Disclaimer: all characters belong to Ubisoft.
Author's Note: my first Assassin's Creed fanfic. Be nice and review! It seems a little long and pointless at parts, but I promise there is a point. I think. And it started off strong and dwindled as it went on, but it was fun to write anyway!
Summary: Altaïr trying to piece together what his relationship to Malik is, if there even is one.
A Salve for the Soul
A moment longer and he couldn't hold. He dodged each blade flailing his way, he ducked and knelt, he rolled and twisted. But more kept coming. Dodging became dangerous; fall away from this blade and run into that one; twist from this guard and slam into another. On all sides, they came like a tidal wave of pure physical motion, their shiny swords drawn and glinting in the summer sun. They came with battle cries as if wounded from the assault on their leader, as if somehow they couldn't benefit from his absence from the world. They swarmed him, swinging blades and roaring. And Altaïr couldn't hold.
He launched himself up and pawed at the nearest building, praying for a handhold or any promise of escape. Finding a crack in the mortar, he hoisted himself up, thrusting out one foot to knock away a man into the group, to momentarily stupify them. It was futile. The men behind the falling guard side-stepped easily and bent down to gather stones. One after another, these guards threw palm-sized rocks his way. A few hit home, slamming into his leg or his hand, causing him to let go.
He swung himself up to an handhold, another crack in the mortar, until he reached the lamppost jutting out of the side of the wall. He let himself go, flying in one sweet motion onto the post. Already the feelings of desolation and hopelessness fell away, dissipating as he planned his escape in the scope of a second. From the post, he would jump to the terrace and leap over toward a lower rooftop, run across that, jump on the boards laid across that and another building, and done. There would be a place to conceal his presence and be gone, bloody as he was or not.
Mustering up his strength from his ankles to his chest, he tensed and readied himself for a rough jump and a quick grab onto the railing of the terrace, but it never came. He thrust himself off the post and reached out to the ledge, but a guard suddenly appeared in front of him, standing on the terrace, already mid-swing. Before meeting the blade, Altaïr kicked out his leg and let himself fall back, with all intentions of finding another hand hole. Again, fortune did not favor his indiscretion today.
As he plummeted to the Earth, he watched as the guards prepared another attack. He hit the ground with a bone-shattering snap, but he gave himself not a moment to ponder it. As an assassin, Altaïr had been trained to compartmentalize his state of being, put it away until his business was done. After all, what good would it do had he lay where he landed and moaned at his leg? It would only give them what they wanted, and the result would attract more pain.
He rolled over and came to his feet, ducking below an approaching scimitar. Somewhere in the fray, he had lost his sword, but what good did one sword do against one hundred? He unsheathed his short sword, curved and light enough for lightening quick speed. If he couldn't scale the walls, if he couldn't kill them all, then he would defend himself until he cut a path so he could do so.
More reinforcements finally stopped coming. The corner they'd shoved him into could carry no more beings without limiting their movement, but several guards stood at the end of the alley, their swords drawn.
Another impossible task set out before him, but Altaïr would not die this way. Not to a bunch of common guards, not by their blades. He wouldn't give in, but he needed to keep his stamina. Suck in it without getting himself killed in the process.
Caught between one guard buffeting him and another convinced he was clever enough to catch him unaware, Altaïr danced with their movements gracefully. They were fairly talented for guardsmen—but he must have been tired. They'd been going at him for a while now. Their comrades underneath their feet were already dead, their bodies only radiating the heat from the sun.
He was losing it, though. He parried here, swung low there and struck at a guardsman's feet. His ankles were throbbing and an unbelievable ache arced up his spine. His clothes were heavy with blood from all the slashes—none of which deep enough to be fatal, but enough to bleed him if unattended.
It came—the end did—when Altaïr lost it completely. He had been trained to maintain composure. Think and rationalize and fight with more than just physical might, but when this did not work, he let go. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like burning fire, and he regained much strength he did not believe he had. He fought, pummeling his short blade into one soldier and ducking below a flying blade and then made a thoughtless leap to a window.
A guard seized him by the hem of his robe and pulled with all his might, thrusting Altaïr back. For a moment, he could think of nothing. With his arms outstretched and his head back as he capitulated, he let go of the short blade and they pulled him down.
The smash to his head as he finally met the ground felt like nothing. The guards were upon him and he thought of one thing. One thing only. How silence was beautiful.
He had lived his life like the wind. Silent when sneaking up, but leaving destruction where he touched, sometimes howling and others just as silent as when he'd come. He had learned to be silent, to run without making a sound, to watch where each foot fell and where to put his weight on the foot and how fast to lift his foot again. He had learned to maintain a crouching position for long periods of time, to make no sound and remain undetected. It was an art, and he had never taken time to think about how beautiful it all was.
It was here when Altaïr decided that it was beautiful how he heard nothing as feet smashed into his stomach and arms and legs, his skull. How Altaïr made not one moan or groan or cry of pain as bone after bone cracked and broke, how blood became like a river and pooled around him, flowed down the crevices of the stone, and sank into the sand.
It was beautiful how the one guardsman, a captain to be sure, held up a hand and received an immediate response. How he knelt beside Altaïr with a bloody knife and they stared at each other. Or Altaïr thought he stared into the captain's eyes, but the captain clucked in disappointment and broke the silence. "I imagined you would last longer, Altaïr," he said, "but I suppose your reputation is just as inflated as your ego."
Then he jabbed the knife into Altair's side. He didn't groan as the dull edge broke through sensitive skin, soft tissue. He didn't scream when the knife twisted in the folds of his body. His body just held still. He held his breath, his eyes now closed. It was over. Whatever it was, it had come and it was over.
When he opened his eyes again, the crowd of angry guardsmen and soldiers was no longer present. They had taken their dead with them back to their barracks and had left Altaïr, thinking he would die in shame.
Unlikely.
He rolled over onto his side. His back screamed in pain at the pull and tear of skin the movement had caused, and he locked his jaw in preparation for more as he lifted himself to his feet. With gritted teeth, he held a hand to the wound in his side, the knife still locked inside, and began walking. What a nightmare he must have appeared like! Some women shrieked at the sight of him and darted away in the opposite direction. Men just shook their heads, musing how such violence could still plague their streets.
Altaïr took his time to find a safe spot. His favorite in Jerusalem was a perch in between two structures and the city wall, in a far, dark corner of the poor district. He hoisted himself up onto some baskets and vaulted over the ledge onto the lower rooftop. Settling against the city's wall in the hay, far from the prying eyes of citizens and guards alike, he undid the leather straps of his uniform and searched for the little bit of salves he carried with him. Then he opened his robe to display his wounds.
Scrapes and bruises, no big deal. Too many lacerations to count though. Those can't be too good. But the wound in his side; that needed attention right now.
He tore a blood-free slice of his robe and poured water from his canteen onto it and patted it around the knife. It would have to be quick otherwise he couldn't do it himself, he decided. Holding the wet cloth to the side of the knife, waiting to quickly cover and press into the wound, he grabbed the hilt awkwardly and pulled hard.
When it was all over and he had dealt with the wound, tying another piece of cloth around his waist tightly, he closed his eyes for a nap. He would sleep off the initial pain, and as dusk spread its wings of darkness across the city, he would find a troff or a fountain or whatever he came to first and rinse himself and his wounds off. Then, and only then, would he return to the bureau and face Malik.
A cool breeze drifted in as the sun set behind the hills, and Altaïr was up and already seeking water. He came upon an abandoned fountain, spewing out fresh and cold water from its depths, and he cupped his hands and drank from them. Refreshing. His lips were chapped and his tongue dry, and the water was soothing to his scratchy throat. He rinsed himself off as best he could, ignoring the obvious nipping pain as water touched open wounds. It wasn't anything he couldn't handle, after all.
Soon he was on his way back to the bureau, his robes tattered, worn, and bloodied. His short sword and his long sword both missing, his throwing knives gone from their sheaths. It was, to say the least, humiliating to return to Malik in this state. Bruised and bloody with broken bones and no weapons.
Altaïr dropped from the latticed rooftop and landed with an unusual thump to the ground. The thick smell of sandalwood incense wafted in from the workroom suggesting Malik had not retired from his endeavors just yet. Great.
He waited, crouched as when he landed, his chin raised, for Malik to come in and lash out at his inability to do anything with discretion. News of his beating had to have rippled through the crowds and gotten into Malik's broad circle within the hours that had passed. He waited, as each second passed his heart rate increased madly.
But Malik did not come.
It almost hurt him.
He stood up, wincing as a sharp pain echoed through his body with no specific source. Well, perhaps he wasn't as loud as he had first thought—or perhaps Malik was so absorbed in his new map that he hadn't heard Altaïr's clamor. His pulse slowed to normal.
He tugged the leather off him and unclipped his belt, inching off the robe as if any fast movement would summon mutiny within his abused body. Standing there, in front of the flowing fountain naked, he finally took in a calm breath, as if breathing for the first time since the incident. He was safe, and he was going to be fine. That was final.
A cool night wind blew in from the open rooftop and danced across the sheen of dried sweat on his skin. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment as it last, however shortly it did.
"Don't even dream of defiling that water, fidai," came a snarl from behind him.
Altaïr turned slowly, knowing full well that Malik had just caught him unawares and was most likely gleeful for it. "I wouldn't think of it, Dai."
"But you would because you only think of yourself." The Dai shook his head in dismay before continued. "Did you think I wouldn't find out about this?"
"I completed my mission. How I escape has never been a concern of yours."
"Concern of mine?" huffed Malik. "I am certain Al Mualim would not appreciate the news of your death to common guardsmen, and so I sent out my men to look for you, but you evaded them like the coward you are." He paused and then gestured to Altaïr wildly. "And you yet might if you don't let me tend to your wounds! Does your pride know no bounds? Will you die so as not to ask for help?"
"I am hardly concerned with my wounds, Malik," Altaïr replied nonchalantly. "I have had worse, and they will heal."
"Hmph." Malik nodded back to the workroom. "I'll find my medical kit. You fetch some water and stop being so proud. It will be your end."
Altaïr did as he was told and filled a pail full of water from the fountain. Entering into the workroom, he watched Malik lay out herbal remedies and clothes on the work bench. He did not look up as Altaïr set the bucket down beside his salves. "Sit down already and let me see your wounds."
Altaïr silently sat on the stool and waited for the Dai to examine his wounds. He braced himself for rough handling, wrath of the worst kind. He closed his eyes, trying to appear calm in anticipation, but Malik's fingers, when they touched taut skin, ghosted across purple and black bruises and dried cuts. His touch was warm and exceedingly gentle, so much so that the assassin had to open his eyes. It had felt nice...a nice change from Malik's heated anger. It showed a side not commonly there, a side that Altaïr secretly missed.
"Surprised, Altaïr?" Malik asked, his voice a notch lower than usual. They were close enough so that talking was too loud, whispering was just a bit too soft. Malik matched the perfect tone. "If you weren't too proud to ask for help, you would find that there are those out there who have a softer touch than you."
"It is not pride but concern for others' time that prevents me from asking for help," Altaïr asserted firmly. His voice was a bit too rough to match Malik's, rugged and hard from the lack of water he'd gotten. "I am capable of taking responsibility for my own actions."
"Which brings me to my next question," Malik murmured, dabbing some admixture of herbs onto a lesser, dried wound. Its sting lasted a second and passed as he passed onto another. "What is it that you did do? My sources are uncertain. Incite the guards for a victory party?"
"No, Malik." Altaïr forced himself still, though he wanted to shake Malik's touch off.
"Then what happened?"
"It was a trap. They harassed a serving girl and had known I would come. They were waiting."
"They had set up a trap? No, that cannot be. Perhaps you weren't paying attention."
"It was a trap," he insisted. "The captain knew my name, as well."
Malik frowned, but Altaïr couldn't ascertain whether it was at the possibility that the guards knew more than they ought to have or at the unwrapped knife wound. The Dai backed off and grabbed another cloth and more herbal salve. "You will have to pass this information onto Al Mualim," he finally stated, returning to tend the knife wound. "I will look among my own for traitors, but the Master is adamant about your current mission. It is not for you to wonder."
By the time Malik had cared for the wounds and dealt with the ribs, he tied thick material around Altaïr as a cast with a frown and patted his shoulder awkwardly. "There should be a uniform in that chest over there, weapons and all." He paused and Altaïr waited for the inevitable. "Try not loose them all again."
Altaïr nodded and went over to the chest. He hesitated, his hand poised above the latch. He half turned to the Dai. "Thank you," he said. "This is better than what I could have done."
Malik didn't look him in the eye. He shrugged his shoulders as it to brush it off as nothing and replied, "If you had paid attention during your studies, you could have done it better, I think."
Altaïr nodded at the only compliment he could get from Malik. It was an awkward moment. He quickly turned and opened the chest.
Once dressed, he went into the lounge and fixed the pillows a certain way, studying how best to lay for sleep. Perhaps he would have a better sleep tonight than last night, perhaps the simple act of kindness Malik spared for him tonight would cure any insomnia that came his way.
A clatter of dishes broke his thoughts. He looked up to the doorway where Malik balanced a tray of food on his arm. "If you plan on leaving for Masyaf as soon as possible, I suggest you get your nutrients. If not, I cannot say you will ever make it."
Altaïr thanked him and took the tray. He carried it to his corner of pillows and sat down, only to find that Malik was still standing there. He waited, unsure of himself. Eventually, he felt compelled to break through the silence which was no longer beautiful. "Is there something else you require of me, Dai?" he asked.
"No. I only...don't do that again, understand?"
"It was nothing I could not handle."
"Your wounds claim otherwise."
"The fact that I still live should prove I could," Altaïr protested.
Malik brought his hand up to his face and rubbed his forehead. "Can I not express worry for a fellow brother, Altaïr? Your life might not be worth more than Kadar's, but that doesn't mean it is worth nothing."
Something struck a cord within Altaïr. Perhaps it was just at his guilt for allowing Kadar's death to happen or perhaps it was just his own insanity, but a flame ignited in him and he sat up straighter (though he decided against jumping to his feet). "Don't pretend you have feelings for me any longer, Malik. We both know you stopped thinking of me as a brother a long time ago."
"Be that as it may, it does not mean I don't worry for you. You...you're arrogant and foolish and you only care about your own success, but these past few missions you've had here have me thinking you've changed. You're different. I can see that. You are not the same man responsible for Kadar's death. And this new Altaïr is better than the old. If I loved you once for the prideful bastard you were, then is it not possible for me to love you for the humble man you've become?"
Altaïr bristled. "I am the same prideful bastard I was," he stated, his anger dwindling quickly. "I am still the man responsible for your brother's death."
"The fact that you think otherwise helps me believe you are a different man. Not a year ago would you be fast to shirk responsibility for the death of a brother, and now you willingly accept it. Altaïr, as much as you frustrate me to no end with your stupidity, I cannot help but have affection for you."
He scowled, feeling suddenly small, like a young boy. Like one of the older assassins were talking down to him, teaching him the ways of the life they had lived and not the ways of the life fit for him. He acknowledged somewhere that he had indeed changed, but that would not erase the burden than he carried with him every waking moment. And since when did Malik enjoy showing affection to him like a man to his son?
Finding no words to reply, he kept his mouth shut.
Malik shrugged. "Eat your food or not, but don't cry to me when it spoils." He left without another word, as if he hadn't somehow made it more awkward between them. It is easier to deal with the anger of a man who is fueled by hatred but otherwise?
Altaïr pondered this for a while before finishing off the cheese wedge and pieces of cold chicken.
He slept well for half the night, but he woke with a start as a howling echoed through his brain. He lifted himself into a lower position, his hidden knife pointed upward at a possible assailant. The bureau was empty, of course. A candle still burned from the workroom, however, and Altaïr slightly crept toward the doorway. Peering in, all he saw was Malik pouring over his scrolls and the column of smoke from the incense drifted upward toward the ceiling.
"Did a nightmare frighten you, Altaïr?" he asked with disinterest.
"No. I heard a sound, I think."
"Just admit you are sore. I can do something about it, if you only ask it of me."
The fidai sighed. "I thought I heard a cry."
"That cry was your own, Altaïr." Malik gazed over the top of the scroll and studied Altaïr's face. "So I ask again, was it a nightmare?"
He shook his head. "I don't remember."
"Ah, well, I can assure you that you've been making quite a bit of noise from in there this whole night. Like when we were children. You used to keep me up all night with your crying."
"I didn't cry."
"Yes, I supposed it was all in my head, the serving girl cooing to you every night she was on duty." Malik shook his head and returned to his work. "When you feel like sleeping again, come and tell me what you dreamed. I might have a remedy for that as well."
"I do not remember the dream, Malik." Altaïr slipped onto the stool. "Perhaps you have a remedy to aid in my memories as well?"
"Impertinent. And here I was thinking you might have changed a bit." He rolled the scroll up and placed it on the shelf behind him. Then he turned to the fidai. "I have a wife to go home to, Altaïr. Do you think you might be able to stay out of trouble for the rest of the night?"
Altaïr nodded, absently. Since when did Malik have a wife? He then asked as much.
"You never pay heed to anything but your own business, do you? I married her not long after Kadar was murdered." He walked over to the ladder and then said, "It was better than staying where I was. And without this arm, what sort of danger do you believe I am in now?"
Without anything else to say, Altaïr said, "I'm sorry."
"You've said that, and I have told you that I don't need an apology from the man not responsible, but keep repeating it and we'll see." He slowly made his way up the ladder, fully aware that Altaïr's eyes were on him, measuring his careful movements and waiting for a slight slip. But Malik, even with one arm, was still a born assassin and was quick with his hand, balanced with his body. Altaïr silently admired this about him.
They had trained together, had ascended to full-fledged assassins together. Though they had never held each other close, there was an understanding that passed between them, admiration and respect. Malik was always the honest and good assassin; Altaïr was the maverick of his trade and the best at what he did. Up until his demotion, Altaïr had believed it was his disregard for rules that made him the best. He was wrong, and he realized that Malik had the idea the entire time, from the very start of it all, and he had to pay the biggest price for it.
/ - / - / - / - / - /
Recovering enough to leave for Masyaf was taking a long time. Altaïr was restless; he sneaked out of the bureau when Malik's attention lie elsewhere and joined his brothers on their daily rounds. He climbed buildings—only one or two before he ached all over again—and he walked among the people. Each time, he would receive a tongue lashing from Malik when he returned.
"I cannot remain in this cage while there are tasks to be finished!" Altaïr exclaimed one evening.
"They are not your tasks; and how restless can one be? It has only been two days since you've gotten injured." Malik was over his map again, his quill in hand and ink jar set above the parchment. He tried not to pay attention to Altaïr, but he glanced up now and then to peer over at the pacing assassin. "If recovering is too tedious for you, then perhaps you can help sort those scrolls there."
Altaïr frowned but did not refuse. "How would you like them organized?"
"I want you to return them to the shelves according to number. It's not difficult, as long as you remember how to count."
Altaïr rolled his eyes. "It's hazy, but I'll try."
"Hm, so he has a sense of humor after all." Malik cracked the smallest of smiles before hiding it behind his quill.
They worked together in a long, peaceful silence, interrupted by the water flowing in the fountain and the nub of the quill scratching across parchment. It was like when they were training and paired with one another, they worked together but separately with a perfect pace and a sense of peace between them. Until Altaïr opened his mouth.
"What is it like?"
Malik frowned at the disruption. "What is what like?"
"Not being fidai anymore, not being able to...not having that freedom."
"There is a freedom in all things, Altaïr, not just movement. I don't need to climb buildings or assassinate everything that moves in order to gain a sense of freedom. Here, I find freedom in thought, limitless knowledge and gnosticism here. Enlightenment. It can be just as rewarding."
Altaïr couldn't imagine it. "You do not possess the power to change your knowledge into action."
"No, but neither do you. That is for Al Mualim and his fidais. We work together as a team, all playing equal parts. Or have you already forgotten that message again?"
"No, I haven't forgotten." Altaïr sighed. "Then you don't miss it?"
"You would be a fool to believe I didn't, but what good will it do to wish for something that is impossible? Those times are over."
"Perhaps you are right."
"I am."
He turned to face Altaïr and their eyes met for a moment with sad understanding passing between them in a current of companionship, and suddenly Altaïr had the urge to reach out to the base of the missing arm, the stump that had been the livelihood for the former assassin. Malik leaned back, less than an inch, before tensing and permitted the assassin's hand to touch it.
"I don't need your pity."
"And you don't have it," said Altaïr, his forefinger brushing up against the black wool robe. He supposed it was similar to his missing ring finger. It sometimes felt as if it was still there, still hurting, but it was gone like a phantom no matter how many times he looked at it. Though his finger was less necessary—and wasn't the end but the beginning of his career.
Altaïr's fingers drifted across the healed limb—or what was left of it.
"Then why are you looking at it like that?" He narrowed his dark eyes at Altaïr, summoning his severity to his expression. But Altaïr wasn't deterred.
"I'm simply wondering what sort of life I could live without my arm." And it was true, though he imagined it would not be anything like Malik's.
"You'd be surprised."
Altaïr withdrew. "Goodnight, friend." He turned and left for the lounge room. It wasn't that he was tired, but he felt a sudden peace settle over him at the touch, at the admission and at the bond he suddenly realized was there between them. As Malik had said, they worked together. Altaïr needed him. And in many ways, Malik needed Altaïr. Perhaps to gain favor, but most likely to live the exciting life. To hear his stories and see his failures, plan out the missions and get angry when they are not carried out as he would have done.
He relaxed against the pillows, cradling his head against his arm and closed his eyes. There was a peace here, between Malik and Altaïr. It was not disturbed by the missing arm or by the missing brother. The silence that ensued was welcome as he drifted off to sleep.
But the screaming came again, throwing Altaïr on his feet with his hidden blade out before his mind could fully grasp his surroundings. Malik sat on the empty fountain, watching him. He was smiling. "You scream and then you prepare for an intruder, Altaïr. Don't you think this is going too far?"
Altaïr fixed his bracers and looked down. "I don't remember my dream," he asserted vehemently.
"How is it that I don't believe you?"
"You tell me."
Malik stood up. "You waste my time, Altaïr. Perhaps you should deal with your inner demons before Al Mualim allows you to depart on your next mission."
"I'm fine, Malik. I thank you for your concern."
"Hmph." Malik shook his head. "Very well. It is not I who will be kept up all night because of your nightmare." And he left.
The wakefulness did not seem to go away. Each night, he woke with a start, always ready for an action that never took place. Each time left Malik more and more concerned and Altaïr more intent on suppressing it.
One night, Malik decided to stay at the bureau. He remained in the workroom while Altaïr slept, but when Altaïr roused, he was suddenly standing in the doorway. "Go back to sleep," he told Altaïr. "It was only a nightmare."
"It was not a nightmare. You are simply deceiving me."
"I'm not foolish enough to dance with you, Altaïr. And I'm not nearly young enough to. This is you and entirely you." He turned and left Altaïr to his own devices.
Altaïr fell back into the pillows. The dream always left him filled with a dull pain he attributed to his injuries, but he that pain didn't shift when he shifted, didn't go away when he lay comfortably. It was always there, throbbing. It was a familiar pain, though, an ache he had known since an unknown time. It just felt normal at some point. He didn't remember having it recently or any specific time, but he knew it somehow. Perhaps if he took his concern to the Master, he would figure it out.
He couldn't fall back into a sleep, and so he joined Malik in the room. The Dai was not buried in his work, but sitting on the stool staring straight ahead. When he noticed Altaïr's presence, he asked without his normal annoyance, "What is it that you want?"
"I can't sleep," he admitted. It felt like a small thing to say. Those words, too, were familiar upon his tongue.
"And what do you expect me to do about it?"
Altaïr shrugged. "I thought I might keep you company."
"How unusually thoughtful of you." Malik bowed his head. "But tonight is not so good."
"What do you mean?"
"I am a busy man, if you can believe that."
"Then let me help."
Altaïr joined Malik at the work bench and looked over the map. It, to him, appeared nearly done. Well crafted and drawn with a certain perfection only Malik could compose, and he asked what more needed to be done.
"Many things." He pushed a scroll towards Altaïr. "Translate that while I finish this map."
And so they worked side by side once more. A sense of belonging befell Altaïr. That peaceful state to which he had fallen asleep that night a while ago. He looked over to Malik, who worked silently. It was clear the way he bit his lower lip and the way he stood with his quill poised in the air just above the rise in the hills that he was in a deep thought, and as he thought, Altaïr wondered what he had missed about the Dai. The gentleness and caring and respect for a job well done, where had that been hidden all these years and why hadn't Altaïr seen it? Or had Altaïr, too caught up in his own life, ignored it?
He dropped his quill. But this wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Altaïr was an assassin by nature, he was meant to kill and bring victory to the Master. This was all preordained.
A second later and a warm hand pressed down on his own. "What is it?"
Without thought, Altaïr replied, "And there it is again."
Malik dropped his hand. "What?"
"This sudden gentleness."
Malik grinned. "You think that I cannot be gentle, Altaïr? Do you not remember us as kids? I used to care for you, all your scratches and bruises. Do you not remember?"
"No."
The Dai sighed. He turned completely and rested his hand on Altaïr's shoulder, grasping it firmly. "Do you not remember anything of our childhood? Of our youth?"
"I remember my lessons."
He sighed. "Not well enough, apparently." He paused. "I suppose you don't remember the promise."
"What promise?" Confused, Altaïr hardened his gaze, studied the saddened expression on Malik's face.
"It doesn't matter." He turned away. "Try and get some sleep."
And so Altaïr left the workroom to try another round of sleeping, but he didn't get the opportunity. With his head spinning, he could only manage to lay down with eyes closed, and soon enough footsteps alerted him to Malik's approach. He gazed up.
Malik knelt next to him, and, feeling as if he should not be privy to this, Altaïr closed his eyes. "Goodnight, my old friend." He reached out and touched his forehead. It was a warm touch, heavy and exciting. Altaïr's blood rang in his ears in a sudden fit of excitement, his heart pounding. That touch was also familiar. Instinctively, he reached up and placed a hand over Malik's. Malik tensed, but then relaxed. "You're awake, Altaïr."
"Yes."
"I was just wishing you a good night."
Altaïr nodded. "Goodnight, Malik." He released his hand and closed his eyes for sleep once more.
/ - / - / - / - / - /
Collecting flags was a part of their program. Altaïr hated collecting flags. He felt that these tests were beneath his skills. After all, he could scale the walls and jump faster and more deftly than any other in his class. Not even Malik could appear so graceful, and it was easy to Altaïr. It took not an ounce of effort.
The instructor sent Altaïr out to collect flags, and so Altaïr hopped from one post to another, jumped from one roof to another, and then grabbed flags as he went. None of this was done with interest.
He stopped when he came to the market place. There was a flag on the roof on the other side, but something within the marketplace caught his eye. Fresh fruit. Just set out for him to take. A little detour then.
He swooped down from his perch and carefully picked his way through people to the popular stand. Pretending not to browse, he stepped on a woman's foot, whereas she turned to the woman beside her to make a scene. As the merchant turned his attention to stop them from making a scene in front of his stall, Altaïr snatched a melon. He cradled it with one arm, half hidden by his flags, and headed off in the opposite direction, but a guardsman had seen him.
"You, thief!"
And Altaïr was running as fast he could manage. Multiple guards were upon him before long as a guard knocked him down as he rounded a corner. He dropped the flags and looked around for a handhold. He launched himself up on a window lattice to hoist himself up onto the ledge, but a hand pulled him down.
"Stupid boy!" Snarled one of his assailants. The guard kicked him repeatedly as the others just stood around. "That'll teach you to steal in my presence!" Altaïr huddled, covering his face with his hands.
The guard grabbed the stolen melon and walked away after spitting on Altaïr. He didn't move as they disappeared from sight.
"Altaïr?"
Altaïr opened his eyes. Malik stood above him, his brows knitted with concern. "What happened?"
"I got caught stealing."
"You're lucky they didn't cut your hand off." Malik knelt beside him. "Let me see." He brushed his hands across Altaïr's wounds. Sore, but nothing too bad. Malik said as much. "Just some bruises. Come on, get up." He offered to collect the rest of Altaïr's flags, but Altair refused.
"I'll retrieve them myself," he had told Malik gruffly. And he did.
When it was over, he sat on a perch watching over the city. Perhaps he would try to convince the Master to allow him to carry a weapon, but no, that would spark questions.
A hand holding a slice of melon slide behind Altaïr's nose. He jerked back to Malik standing there. "Take some; I know you want to, Altaïr."
Suddenly free of any embarrassment he might have felt at the earlier ignominy, he grinned. "And what makes you so generous?"
"I'm always generous with you, Altaïr," said Malik.
Altaïr took the melon. "And why is that?"
"Do you really want to know?"
Altaïr frowned. "Perhaps not."
Malik grinned anyway and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Altaïr's. They were soft against chapped lips. Altaïr pulled away. "What was that?"
"That was my way of telling you how I feel about you."
Altaïr paused and then leaned forward to return the kiss. And it felt nice. Right.
"This is about the melon, I'm sure," Malik teased, "but just know I'm here. No matter what. Waiting for you."
/ - / - / - / - / - /
Altaïr opened his eyes. That could have been a nightmare, however he might consider it. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he gazed up at the rooftop to gaze upon a dark sky. He blinked.
The light in the workroom was still lit, so he stood up and carried himself there. Malik frowned at his entrance. "Still up, Altaïr?"
"I never thanked you, Malik."
"For what?"
"For helping me that day. And giving me that...melon."
"Oh?" Malik's frown disappeared. "It was just a melon, and it was a long time ago. All forgotten."
"I may have forgotten until now, but I do not believe you have. And so I thank you." He approached Malik and leaned in, pressing his lips very softly to those silky ones he had touched so long ago. It was a chaste kiss, as chaste as any kiss a married man could receive, and they stayed like that until Altaïr sighed, contented. He pulled away and fixed his robe. "Now where does that put us?" he asked, clearing his throat.
"Nowhere," Malik replied. "I'm married, and you're an assassin. I was done waiting a long time ago."