevent further infection or disease from setting in. The bandages were to be kept fresh and dry, with multiple daily cleanings and redressings. Al Mualim had assigned Altair to the tending of this, as it was not only a Novice's chore, but also as punishment since he deemed it Altair's fault that Malik was now disfigured. While the once Master Assassin had wanted to speak out against this claim he bit his tongue, he had provoked his Mentor's wrath enough, years of prior experience had taught him that fighting the topic further would only result in more humiliation. So now he sat, gently washing the blistered skin of the man he'd once considered a valuable ally. While he hadn't had a chance to speak to Malik since the attack on Masyaf, their short encounter after the tomb and Kadar's death had left the Assassin's feelings towards him clear, hurt, angry and bitter. It was little secret that Malik had called for Altair's blood, payment for the unnecessary death of his brother. Their relationship had gotten prickly in the past few years, especially once Altair began to exceed Malik in rank, but he had never seemed to hate his 'rival' assassin. Their competition had been a friendly one, bantering back and forth with little meaning to their jibes. He had always been quick to question Altair's motives, claiming them to be too brash, but what reason did Altair have to heed him? His way was clearly better, it was obvious in the fact of who ranked above whom. If Malik blindly followed protocol like the rest of their peers, then of course he would preform with average skill. He didn't have the drive and intuition Altair possessed to propel himself to the next level.
That at least, was what the demoted Novice was trying to console himself with.
Sighing Altair paused again, focusing on the stump which laid out pathetically before him. Was he really so wrong in acting as he had? He disliked the notion of questioning himself, but even if he considered his actions justifiable he still felt guilt nipping at his heart as he looked at the useless stub Malik would now be forced to live with. Despite Malik's constant yammering about upholding the Creed, it would seem he was right for once. What he had called arrogance had resulted in Altair being dropping not only to the bottom of the brotherhood, but out of it all together; he was no better than the lanky boys beginning their training in the courtyard. Biting his lip with frustration Altair tried to quell his mind and focus again on finishing washing Malik's arm, but the thoughts and memories lingered, like honey on his fingers. He could try to suck it off, but the sticky residue still stubbornly clung to him. He hadn't been present for the amputation, Malik was conscious enough before hand to go into an angry frenzy when Al Maulim had suggested Altair help hold down his shoulders, but he had waited outside the door.
Why he had forced himself to stand there and listen to the horrible screams and gasps of Malik he was still unsure. To understate it, the experience was awful. It wasn't just the screams that had shaken him; he was used to hearing those from the victims he needed information from, but it was more the sound of the saw being set upon bone that had really gotten to him, it was dull and almost muted out by the sound of Malik's cries, but it had a steady beat to it, back and forth with a nasty, wet scraping.
Shaking his head Altair pulled back from Malik's arm, taking a moment to sit up straight and press his forearm to his head, wiping away the little bit of sweat which had accumulated there. Leaning back over Malik he grabbed a roll of freshly washed and torn cloth, carefully laying it beside Malik's arm. Quickly he slipped his hand under the stub and lifted it, earning a stir and a small cry from his patient, before setting it down on the soft white cloth. He slowly began wrapping the dressings around the end of Malik's arm, following the pattern the doctor had shown him. He was careful to lay it softly, not wanting to be too rough on the tender and exposed muscles. Once the first layer of gauze was on Altair felt some of the stiffness in his shoulders dissipate. Blood was quickly seeping through, despite the doctor's efforts to cauterize the wound it still seeped a great deal. It wasn't enough to be life threatening, but enough to make Altair's job even more messy. He quickly reached for the second set of wrappings, gently and quickly tying them around the severed limb. The more he wrapped the limb, the more he felt himself relaxing, as if with each layer of cloth the more the ugly accusation against him was buried. The horrid memories of Malik's cries faded away as well, being replaced slowly by fonder ones. Racing down the hills of Masyaf as young novices, playfully sparring with one another in hand to hand combat, slurring poorly pronounced foreign curses at one another during their language training.
Halfway through with wrapping Altair paused, for the first time allowing himself to look at Malik's face. He was pale, and looked as if he would be cold to the touch, though he felt more like a furnace than anything. His expression was set into an unchanging mask of pain, mouth slightly open as he panted with drugged and heated breath and eyes clamped in a troubled sleep. The cold burn of sadness began to worm its way back into Altair's heart, igniting the guilt lingering there. Slowly, so as not to wake Malik and stir his anger, Altair reached out and touched his burning forehead, running dried but still bloodied fingertips down his face and across his cheek. Silence hung heavily in the room, even Malik's gasps seemed to still for a moment. Altair couldn't force an apology from his lips, he could only return to finishing his work, tying the final knot in Malik's bandaging with a grim smile.
"Sleep well, brother."