A/N: This is a prequel of a sort to Apollo's misery. It doesn't make much sense, but mostly serves the sole purpose of portraying Altair's peculiar mind, and Malik's fascination with it in the best way I could muster up. Thank you for your patience reading it, and I strongly recommend you read Apollo's Misery after this.
"The masiq is soon," Kadar notes with a wide and toothy smile, watching the vast olive plantations in their autumn glory, branches heavy with small, green, bitter fruits ready for gathering.
"That it is. Rauf said it will take place next week," Malik agrees with a small nod, hands crossed over his chest. He had turned sixteen not too long ago, and his body was resembling more and more a man's rather than a child- his chest and shoulders are broad and solid, waist thick with well-defined muscles and thighs sculptured and firm on the ground (only his ankles and wrists are still somewhat delicate, but that Malik decides to ignore for now. They'll strengthen up with time he assures himself, tightening the leather bracers against his hands.)
"Do you think they will let us off practice so we can help the village?" the younger al-Sayf sibling ponders, rocking back and forth on the balls of his heels as he inspects the constant sway of the gray-green branches in the warm and fragrant wind, carrying the scent of poppies and other wild flowers from the savage fields surrounding Masyaf.
"I doubt it," Malik offers his sibling a smile of solace before placing his left hand over the youth's shoulder. "Let's head in, Master Ashraf will whip our fingers with a wet twig again if we are late," he warns, urging Kadar back into the shaded corridors, quick to follow the soft tapping of little feet against coarse stone.
Luckily, they are not late, and Malik bids his hasty farewell with a small tap to Kadar's shoulder. Less than a moment later, he already takes his rightful place among the other disciples, standing tall and upright with his feet poised parallel to his shoulders and his hands folded just over the small of his back. They are all diverse in height and color, but the gray robes, patterned leather belts and well-worn boots make them all look like a single mass, almost as if they were brought to life by the same mighty creator during a moment of inspiration.
After the usual procedure of mutual greeting, the practical lesson begins and the rest of the day is spent learning immobilizing grasps and their neutralizations. They are divided into pairs and given a dark cloth to tie over their eyes in turns. One would stand blindfolded and wait to be grasped, trying to deflect the attack, while the other would do his best to sneak upon his partner and lock his wrists to render them useless.
Malik's partner was a lofty, yet devilishly gifted young man answering to the name of Altair Ibn La'Ahad. He is taller than most his age, and looks somewhat lanky under the layers of thick cotton that fails to encompass his body as well as Malik's uniform does, and leaves awkward folds of cloth near his calves, hips, shoulders and elbows.
His wiry frame tells little about the almost frightening amount of power the youth seems to own. The skin of Malik's wrists is quick to irritate and redden under the vice grip of Altair's long fingers. To the blindfolded Malik, they almost seem like the talons of a hell-spawn.
Regardless of his bruised palms though, the young boy is not quick to give up, he never was, really- sometimes to the point of it hurting him instead and making poor Kadar zap back and forth with wide, worried eyes and a distressed scowl while in search for help.
Altair is quite stubborn himself, attacking from a new angle, or twisting Malik's wrists in a different way each time the other novice manages to free himself. Sometimes he manages, sometimes his partner's hands slip past his palms like a wet fish.
To Altair, it is frustrating and fascinating all at once.
When the sun is hanging low in the sky, like a heavy golden discus held by a tiered man's hand, the novices are sent back for dinner before allowed to their free time.
Malik will be meeting his brother soon, Altair notes, following the darker-skinned boy with his unwavering gaze.
His back is broad and shoulders set straight, his hips wide and thighs sculptured, the taller youth notes as Malik trails the well-known dirt path leading to the younger novices' sleeping quarters. If it wasn't for his lack of height, Altair decides, his wrist-gripping partner would look like a fine, healthy adult.
He bites his lip at his own thoughts as jealousy bubbles in his chest. He looks at his own gaunt midriff with dismay. One day, he will become more powerful than Malik.
Friday mornings are Malik's favorite time of the week. He is free to tend his more domestical needs such as laundry, cleaning his corner of the room and making sure Kadar has enough clothes for the week to come. Later that day, while his little brother would be busy stitching up his torn pants and cleaning his own room, Malik would be free to go outside and enjoy the small bounties the village has to offer… Perhaps even wander outside for a while and indulge himself in the riches the last days of summer gift him with.
Once his work is done, the boy allows himself to go outside, doing his best to suppress a content smile as he passes the serious looking guards near the gates. Malik is a disciple now, almost a mercenary by rank, and is allowed to wander outside the village, but never go past the guard towers.
That is might fine by Malik. Plenty of fragrant fields to visit down on his way to the final destination he had in mind- the river running just under the assassins' fortress. The road there is tricky and winding, but no sharps rocks or narrow paths are a challenge for the determined boy. Stopping him now would be like swaying a boulder by blowing on it.
His mind is so set he fails to notice a pair of curious eyes following his form as he slopes down the steep trails snaking between folds of stones and dirt. If one would look from afar, some might even seem to form grotesque images of sharp and angular faces, hewn into the mighty wall.
There aren't many fields on this side of the mountain, and Malik would have to cross the river in it's shallow point to get to the other side… But once there, a free world awaits- even the mere though of being able to escape the tight confines of the order make his heart rise an uproar.
Quick to pass are the grey-brown steps made a mosaic of marble, chalk and dirt, and before long Malik is already stepping through the knee high water, his boots sodden with it and heavy on his feet. It only serves to slow him down, never to stop. With clumsy and burdened steps, he makes his way across, fighting the quick current with a furrowed brow. His shoulders and back feel hot and sticky with trapped sweat, but his toes are curling inside his boots at the prickling cold of the water.
So close… Just a few more steps and he would be in his own private sanctuary, where his mundane bounds and responsibilities would be lost like a night's dream. He no longer attempts to suppress his smile, letting it split his face and spill a joyous light over his expression. Malik is beyond delighted- he is elevated, superb to all the vast land below, where his life as a brother in the assassin order and a brother to the younger Kadar lay.
With a loud groan, he steps out of the river and leans forward, resting his open palms on the cups of his knees. The fabric there is almost black from the water, the darkened marks splash all the way up to his thighs. He takes a deep breath in, then exhales. Down here, the air is still and replete with the flavors of the greenery and water. Malik smiles, looking around him with a pleased expression.
He doesn't dwell much on the sight of trees and rippling current, his feet keep pushing him forward to the nearby plains and his well-earned rest. So deep in his daydreaming, that the hushed sound of cautious and quick footsteps flee Malik's ears with an ease of a small bird escaping clumsy bear.
There it is- just beyond the river bend, the eternal mountains kneel down in front of the vibrant lowlands and the mosaic of lush, green grass and flowers sewn into them like colorful threads in a luxurious carpet. The boy runs straight into them, spreading his arms wide and screaming from the very bottom of his lungs. To Malik, the roar of his own voice seems almost powerful enough to crack the mountains in two and create a fissure that would run so deep down into the ground, he could see the past and the night sky while peeking inside all at once.
Finally, drained and content, Malik lets himself slope down on his knees, then fall on his backside before finally relaxing on his back. He blinks up at the bright sun and lets his mind go blank until he can feel like he can compare his mind to an empty jar of clay. His rest is soon disturbed by a faint rustle of grass.
"You will go blind if you keep on staring at the sun like that," a voice, probably a young man, notes, sounding as if it is coming from right above him.
Not a moment later, Malik is already up, sitting with his one hand holding the hilt of his small dagger, the other pressing against the ground. "What are you doing here?" he demands, his eyes squinted at the sudden bright rays that invade his eyes. Altair looks like a splash of metallic grey and ivory to the shorter boy's eyes.
"I followed you," the assassin apprentice answers simply, sitting down on the ground next to Malik and looking around. "I was curious. We are not allowed to wander too far unless on a mission," he notes sagely, his own hands crossed over his knees. "Why are you here?" he repeats the question, his voice void of any hints of accusing there might have been- it is pure curiosity.
"None of your business," Malik barks back at him, sheathing his knife and letting a long breath out of his lungs.
"I am not going to tell the guards you went too far. Did you come here to relax?" Altair ponders, unfazed by the other boy's out leash.
"…Yes," Malik answers after a long pause, blood rushing to his cheeks and painting them the color of red clay.
"It's a good place," the taller boy decides, leaning his chin on his crossed hands. "Nobody would come here because it's too difficult to climb the cliff. It's quiet, and there are lots of flowers. Do you think this is where the world started, maybe?" he ponders, looking at the other assassin from under his cowl.
"I… Don't know," Malik responds in a quiet voice, caught off-guard at the other's awkward question.
"I think this place looks like the naval of the world," Altair continued. "Scholars say that the light and darkness and earth and water were first to be created but… I think they exist since forever. How can light and darkness be created?" he shook his head, frowning. "This doesn't make sense at all. I think the land is just… Those places too high for the sea to reach," he concluded with a small hum. "And since water dries, all land was covered by sea once, but it dried gradually. And this is why we have dry land now. I think that in millions of years, we will no longer have oceans at all. Even if there are rains, we don't have too many," the boy concluded, looking at Malik with expectation.
"If we were all covered by ocean once, how come plants grow and people and animals roam the land?" the shorter boy sighs and rubs his forehead with dismay. His company is too confusing for his liking, and while Malik himself, unlike many of the brothers his age, takes pleasure from speculating, the subjects he is about to approach are a brand first for him. He was used to solving arithmetic problems or translating scripts from different languages, sometimes learning history and often tactics… But never did he encounter such odd musings.
"They grew from fish and water plants," Altair explains, and it seems so easy… So logical and yet it makes no sense at all.
"Grew? Are you insane? Fish cannot live outside the water!" the other boy shakes his head vigorously, his hands now resting crossed in a defiant manner across his flat, still developing chest.
"Okay, they grew from frogs and crocodiles then. And they changed because there was no longer place in the ocean since the ocean was drying and there was no room for them to live," Altair explains, his lips pursed into a tight line and jaw set.
"…How would they change, you cretin? Frogs don't just grow feathers and start to fly you know," Malik pinched the bridge of his nose and waves his free hand at the other boy.
"Well, did you ever notice that if a crusader stays too long under the sun he turns red, then his skin peels and then it turns dark? I think it was like that too. The animals and birds were spending so much time under the sun with their lizard skin, that it flaked and flaked until it turned to feathers and fur. Have you ever seen a plucked chicken, Malik? It's face reminds a lizard," the taller trainee replies with one finger in the air.
"…It does, a bit," Malik admits quietly and lets his shoulders relax. "That does not explain humans though… If the earth was all an ocean once, where did we come from?" his tone is softer now, more curious than anything.
"I have been thinking about this a lot. I think we are animals with souls. Because we bleed, eat, drink and sleep like they do, but we have feelings too. And we can think," Altair taps his temple twice and allows a tiny grin than reminds Malik of a newborn moon to stretch on his face.
The Al-Sayf doesn't respond for a long while. His face is wrinkled in concentration so deep it reminds of a recently plowed land.
"It makes sense but…" he attempts, leaning his elbow on his knee and resting his chin in the cup of his palm."It's such an awkward thing to have speculations about. Leave that job to the scholars, books and wisdom are their blades and arrows, not yours," he complains, sending the other boy a wary look.
Altair shakes his head then and his gaze is carried far, far away, beyond whatever bare stones and bushy pines that stretched as far as the eye could see. "How can we say we know what's right and what's wrong if we don't even know where we come from? It is true that the Christians that came here burn villages and take slaves and rob the cities, what if they come for something greater though? What if it's like the crocodiles that left the sea- they left their home because here is something they can't find at their countries, something that will push the whole world forward?" he groans and presses his balled fist into the ground. "I have a feeling, by the life of me, that there is more than just this story about the crucified man. They must be seeking a change," he looks at Malik then. "Do you believe me?"
Malik swallows thick and glares at the grass bending under the weight of his boot-clad foot. "I don't know. It seems like such a wild guess to me. People will do a lot for what they think is right. We kill for the right, but our righteousness is free of doctrines. It is simple and cannot have a double-meaning," he explains, wetting his lips. "Altair… We kill people, do you think we go to hell, like the religion says?" he ponders, his voice turning small and somewhat unsure.
"Hell?" Altair's hand rises to rub his chin, covered by only a few soft, light-brown strands of hair. "Maybe. If we go to hell, then it must be here," his index finger is pointed at the big, round sun.
"The sun? Why the sun?" the shorter boy exclaims, looking at his partner with wide eyes.
"Well, if, according to religion, hell is a burning pot, then it must be the sun. It is a giant ball of fire that hangs in the sky and only serves to warm us and give us light. The souls of sinners go there, and learn how to grant without having anything in return, Every night, they are being dipped into the ocean, or buried inside the land, so the moon can rise, and every morning, they wake up before anyone else and warm the cold earth," Altair's hands are moving in wide, fluid motions, almost like a mage casting a spell, and true to this, has Malik mesmerized by his words.
"But I like the sun," the other boy murmurs in a somewhat uncertain voice. "And I must not be the only one, many love it's light and warmth," the frustrated sigh is not late to come after this.
"They like it's uses, not the sun itself," Altair offers with a knowing smile. "Would you like the sun even if it didn't give you those? The light and warmth?"
"It would be a golden moon, then," the frown is back on Malik's face. "I would. I would like the sun even if it is hell for the souls of sinners, and even if it no longer gives us light and warmth, because it will still be beautiful," he decides, looking up at Altair with a frown. "And how about you? Do you like the sun, too?"
"I do," the other assassin nods, leaning back and crossing his hands behind his head. "No one can take the sun from me. It's my special thing," his previous grin was back on his face now.
Malik's ribs feel as if they are constricting around his lungs, making him take shallow and rapid gulps of air and making black dots dance in front of his eyes. He feels helpless, like a fish caught by hook and dragged to the shore.
"…Will you share it with me? The sun? I shared my poppy field with you," he asks, hiding the layers of uncertainty and hesitation behind a determined face.
"Maybe," Altair answers then. "If you prove to be worthy of it," he decides and lolls his head sideways. "But until then, it's mine alone."
Malik's mouth remains shut. He can't argue with something like that, he realizes, and turns his head away from the boy. "How do I become worthy then?" he ponders quietly.
"That's for the sun to decide," his friend notes and pinches a strand of grass between his fingers.
Malik's shoulders slump with defeat. Altair is as awkward as he is fascinating. He is demanding and impossible to ignore, his mere presence draws you in like a vortex.
"I think you have a good chance though," Altair adds as an after note, crushing the small blade of grass and watching it with a sealed expression. "You are not like the rest. The rest are a gray mass, but you I can see shining, glowing even," his eyes widen at his own words, and he is lost to the outside world.
Malik's lips form a small 'o' shape. The taller boy's words coil around his chest and warm it up, making him feel shy and delighted at the same time.
"That is good to hear," he offers eventually, growing uneasy from the void of speech expanding between them.
Altair looks at him next- hard, piercing eyes that would suit an animal much more than a teenage boy like himself bore deep into Malik's, as if asking to strip the other's soul bare with or without the other's consent.
Malik swallows uneasily, his shoulders tense and body curls forward, submitting to the primal instinct of hiding it's vulnerable spots. The other boy's stare makes his skin feel cold and clothes itchy and uncomfortable.
The next thing he feels is a body ramming roughly into his own. The air is knocked out of his lungs as his back meets the grass-clad earth below. His nose fills with a fresh, crisp fragrance of crushed stems and leaves.
"Altair! What are you!.." he exclaims, and in his ears his voice sounds empty and powerless against the other's suffocating determination and brute force in which he executes his will.
His lips are soon covered with Altair's own dry and rough ones.
How oddly fitting Malik realizes as his eyes lid and numb shock registers at the pit of his stomach like a heavy boulder.
Altair's lips are shifting against his own in urgent and fractured movements, smearing saliva over half his face with their clumsiness.
It takes Malik a few precious moments before the train of thought gets back on track in his mind. His mouth opens wide, and for a moment, the taller boy pushes inside with little patience.
Malik's teeth clamp around his tongue and bottom lip a moment later, small but sharp fangs sinking in deep and tearing the skin open.
Altair growls, and his voice resembles the cry of a wounded beast in Malik's ears.
Malik refuses to let go, feeling as if his bite is his only lifeline and escape from Altair.
His mind instantly changes the moment he tastes the metallic blood in his mouth, realizing it could not by any chance be his own.
Altair tears away from him in a single and abrupt motion. Blood is staining his lips any dying them a deep shade of vermillion that reflects the sun in bright specks of red and white.
Malik rolls from under him and wordlessly escapes, not bothering to turn around and look back at Altair sitting with one knee bend under him, touching his lips and studying his own blood.
This must be the result of seeing your own father die as a boy, he convinces himself as his feet carry him through the low grass, and promises himself he will forget what happened by next week at most.
It is an early, rainy Friday morning. Kadar is curled up in his brown wool blanket next to Malik, who is lending a sharp ear to the constant beat of drops against stone.
Three weeks have passed since Altair had tried to kiss him, and Malik was growing restless. They haven't talked, hardly looked at each other… Yet he could feel the other boy's eyes on him.
He stands up and makes his way to the small slit the room has for a window, now covered in a thick leather curtain to repel the water. With a single motion he tugs the curtain aside and allows his eyes to soak in the wet landscape.
Down below there are rivulets of muddy water running down the slopes leading to the village, further ahead there are tiny huts and homes made out of burned brick and stone, their wet walls looking glum against the occasional patches of new grass dotting the ground.
Finally, Malik can see the hills outside the village, covered almost completely by green with occasional dots of white from the flowers of the tall squill plants.
His shoulders slump down. There were no longer poppies to be found, not on the hills outside and not in his field. A strange feeling tugs at his stomach, making it feel as if it has been filled with cool sand and forcing his abdomen to relax.
Altair was accompanying an older assassin to Nablus, a fact that makes Malik both feel at ease and anxious. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he felt that since that day in the field, an awkward bond had been formed with the boy Altair, who never allowed a soul near himself.
Malik draws the curtain back and makes it back into the room. He collects a soft leather cape and pulls it around himself before slithering between the wooden doors of the room he shared with six more novices.
He is quick to reach the main gates of Masyaf, the ones assassins come back through after a triumphant victory and bitter defeat all the same.
He leans back against the stone walls, their chill piercing through his cotton robes and leather cape. Altair is supposed to return today, so he silently waits.
Malik doesn't know how much time passes before two horses appear on the muddy road leading to the gates. His heart is pummeling against his ribs like a panicked bird, and his lungs feel as if they have been bound by heavy chains and yanked down into his stomach. Altair has returned.
The two assassins past the gates mounted on their horses, but while the older man proceeds inside the village and up to the castle, Altair rapidly dismounts his stallion and rushes outside the gate.
The young assassin's body is covered by a cape similar to Malik's own, and his breath is quick when he stops in front of the other youth.
Neither says a word for a few long moments before Malik gestures Altair to follow him to an abandoned stable the wooden walls of which had been gnawed on by both time and decay.
"I have a question," Malik rasps when the two of them are finally inside, and slips his wet cape off, hanging it on a blistered pole.
Altair nods and does the same, hanging it on top of Malik's and watching him with wild eyes.
"What is love born from?" the al-Sayf sibling blurts out, looking up at Altair and doing his best to mask the hope in his eyes and voice. "If people and animals come from the sea… Where do feelings come from? Why don't animals have them?" he holds his breath, waiting for Altair's answer.
The other assassin swallows and lowers his eyes, the golden yellow framing his irises darkening. "I thought about it. We can feel because we have our soul… But where do souls come from, I don't know."
Malik lowers his eyes as well before pressing the palm of his hand to Altair's chest. "The soul must be here, then, because when we are happy our chest warms up," the steady beat of Altair's heart is too thrilling for Malik to ignore, and his fingers remain rested over rough cotton.
"Souls come from the sun then," Altair decides and yanks Malik closer against himself. "The souls of sinners are forced to constantly be good so they are warm and bright…"
Malik chuckles at that. "That doesn't make much sense Altair, how do souls come down from the sun? Why don't we ever see them?"
Altair shrugs and leans down for a brief kiss. Malik doesn't reject him this time, the brush of dry lips had become a memory haunting him during lonely hours.
The blessed contact is quick to end though.
"You should ask the sun yourself, Malik, where souls come from… You are worthy of it now," a rare smile stretches on Altair's lips, and to Malik, it seems almost sad.
"I want to hear the answers from you though," the other youth insists, his lips pursed into a tight line. He doesn't want Altair to slip away just yet, but at the same time, his closeness felt almost suffocating.
Altair snorts and pulls his cape from the rotting pole. "You won't get many from me, Malik… Ask the sun."
And with that, he was gone.
Malik groans and kicks the ground with frustration. "Altair!" he hollers at the other boy's back.
"Altair!" his voice pushed off the walls in a dull echo.
Altair never turns back, his boots slosh through the fresh mud and cape flops heavily around him, but he is smiling.
Malik doesn't know it yet, but Altair does- he will become the sun's patron, he can feel it by the warmth in the other boy's fingers and lips.
"Goodbye, Apollo," Altair breathes past him lips and hastens his pace. With the kiss, he has stolen some of Malik's warmth and let it settle inside his own chest, like colorful dust sticking to the corners of a pot.