The day Altair apologized, the day I forgave him, was also the day that I began to grow curious about who he truly was. I had been born in Masyaf and trained from birth to be an assassin; I knew everyone who had been born in the same circumstances at a similar time, and no matter what had been said, Altair did not appear in our midst until I was perhaps fourteen and he no more than a year or two younger. I did not understand why everyone seemed to accept so easily that he had been born in Masyaf when I knew so clearly that that couldn't possibly be true, and yet of all the things I heard people complain over in regards to him, that particular lie was never among them. More than that, he never spoke of family or of friends, only ever dancing around the questions if I asked, deft and clever where normally he was heavy-handed and blunt. Even his name brought questions; very few would so proudly call themselves the son of none, and yet he did, no one ever questioning it or asking about it.
Perhaps what made me the most curious was the way he avoided even the most casual of touches; where most simply took the feather from my hand when I offered it, he always waited until I lay it on the table instead, as if the slightest brush of my fingers were poison. Even a pat to his shoulder, clothed under so many layers of robes and armor, provoked a quickly concealed flinch, and even that was an improvement as he used to avoid the gesture entirely. I knew but a handful of others who behaved similarly, and none of them were born assassins.
I avoided asking for a long while, given the troubles we had to face with Al Mualim and his own ascension to the master of our order, but on one particularly hot afternoon, when he had taken refuge in my bureau to wait for sunset, I could not resist the urge.
"Altair, I have wondered this for some time, but it has not been appropriate to ask. Where, exactly, are you from?" He did not look me in the face and I knew he was going to lie; I do not think he had been able to lie to me, at least not well, since Solomon's Temple. I expect it was the same guilt that affected much of his interaction with me.
"Masyaf," he said, quick, obviously wanting me to drop the subject, but I found myself unwilling.
"You must think I am stupid, Altair. I was born in Masyaf, and you are not so much younger than me. I never saw you before my true Assassin's training began; you were not there." He shrugged, flashing a quick grin before his face settled to its normal neutrality.
"Perhaps you aren't as observant as you think, Malik." I raised a brow, turning my head down to look at the map I was working on in hopes that he might be more willing to speak if I wasn't looking at him.
"You never seemed to know any of the boys close to our age; you always had to be introduced. All of us born in Masyaf were close because we always played together and later trained together. I say again, you were not there." He shrugged.
"I am not a social man, Malik, I never was." I felt myself frown, some; I didn't want to bring up what I'd noticed about his avoidance of touch even though he would almost surely speak if I did, at least to somehow explain that, as I didn't particularly wish to hurt him.
"Do you not trust me, Altair? I doubt your birthplace would make me think you less an assassin; your truly remarkable lack of subtlety does that well enough by itself." He was silent for a while, gaze fixed on the books on my walls as if they held any interest to him. Finally, though, he answered, his voice quieter than I'd ever heard it, perhaps a bit distant.
"Damascus, the poor district, or at least that was where I lived. I do not know if I was born there or not. My first memories are of life in a boy's home in that district." Son of none indeed. The words didn't surprise me, exactly, I'd expected something similar, but to hear it spoken aloud that way, so quietly, almost worried, was something else entirely. I could imagine the way his pride stung with the admission; I had heard the way some spoke of those assassins with a similar story, and it was not often kind. "Al Mualim thought it would be better if I lied, and I did not care enough either way to protest."
"That is why you use the name you do, then?" I turned my eyes back to him, and his lips twitched faintly.
"Altair I chose myself, when I was young, so that I could be distinguished from all the others called 'boy' for lack of anything else to call them. Al Mualim was the one who called me Ibn-La'Ahad; I liked it well enough, so I began to use them both." He said it lightly, but there was a shadow to it, hiding beneath. I did not draw attention to it directly, but still my curiosity wasn't sated.
"Why were you recruited from there? I can see few ways that life in such a place would lend itself to contact with Assassins, or to ways to show off skills that would make you a good choice to be one." He offered a laugh, pale and vaguely discomforted.
"I was not recruited from there. I left, became a thief; I had a very light hand and quick feet, was good at free running and did not really care if I was hurt some when I did it. Al Mualim found me on a visit to the city, after I stole his purse from his belt. I was thirteen at the time; he took me to Masyaf and I have called myself an Assassin since." The story hurt him some, I knew that; anyone could see that Al Mualim had likely been the closest thing to a father that he had, and his betrayal had burned him more than most.
"Why leave the home?" I asked, not expecting an answer and not really getting one.
"I simply left. There was not really a reason, beyond boredom; so little happened there, after all, and I heard much of the city's excitement." I did not pry anymore, beyond to ask if the home had had a name, which it did not. The best he could tell me was that it was a large, off-white building near the center of the poor district. I was a little curious as to why he did not know why I wished to know that, but then again, he had never been suspicious of me since we'd made our amends; I expected that I was one of the few who could easily kill him, should I have the mind to do it. I sometimes half-thought he believed that I yet had the right. We sat in companionable silence for a while, the only sound being the scrape of my quill upon paper and the birds singing in the other room.
"Well, novice," I began, after an hour or more had passed, "It looks to be getting dark out. I expect you should go find your target and return to Masyaf, before everyone there begins worrying they will have to appoint me master and suffer my wrath in all the cities rather than just Jerusalem." He laughed, real this time and a bit rough sounding for how little he used it, and drew himself to his feet, taking the feather from the table and leaving the bureau. Not a half hour after I heard him jump from the roof, I left myself, riding swiftly from the city on the horse I kept stabled in the outskirts of the city, towards Damascus.
To be honest, I did not care too much for Damascus as a whole, and I cared even less for the poor district. There were more beggars there than I was used to, crowding the streets and often elbowing one another and hissing out arguments over the more populated areas of the street. Still, they bothered me little, upon getting a good look at me and my particular… condition; after all, I knew that I was the exception rather than the rule in regards to my wealth. Chances were they knew someone with a similar injury in far worse shape than they, and did not want to impose upon me.
Rather, it was the guards who truly bothered me, if for the same reason; after all, what could a one-armed man be but weak, easy prey? They pushed me and shoved me often, like cruel children, and I fought the urge to draw my blade on them, too unwilling to draw attention to myself as an Assassin when I was there to find secrets I knew I would discover nowhere else. It took ages of circling around the boy's home, which I found only by mere luck, before they let me alone long enough that I could knock on the door.
An older woman answered, grim-faced, her skin sallow and her eyes cold. She gripped the doorframe tightly, almost like a threat, jagged, sharp looking nails scraping at the wood. She put me on edge, I could admit that, but she did not frighten me in the least; I'd seen far worse, after all.
"What do you want?" she asked me, "You are too old to stay here." She didn't shy away from looking at the empty place where my arm should've been, as many did; in a way, I might've appreciated that if not for the fact that she simply replaced looking away with staring. I nodded.
"I realize. I am looking for a man who I believe might have grown up here. I only wished to see if perhaps you recalled him, and if you knew where he'd ended up. He is my brother, you see; I wanted to reunite with him, if I could." She looked suspicious, glancing around behind me as if expecting an ambush, and, seeing nothing, stepped aside to allow me inside.
The house was dirty, but then I had expected that. So too did it seem ill-maintained, but it was not much worse than anything else I'd seen in this part of the city. A few younger boys played together on the floor, dirty and too thin, some cut or bruised in places, but I knew how easily that could all be explained. The woman jerked her head at them and they scrambled to their feet, scampering out of the room as if chased by devils.
"What are you looking for?" she asked, a bit gruff, arms crossed. A strange way to ask, but I decided not to question it too heavily.
"He went by the name of Altair," I began, preparing to list some of his more notable physical characteristics if the name rang no bells, but she cut me off with a loud, hoarse laugh.
"You were serious?" she asked, shaking her head bemusedly. "Strange man. Still, you are lucky; the little bird is one of the few I remember. He has striking eyes, does he not? Gold. I have not seen any with similar eyes since then. And such a pretty face, too!" She laughed again, just as loud, settling in an old, creaking chair. She offered me one across from her, and I took it; if I was lucky, she would have something useful to tell me and I would be here for a while. It was odd, though, hearing her call him a "little bird" when so many now called him an eagle, the eagle of Masyaf, and odder still to think that this was where he had begun.
"Yes, that is him. I saw him but a few times when he was young, but was only able to figure out recently that he was put here." She didn't react. I wondered if she knew that I was lying about my relationship to him, somehow.
"Your mother must have truly had no need for a second child, for he looked scarcely born when he appeared at my door." I nodded.
"We were very poor; she died many years ago, but I am better off now, and I would like to help him, if I can find him to help. Do you have the faintest idea of where he might be?" Her brow furrowed, long-fingered hands settling atop one another primly upon her lap.
"I don't; I know only that his running away lost me quite a lot of money, and gained me more than one obnoxious visitor." I frowned, settling my own remaining hand on my lap and crossing my legs.
"I do not understand," I said, and she gave me a look that showed very clearly the less pleasant thoughts she had of me.
"Do not play dumb with me, you are not the first to come to me to try and find him, and I am sure you are far from the wealthiest and equally far from the most persistent. The one he was meant to go to still comes every month to see if he has returned, and will take no other." Slowly, the truth of what she thought dawned on me, the knowledge a dark, angry shock. She sold boys, had planned to sell Altair; I wondered how he'd learned of his fate and escaped, just as I wondered who would want him badly enough to come here so often on the distant chance that he came back.
"I was not playing dumb, but now I do understand. I am glad that he ran; I am sure the others you hold here have more than made up for the lost profit." She did not react with anger or shame, instead only shrugging, a grin splitting her lips for but a moment before she settled again.
"Perhaps. Still, the visitors are quite annoying; when he was old enough, word spread quickly of the beautiful, golden-eyed boy I had here. Many came for the chance, and many still come from far away, hoping that I have caught him again somehow. He would be a grown man now, though, would he not? And probably not so beautiful anymore. He who offered the most for him is still the worst, though; every month it is the same, a knock on my door and an earnest gaze. 'Has my bird flown back?' he asks, and always I say no and always he insists upon searching the place as if I would hide him." In any other situation, I might have been amused by the put-upon expression she wore, but as it stood, I only felt vaguely ill.
Altair was not perfect, and never would be. Though not as bad as he once was, he was yet prideful, and he was easily as reckless as a novice depending on the situation, but I was not blind to his better attributes. He was bright, incredibly so when given the opportunity to show it, and very kind; I did not doubt that he would give over his life for me, just as I did not doubt that the guilt of what happened in Solomon's Temple still ate at him whenever he looked at me. I would also not deny his beauty; many pointed it out in whispers, when they thought I would not hear and when he was nowhere to be found. I liked him; he was my friend, perhaps the best one I had left. He did not deserve to be treated as a piece of cattle; even in my rage, when I wished for his blood to be spilled, I would not have wished that upon him.
"Do you know where I might find this man?" I asked, my voice quiet and deceptively calm. She thought for a moment.
"He won't be able to tell you where he is, else he wouldn't come bothering me every month. Still, I can see you are determined, stranger, and perhaps you might convince him to stay away from here. His name is Adib Naifeh; he lives in the rich district, but I do not know exactly where. Ask around and you will find him quickly enough. I am sure he has enough of a reputation." I nodded, standing and preparing to leave, but she stopped me with her voice. "And I'd be careful if I were you; show too much interest in his little bird, and I don't think he'd hesitate to cut you down, crippled though you are." I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to respond and instead leaving the filthy place as quickly as I was able. If, when I returned to Jerusalem, I sent a small team of my Assassins to deal with her and make certain that the boys were sent to a safe place, it was no one's business but my own.
The rich district, at least, had fewer beggars, but the guards were certainly no better; if anything, I thought they might have been worse, harassing me each time I tried to ask the merchants where I might find the man I sought. Eventually, though, I finally managed to evade them long enough to get a direct answer from one of the merchants despite the shrewd look he gave me when I asked. I walked swiftly through the town, not entirely certain what I planned to do but knowing well enough that it wasn't wise no matter the plan, until at last I reached the place the merchant had sent me.
It truly was a lovely building; for all the squalor of Damascus' poor district, the wealthy one was truly extravagant, beautiful in every way, and this home only epitomized that beauty. I rapped on the door with my knuckles. The man who answered was younger than I expected, though still easily older than Altair and myself, thick streaks of gray obvious in his beard and his hair. He was dressed finely, his wealth displayed in every line of both them and his stance. He wore a ring with an amber stone on one hand; the color reminded me of Altair's stare and I wondered if that was why he wore it.
"Do you know of a man named Altair?" I asked him before he could even do so much as greet me or ask who I was and why I'd come. He stiffened for a moment, obvious and stark, before his face softened with a sick sort of warmth and his lips tilted up into a smile.
"Why do you ask? If you are another who wishes to have him, then I cannot help you, for my dear bird flew his nest many years ago, and even if not, he is not the sort one ought to share." Anger curled in my heart, deep and seething; I had not felt such anger in a long time and wasn't particularly happy to recall the feeling.
"He was never your bird," I said, sharp and quick, "he is an eagle of the world." Son of none, wild and free with unrivaled skill, that is him, not the vision this man had so obviously created of a songbird in a cage. His stare darkened.
"I do not appreciate being spoken to thusly in my own home. You know nothing of my bird; do not pretend as if you do." He tried to shut the door on me; I stuck my boot in it, shouldering my way inside. He looked ready to call for someone, likely a personal guard, but I settled my hand over his mouth quickly and thought of how simple it would be to kill him, for he was certainly no innocent. He seemed faintly startled by my strength, jerking and trying to slip away while I only walked him backwards to pin him against the wall.
"I know Altair better than any, do not ever doubt that. He is a very good friend of mine; I came here that I might learn of his past before he knew me, for he does not speak of it." I felt him stiffen, a desperate sort of longing filling his eyes as he tried to speak. I let him; even if he cried out, I knew well enough that I could kill him and leave before anyone reached us.
"He yet lives? Where is he? Why did he run from me?" he asked, the desperation in his eyes only darkening, and I could not resist a laugh.
"He lives indeed, strong and proud at my order's head. He is not the type to be another's pet." He did not back down, did not look even the slightest bit ashamed.
"Bring him to me! I will show him that I love him now as I did then!" I left my lips curl into a wicked smirk, as dark and as threatening as I could make it.
"Love? You call it love? All you did was see a pretty face and buy it, like any common man might in a brothel; the only difference is that you bought it permanently. You have never even spoken to him. You know nothing of him." He looked appalled that I could even say such a thing, jerking under the pressure of my hand. All I had to do was slide it up so very slightly, put pressure on his throat, and he would die. It would be so simple. I realized from the next words he spoke that I did not want him to die simply.
"No! I spoke with him often, nearly every night! The matron, I paid her extra so that I might spend nights with him before he came to live with me!" It was his fault. He was the reason why Altair flinched from touch, why he seemed so against getting close to anyone. It was his fault.
"You took a boy who could not resist you and he was so disgusted at your touch that he fled. I do not see how you could delude yourself into thinking that that is love. Still, perhaps I should bring him here; he is no helpless boy anymore, but a man. I am sure you will be glad to know that he has even found another to wipe your touch from his skin." He thrashed, desperation sharpening into rage, but I only pressed forward more firmly, far stronger than he could ever hope to be.
"Who?" he hissed, "Who has taken my bird?" I laughed, letting my eyes go lidded, my smirk soften to a fond smile.
"He is my lover, and I am his," I answered, voice low, the lie slipping from my mouth like honey. I knew well enough that it was wrong to claim, but I wanted this man to suffer as much as possible, and I knew that making this claim would certainly help. The thrashing increased, rage darkening his gaze even further.
"He would not! Not with you, barely more than half a man!" he cried, staring at my incomplete side, flashing his teeth, and I could only laugh.
"You judge so harshly! He is missing a finger now, you know," I said, pressing my missing shoulder against his chest so that I could draw my knife, run it over his ring finger of his left hand. "This one, right here. Shall I take yours, so that you might share something with him?" I spoke lightly, felt him tense, jerk his hand away from the blade, and I let a falsely saccharine glaze drip over my smile.
"Let go of me," he said, "Let go of me and bring me my bird."
"Ah, but I was only trying to bring you closer to him! Still, you are right; a finger is not enough, is it? A finger is nothing, even he would say so; many of my order have lost that." Slowly, careful to press in the blade enough that he could feel it without blood being drawn, I dragged the knife up to settle just below his shoulder, where my own arm had been severed. "Perhaps I'll take this much instead, hm? After all, he fell in love with a one-armed man; if he loved you so well before, surely you could win him back if you were the same as I." A little pressure, his fine clothes tearing easily beneath the deadly edge of my knife, blood spilling from the wound like a river. He cried out; his skin was smooth and unblemished. I expected he'd never had more than a scrape, if that. Even if I didn't kill him, this would most definitely scar.
"Stop! Do not do this, demon!" That actually did amuse me; the choked laugh that spilled from my lips then was real, and I cut it off as quickly as I was able. It was not the first time I'd been called a demon, nor even the first time that the word had been applied without any humor. Apparently it was harder than I'd imagined to believe a man with an injury like mine could still be strong, but I had practiced nearly every night with my sword after I'd healed enough that I didn't start to bleed every time I moved. By now I handled it perhaps even more aptly than I had before the injury. I could still climb, though not quite as far or as high, nor in as many places, but it was enough and I'd never had much use for free running anyway. My knife, of course, was as simple to use as ever. I was no slower, no clumsier, my maps just as skillfully drawn as ever. I was still an assassin.
"While I appreciate the compliment, I am afraid that I am only a man. I do not think, however, that you understand the hurt you have caused Altair; he feared becoming close to anyone for a very long time because of you." I pressed the knife harder, digging a little deeper into the flesh. He keened. "You know, the more I think of it, the more I realize that I do not want your arm. After all, a man so weak as you could surely not manage to live without that." I lifted the knife, still pressing my own shoulder firmly against his sternum, him still trying to push me away.
"Thank you," he breathed, and I chuckled.
"You are a gracious man after all! Still, even if I do not want your arm, that does not mean that I want nothing, now does it? But why now? No, this is something to be savored. I think that for now you should just come with me," I said, tucking away the knife and curling my hand about his bicep. Again he tried to pull away. Again I did not allow it. He tried to call for someone while I dragged him to the door, and I heard pounding footsteps from deep within the house, but I had already gotten him out and into the thrumming mass of people before anyone reached the main room where we'd been. As I'd said, I was still an assassin; he had no chance to escape.
I bought a new horse on the outskirts of the city and bound him to it for the ride back to Jerusalem. He cursed and swore at me the whole way, but beyond he added mentions of "his bird" it was nothing I'd never heard before. If anything, it only amused me, truly, that he thought anyone on the way to Jerusalem or even in Jerusalem itself would care to do anything for him. The guards there knew me well, after all; they, at least, were under no delusions that my injury made me weak.
I stabled both the horses where once I'd kept only my own and kept a hard grip on the man's arm, leading him the Bureau and forcing him to climb inside with my knife at his back. He still nearly slipped more than once, only barely managing to catch himself every time. I did nothing to aid him; he would die one way or another anyway, and truly if it happened because he fell onto my knife, I cared little. Still, it did not; he made it to the roof and I pushed him inside, following after as quickly as I was able and hauling him up by the back of his shirt as he looked to be attempting to crawl away. He struggled again, as if he hadn't learned the futility of it, and I brought him to a small room hidden behind my shelves, kept for interrogation purposes.
For a while, I only watched him from the door, hoping to unnerve him and obviously succeeding, given the way he shifted warily, stare fixed on me. I smiled, faint but pleased with myself.
"What are you going to do to me?" he finally asked, and my smile widened.
"I do not know yet. That, I'm afraid, depends on what you did to Altair. For now, though, I think that it would be best if you simply remained here." With that, I turned and left, closing the room behind me and shifting the shelf back into to place so that it remained that way.
I had to wait a while for any payoff; Altair, after all, was not free to visit often unless a particularly important figure arose that he trusted only himself to deal with. I did not speak to the man in that time, choosing instead to slip him food in silence and leave him alone again. Periodically he would still beat the wall, though generally he only did that when he heard someone else in the Bureau, though they all assumed that I was merely using the room for its intended purpose and interrogating someone within. Still, my anger for him stewed steadily; he called for Altair often, generally whenever he was not begging me to release him, and I hated his nerve, the mere idea that he thought Altair had ever cared for him.
Truly I did not enjoy the feeling. I had been angry for a very long time and it had done me no favors, after all, yet still I couldn't seem to fight against it. All lessons I'd had about not killing in anger flooded my mind constantly, but I swept them away. Every death at an Assassin's hand was fueled by anger, I'd learned that long ago; the only difference was that it was a cold, calculated anger rather than a burning sort. My anger towards this man was not burning; he was just another feather, truly, only one that had not yet been issued. He deserved all that came to him.
When Altair returned perhaps two weeks later, this time just to visit me rather than complete a contract, I was glad that perhaps the game could finally come to an end. I greeted him with a smile that he returned, if only faintly, and went with him to settle on the cushions in the other room. He seemed tired, but then I expected his new position was not an easy one.
"Safety and peace, Malik," he murmured, voice faintly hoarse, "I am glad to see you again."
"I wish you the same and share the sentiment, Altair. Does this day find you well?" He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cushions and pushing his hood back so I could see his face without the obscuring shadow.
"Well enough. There were some troubles at Masyaf, else I'd have come to visit again sooner. I think it might've been better had you been there," he said, lips twitching, "After all, I am but a novice, and an incompetent one at that, correct? Truly you should've been the master, Malik." I laughed.
"Do you want something, Altair? You flatter me, after all." He grinned, wide, the silvery scar across his lips stretching with it. He looked younger like that, more, perhaps, like his own age, unfettered by his past and his duties. I wished he was able to look that way more often and wondered if, had things been different, this could have been the Altair I knew all the time.
"You wound me, Malik! Can a man not compliment his friends without suspicion?"
"Oh, he can, certainly, but you? I am not so certain about you."
"And now you say that I am not even a man! You are very good at making people regret speaking honestly, you know." And that, of course, reminded me of why I'd thought it so urgent that he return, though I almost wished it didn't. After all, the friendly banter we shared was far preferable to what I knew we needed to discuss.
"I hope you don't regret it too terribly, Altair. I went to Damascus not long ago, found the place where you stayed. It is simple to see why you left; I had the place dealt with, in any case. Still, forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but I would like to know more of that time. I think that perhaps talking about it might help you." He stiffened at the words, doubtless regretting describing where the place was located, expression darkening. I saw his hands twitch towards his hood, but he stopped himself at the last moment, forcing his breathing to remain steady and his face to become flat and emotionless once again.
"No. I am glad that you were able to deal with it for the boys still there, as I heard what happened to many who found a 'home,' but I left only because of those rumors, not any suffering." His face was cool, but his eyes stayed closed, for he knew that they would betray him to me. I frowned, settling my arm across my stomach and leaning back some myself, trying to make myself appear as relaxed as possible so that he would, perhaps, relax as well.
"Do you trust me so little after everything, Altair?" Pain flashed in his face for a moment, and he shook his head.
"I trust you with everything, Malik, never doubt that. This, though… this is my burden, and it is not something I enjoy speaking about."
"We are brothers, Altair; we are meant to share in our burdens, to make them lighter. I imagine you have not spoken of this since it happened, have you? I will not think you any weaker if I know; you survived whatever happened. That only tells me that you are strong." He swallowed, closing his eyes more firmly and making a concentrated effort to keep his face indifferent.
"It never leaves this room. Do you swear that, Malik?"
"Of course. Whatever you say will follow me to my grave." He nodded; I stood and closed the entrance to the Bureau, knowing that I had no contracts out over the city on that particular day and so not expecting anyone to come by. After all, he was trusting me with much, and I did not want to prove unworthy of that by way of carelessness; even if someone came by, he would be warned enough in advance to stop speaking before they could hear.
"Alright. I do not know if I can say it all today, but… some, at least. You know the… profession of the woman who runs the home, yes? I'm sure you do, else you would not have acted. She… I would not say that she has morals, exactly, but she does have some things that she will not do," he said, quiet, his voice faraway and still hoarse.
"Do you want something to drink," I asked as he paused, and he shook his head in response. "In any case, she didn't seem as if there were anything too cold for her to do." He managed a laugh, almost bitter but not angry. I supposed he'd gotten over that.
"It wasn't much, and perhaps she had even stopped doing this, I do not know. She would not sell a boy before he turned seven, sometimes a bit older if he was very small. She did… market them before that, though, especially if there was something strange about them. She told everyone who she thought might hold some interest of the odd, golden-eyed boy she'd been given, and would often take me out to the markets with her so that people could see that she spoke truthfully. I was treated better than the other boys because she was already getting offers for me; she did not want me to get sick or die before she could collect. I always found it strange that the other boys, especially the older ones, were not angry that she treated me so much better." His voice drifted, some, eyes slowly opening as if he wanted me to see that he spoke the truth. I edged nearer to him, settling my hand on his arm, and he leaned into the comfort.
"Why?" I asked, soft, though I did suspect.
"I wondered the same thing myself, even asked them about it once. They said that they knew what happened to the boys who were treated better. They pitied me. That was when I began to fear my fate; I begged them to tell me what they meant by that, but they could not speak with me frankly as they worried over what would happen to them if they told me something that made me run. A few tried to help as much as they could, taught me how to fight and how to steal, and I'd share the extra I was given in return for the aid. It was a false security, of course, but comforting when, one morning, I was brought into the front room of the home to be paraded around like an animal." He almost spat the words, and I realized that under the bitterness there was yet some anger; he had not gotten over this, no matter what I might have thought before.
I didn't think I could imagine exactly how that had felt for him; his freedom defined him and I expected that that had always been the case, though now at least he knew how to be free without harming others. To be in such a situation, little more than an object to be bought and sold… it had to have been akin to torture, for him.
"Why do that when she could just as easily make the sale to the highest bidder without you even knowing her plan?" I questioned, and his face twisted into something like a sneer in response.
"To prove I looked how she described. She would let the walk up to me and prod at my face, stare at my eyes as if they were false. I bit at them, kicked and scratched when I could, but they only found it funny. The man who offered her the most was named Adib Naifeh, but I was perhaps three months off from turning seven and that was one rule she never broke. He offered her more money, begging to be allowed to take me that day, but she refused. Eventually, though, she agreed that, for some of the extra money, he could come visit me as often as he liked. She had me bring him to the room where I slept, apart from the other boys. He stroked my cheek, told me that I had a beautiful face, other nonsense like that, as if he thought I would enjoy the words. It made me sick, that I could not fight. I nearly wept with relief when he left not long after." Again, I could imagine as much; an eagle could not be made to love by pretty words alone.
My hand slid up his arm, then, to settle on his cheek, as if wishing to replace the touch that made him feel so helpless with one to make him strong. He did not flinch away, rather only let a deep, shuddering breath fall from his lips.
"You are not weak, Altair," I whispered, and he took another deep breath, settling his own hand atop mine where it rested on his face, a small but real smile curling his lips.
"Thank you, Malik. I think that you were perhaps right about this helping," he said, and I chuckled.
"Of course I was. When have you known me to be wrong, novice?" He laughed.
"Yes, yes, you are nigh on psychic, Malik, I understand. Still, forgive me if I say no more tonight. I… think that perhaps I need to gather my thoughts first."
"Certainly. Come, let's fetch something to eat, shall we? Ah, and please ignore any noise; I was brought a contract for interrogation not long ago and he is rather… obnoxious. Keeps calling for some bird he kept as a pet before one of my teams got him." He didn't question it, given that he had long ago accepted the eccentricity of many of our targets.
"Perhaps we should go patronize a market stall instead, then, and bring something back to eat in here. I'm sure you've long tired of listening to him, after all." I had, if not for the reason he thought, and so I agreed readily. All in all I felt it a pleasant day, and when, early the next morning, he had to return to Masyaf, I was rather depressed. Only the idea that I could finally start making the bastard pay for what he'd done to Altair was enough to make me smile.