La Vie In Acier
Paris, c. 1880s.
Altaïr settled into the softness of a pile of cushions, cursing the perplexing soreness of his body and the roughness of the fabric on his skin. He had hardly planned it this way; he had had little in the way of expectations when he realized the true extent of the Apple's power. However, he had not expected to spend the rest of his infinite life with the soreness of a man of fifty.
Malik, too, had his share of complaints, always more vehement and possibly more justified than Altaïr's. He had been reluctant to do as Altaïr had, afraid to fall into the same obsessive state in which Altaïr had found himself; nearly a decade had passed between Altaïr's discovery and Malik's use of it. Malik had grown physically older than Altaïr in his hesitance, collected still more scars, more aching in his joints.
He entered the room, a chamber of a small rough-hewn house, and though his footsteps were silent, his knees creaked quietly. Altaïr looked up at him with an affectionate smile and hardly cringed at the bitter scowl that flitted over Malik's lined face.
"I believe that I tell you every day that I hate you," Malik said, adjusting the left sleeve of his shirt over his newest acquisition, a steel and brass contraption that approximated an arm. He seated himself on the settee beside the cushions, resting his hand on Altaïr's shoulder and the metal forearm on his own leg. He stroked the side of Altaïr's neck with his thumb, looking down at him; warmth filled his brown eyes.
Altaïr nodded patiently, turning his head upward. "Often multiple times in a day," he replied. "Safety and peace, brother."
Malik smiled, the corners of his lips tweaking upward only slightly. "Your presence brings both to my life."