The Former Templar
Malik was sitting in the upper study, his legs contorted around the railing as always, when an instructor, Yazan, came up to him.
"The master has returned," he said softly, grinning faintly.
"At last," the one armed man said, putting aside his scrolls and quill and charcoal. "Someone else to look at these cursed reports and decide what to do with them."
"Perhaps," Yazan said cryptically, the grin on his aged face widening. "Perhaps not."
Malik took a deep breath, counted to ten, and asked, "Is there a reason behind that riddle?"
The grin widened to an outright smile. "You will see," he said simply, before turning and leaving.
Damn the old fool and his habitual desire to be mysterious. Malik finished putting his work away before unwrapping his legs and shaking them out, moving down the steps to the entrance of the keep to see what the fuss was about. Several of the village guards and journeymen, even young novices and apprentices, had gathered under the keep, filling the training ring and chattering back and forth.
Since Altair's promotion to grandmaster, his first order was to forgive the brothers who had attacked him and others when Abbas had stolen the Apple. "The death of Al Mualim has caused confusion in all of us, we are all divided inside our very hearts as well as amongst each other. But we are a brotherhood first, and I will not compromise the brotherhood by killing those who attacked brothers because of that confusion. Far better to work together to rebuild the Order so that we are stronger than before." The entire winter had been spent in joint training exercises, working as a team to accomplish various tasks to heal the damage Al Mualim had done. Now Malik watched the benefits as everyone gathered in the ring in anticipation of Altair as he made his way up the mountain. In the span of a season Altair had repaired the hearts of almost everyone, and for the last three years Malik had listened and eavesdropped on them as they remarked on the master's dedication and loyalty and respect for everyone in the Order, and he knew that Altair would have no one to challenge his claim to his position.
Malik made his way to the gates, trying to look foul but knowing his smirk was leaking through his face. He, too, was glad to see Altair back - for the selfish reason that he wouldn't have to do the paperwork all by himself. The rest of the conclave had long since returned to their respective cities, managing their own affairs, leaving Malik to manage them instead of Altair. Deep down, however, where he would only admit it to himself and maybe to the grandmaster, he was glad that his friend was returning unharmed. That winter had served the two of them as well, they had become a well-oiled team that played to their respective strengths and covered each other's (mostly Altair's many, glaring) weaknesses.
Altair walked up the trail, surrounded by a small contingent of the village guards that had tried to strike up conversation with him, as well as the odd villager who knew of him and wanted to be in the grandmaster's presence. He tried to give them his attention as best he could, smirking to one woman who smiled right back. The brunette was dressed in man's clothes, and was a face Malik did not recognize.
"Malik!" the master assassin cried.
Malik scowled. "It's about time, novice!" he said. "Do you have any idea how long you've been gone? How much paperwork I've had to fill out! Do your job properly!"
And, in the end, Altair tilted his head back and openly laughed, his smile wider than Malik had ever seen before in the reticent assassin.
"You can flog me for it later," he said, reaching up and slapping Malik's shoulder. "For now, I am home, and I am at peace."
The one-armed assassin's eyes widened at the last statement, and his eyes flicked to the brunette. She was very petite, a round pale face framed by her dark braids, and there was strength in her body that could be seen under the clothes. Her smile, however, was as bright as Altair's, and the cryptic smile from Yazan suddenly made sense.
Malik smiled as well, turning to the woman. "It's good to see someone can tame this stupid eagle. You have my congratulations and my condolences, woman. I would have your name so that it can be nominated for Christian sainthood."
"Maria," the brunette said. "Maria Thorpe."
Blinking, color drained from Malik's face as he recognized the name from Altair's reports in Cyprus. The Templar woman who kept escaping? The Templar woman who impersonated de Sable?
His critical gaze was met with a flat look from Altair, and Malik knew challenging him would be moot - the grandmaster had made his decision and would not waiver. Struggling, Malik put on a smile and turned back to the woman.
"No doubt you will bring excitement to the entire Order," he said, knowing his words were more ambiguous than he wanted but unable to think of something kinder to say.
To her credit, Maria sensed this and offered a soft, almost coy smile. "I'm certainly not what anyone expected. Even him," she added, pointing to Altair. "But I assure you the only trouble you'll get from me is if anyone tries to challenge my right to be here."
A spitfire under that soft face? The ice in her voice was palpable, and Malik dreaded what the next few months would bring. He rubbed his face with his hand, uncertain how to even react, and was further flabbergasted by Altair's goofy, goofy, grin. He was not aware the master assassin even had the right muscles to manage a goofy grin.
"We're doomed," he moaned.
Altair only laughed again, the bastard.
It was several hours later, after dark, when the journeymen and apprentices and novices had been put to bed, when bellies were full and thirst for entertainment satiated, that Altair pulled the senior staff to the lower library for a meeting. Maria sat immediately next to him, her soft face hard with anticipation and holding Altair's hand.
"You've all read my reports," Altair said, his soft tenor ominously neutral. "I did not tell you everything in them. First is that this is Maria Thorpe, former steward of Robert de Sable," the room erupted briefly in noise, "and my wife."
"Wife? Wife?" Abbas said, standing up in outrage. "She is a Templar! A spy! She cannot be trusted! Kill her and be done with it!"
Malik groaned, knowing that such spite would make the man dig his heels in.
"No," the grandmaster said slowly, softly.
Others offered their own opinions.
"How did this happen?"
"What were you thinking?"
"What if she betrays us?"
"How can you trust her?"
"What about the Creed? Never compromise the brotherhood!"
Maria stood up. "I am in the room, you know," she shouted, eliciting several stares. She crossed her arms and glared at the assassins before here. "Did any of you even think to ask why I'm here? Or are you too busy leaping to conclusions? Oh, but I forget, I'm just a silly woman who doesn't even know her own mind. Never mind that I could pull all of you to a draw or better in combat, never mind that I'm good enough to save his," she jutted an accusatory finger to Altair, "life. Never mind that I helped secure Cyprus as an assassin base. Oh, no, all these things I've done to help you, they all pale by comparison to the fact that Robert was the only person in the entirety of Europe to actually respect me." She turned bitter eyes to Altair. "It looks like the Holy Land is no different."
And she stomped out of the room, her eyes very bright, leaving an empty void of silence in her wake.
Malik was the first to gather his wits; sighing and leaning back in his chair. "Stupid novice," he muttered, rubbing his face. "What kind of reaction were you expecting when you announce her like that?"
Altair's fists were tight knots on the arms of the chair; he looked like he wanted to murder someone and was uncertain whom. "I wanted you all to know the truth, she does not hide what she was and I respected that."
"There is nothing about her to respect," Abbas hissed. "She is a Templar!"
"She was a Templar," Altair corrected, his voice significantly louder. "And barely that."
That perked Malik's interest. How could one "barely" be a Templar? "What do you mean?" he asked slowly, mindful of the numerous dissenting opinions in the room and hesitant to shut down Altair completely. He was such a bother sometimes.
The grandmaster sighed, rubbing his forehead with his right hand, now empty of Maria's. "The story is long, but in essence she joined the Crusades as a man. She is a proficient fighter to survive the battlefields, but Robert eventually found out what she was. Instead of banishing her back to England he took her under his wing, and that gesture of kindness garnered her loyalty."
"She is still loyal even now!" Abbas cried out, others nodding. "You heard how she praised that madman."
Altair's head rolled slightly, and Malik knew his eyes were matching the gesture; he threw a look to the others, hoping they would see it and still their damn tongues. Altair met opposition with opposition, and the last thing anyone needed was another division in the Order only three years after the last. Rauf saw it and nodded, so did the scholar Yazan.
Rauf leaned forward in his chair. "You say she was loyal to Robert. You imply that she was not loyal to the Templars. Is this true?"
Altair took a long moment to reply but finally sighed. "She followed Robert devoutly, but she did not agree with all the beliefs of the Templars. He made her feel accepted in a way she did not in her own country, and she could not refute that."
"So, then," Rauf said slowly, "She is no longer interested in her former allies."
"She tried to be," Altair explained. "We were... conflicted... much of the time, but the Templars abandoned her because she was a woman and they believed her close to the assassins. She tried to kill me several times to regain her place in the Order, but their betrayal to her was complete."
"And the part where she tricked you into becoming her husband?" Abbas hissed.
"We grew close in our time and in our fighting." Altair's gaze flicked to Malik, and suddenly the former dai of Jerusalem could see exactly what had happened because it had happened the same way with he and the grandmaster. Looking at it that way meant that this Maria had a similar disposition to him, and that made Malik's curiosity override any weariness he had towards the woman. He suddenly itched to debate with her and see how she made her arguments.
"There came a point where she had to make a decision," Altair continued, "and she chose to help me. She saved my life and led me to the Templar Archive under Limassol Castle."
"Oh," Yazan said, "At least the Apple has been sealed away then."
Altair winced.
Malik groaned in anticipation.
"You mean to say it's not?" Abbas demanded, standing up again, furious.
Reaching into a pouch in his belt, Altair pulled out the dormant silver ball.
Malik counted to five before the second uproar erupted about the room. Their grandmaster was such an idiot; that was his first reaction. Everyone feared the artifact, were terrified that it would divide the Order again; it was unanimously agreed that it be locked away, and the Archive had been the best choice. But no, Altair had changed his mind, wanted to keep "studying" the damn thing and be worn down by its visions. Malik did not relish being attacked by a fevered, malnourished, delirious Altair again thanks.
But even as those thoughts ran through his mind, others did too. The winter they had spent together had shown Malik that Altair had more than a mind in his skull. The man was determined to do what was best and what was right; not what was convenient or safe. "Our duty is to people, not to custom," he had said, and Malik knew, deep down, that the Piece of Eden terrified Altair just as much as the others. He would not keep it without good reason.
And so, under the din of noise the other senior assassins were making, he leaned over and simply asked, "Why?"
"Even with the help from Markos and the other Resistance members, the sheer amount of misinformation that has flooded the island is too great, I cannot trust to leave it there, and the Archive in Limassol is still surrounded by Templars. It simply is not safe." He sighed, deeply, and rubbed his forehead again. "I fear that nowhere is safe for this artifact, and if that is the case, then I am the safest place for it because I am immune to most of its effects. I fear the arrogance of that thought, I fear the temptation that creates, and I fear the burden of that duty."
Malik reached out and put a hand on his friend. "We'll figure something out, once we get these rabble-rousers in line."
Altair turned to Malik, and under the hood he could see the gold-brown eyes smile, faintly.
"When Maria tires of her temper, let her know I wish to speak with her. I must test her worth, you see," Malik said grinning.
Altair frowned, uncertain what the one armed man meant. "She already-" he started but Malik cut in.
"I think a swordfight might be in order," he said, theatrically thinking out loud. "Perhaps in front of the novices and apprentices, maybe a few journeymen. If she is as good as she claims, she should fair well, and her skill will give the children something to talk about."
"Thereby ingratiating her into the Order," Altair finished, grinning. "Clever."
"More than you are."
"At least I'm married."
"That that fact is a favor or not has yet to be determined," Malik quipped.
The two grinned and nodded before turning back to the senior assassins.
When Malik first broached a conversation with Maria she kicked him bitterly between the legs before stomping off, causing a startled Altair to be torn between whom to support. Groaning and rocking, Malik threw the idiot after his wife and bemoaned the kind of husband the novice was going to be. That thought grew in strength when he began hearing the increased volume of shouting coming from wherever Altair had followed his new wife.
"He would face everything as a fight," the one armed man muttered as the pain slowly subsided. At least they weren't screaming, a small favor for his ears that he was grateful for.
When he could stand, and then later when he could walk (that woman knew exactly where to hit, damn her!), he moved on to other things to give the pair time. When an hour had passed and he had not see either of them he calculated the risk and eventually went to find them.
This lead to him walking in on the two of them, naked and in heat, trying to choke and kiss each other at the same time.
A strangled noise emitted somewhere in Malik's throat, startling the newlyweds, and Malik fled from the scene. He could not look at either of them for a week afterwards, could barely even talk to Altair to get work done, and utterly refused to answer anyone's questions on why he was suddenly being so distant to the grandmaster.
Altair, the bastard, was utterly unapologetic. "It is a natural occurrence between two people who are married," he said in his soft tenor, and the picture of it would rush through Malik's mind again and he could only groan and hold his head in his hand. "If you had a wife you would understand."
"Don't tease me, novice," Malik said - decidedly not pleading, "not over this."
That only made Altair smirk and Malik threw a knife at him. The grandmaster caught it of course, and his smirk grew into a grin. "If you feel this aggressive then perhaps we should do something about it?" he asked in another teasing voice, this time layered with something entirely different, and Malik slammed his fist onto the table before getting up and stalking out of the upper level study.
Maria sought him out after that, hours later when the moon was rising above the mountains and Malik stood in the gardens, trying to deter himself from committing murder.
Upon seeing her, he turned away, shamed by the fact he had seen her body when it was not his to see.
"I think..." she said softly, her English vowels still so alien to his ears, "I think we didn't start off well." Her manner was completely different than the attitude she had been showing.
"You kicked me where a man should never be kicked," Malik answered. A quick glance showed Maria look down, her pale skin showing a bright flush in the moonlight.
"You were not very welcoming," she accused, a more familiar defensive bite in her tone. "I saw how you looked at me when I gave you my name."
"I was shocked," Malik said, still not looking at her. "That idiot novice never even gave a hint about what was happening between the two of you. I respect his privacy," he blushed again, "but you are a lot to take in. That he was stupid enough to announce you as he did only made things worse."
Silence stretched before them, a soft breeze blowing small petals and wisps of scent through the air.
"... Is it true that this garden is full of concubines?" she asked in a neutral tone.
"No," Malik answered. "There are women here, yes, but they are mostly healers - of the body and of the heart. If the men seek that kind of solace, they go to their wives."
"I see," she said softly.
Malik risked another glance and saw her in profile, looking down and deep in thought. For the first time, she looked like a woman, and at last Malik realized, at least a little, what she was looking for. He waited.
"Altair... he said that the assassins respect ideas, he talked to me once about Empedocles, and Al Kindi. I've read some of their work in your library. I'm... surprised, I guess, at how I've been treated since I came here. How can an order that proclaims tolerance and intelligence be so backwards when it comes to me?"
Ah, and there was the crux of the problem. "Nothing is true, and everything is permitted," Malik said, "I am certain you've heard that phrase by now."
"Yes, another assassin idiom."
Malik finally turned to face her. "If you want to be an assassyun, a 'pillar of the faith,' then you need to understand what that means. Philosophy, ideas, intellect, tolerance, everyone here strives for that, but the truth is that reality often falls far short. The enlightenment of which we teach is only a part of a very long journey, and it is irresponsible to think that everyone can attain it. That is why we reach for it, because in reaching we stretch our minds, and with every stretch we become slightly better than what we were, and that is how we seek to better others. Even we have our customs and traditions, beliefs and superstitions, and in weak moments they can hold us back. It is how we grow past them that is important."
Malik turned back to the moon, higher in the sky now. It was a crystal clear night; he could see every star.
"After you and Altair first met, he came to me to report what had happened. We fought; he wanted to ride to Arsuf to stop de Sable's treachery and I wanted him to report to Al Mualim because that was what was supposed to be done. I wasn't ready, in some ways, to listen to what he was saying. He accused me of using the Creed like a shield, and I was forced to see if his accusation was true or not. It was that fight that prompted me to go back to Solomon's Temple and see what I could dig up - to prove that novice wrong in theory, but deep down I sensed he was right and that terrified me. That was how I learned that Al Mualim had betrayed us." That was when Malik vowed he would never, never use the Creed like a shield again.
Maria was staring at him; he could see it just in his peripheral vision, and he continued. "A man not of the Order, he is more likely to close his mind, to deny the facts in front of him, and continue to believe he is right. An assassyun, however, must resolve the difference between what one knows to be true and what one sees to be true. I grew because of that experience."
He turned and looked at the tiny Crusader - no, he looked at the tiny assassin. "The brotherhood knows you to be a Templar, they must now see that you are an assassin. After that, you will see the difference - those further on the journey will pick up on it faster, but some will never see. Can you live with that?"
Her answer was very long in coming but,
"... Yes."
"Good. Then we duel tomorrow."
Her determined face melted into solid confusion. "What?"
"They need to see past your illusion," Altair explained, causing both to look up (Maria with a start, they would have to work on that) to the upper balcony. He leapt off the safety rail and landed feather-light on the mosaic tile behind them. He looked around, uncomfortable of the garden and its memories. "They only see a woman and a Templar, we must show them you are a warrior and an assassin. Combat will be part of that."
She frowned, glancing between the two men. "I can't fight him," she said, taking a step back. "It wouldn't be fair, he only has one arm and-"
Malik's softer opinion of Maria disappeared in an instant. "It would appear you are not the only one with an illusion to transcend," he said bitterly, glaring at the woman before stalking off.
"Malik!" Altair called.
The one armed man ignored him.
At dawn the next day Malik raised Rauf and explained the situation. He marveled at the idea and was more than happy to gather the novices and apprentices. Malik shed his dark djellaba and pulled on his old assassin whites. His last three years were not spent chained to a desk reading and writing reports; he and Rauf had worked hard to come up with a training regime that would help him compensate for his missing arm. They had worked in private mostly, Malik weary of letting others see him, especially at the beginning, when he struggled the most. But now he was once more the king of the swords, and he was determined to make Maria work for every inch of credit she earned in this duel.
The "training exercise" was scheduled for mid morning, and Malik walked out to the ring, fastening his empty sleeve more securely and nodding to Rauf. Altair he completely ignored, knowing it was anger by proxy and frankly not caring. Looking through the sword rack, he picked one of the master swords, admiring its golden handle and testing its balance, before swinging his legs over the wooden safety rail and entering the ring.
Maria joined soon after, holding a sword of her own and eyeing him wearily. Almost apologetically.
"Stop that," he growled.
"Stop what?" she demanded, instantly defensive.
"Stop looking at me like that, or I will gut you here and now, damn Altair's opinion on the matter. Grant me no favors."
Maria frowned, shrinking slightly, before puffing up and offering bravado: "The same could be said for you."
"You're wrong," Altair called out from the edge of the ring. "Malik grants no one favors."
Rauf spoke briefly, something about learning about different fighting styles, poetic justification to hide the true reason for this bout, before he took his customary place by the gate and shouted, "Begin!"
Malik took a deep breath, focusing his mind, and then ferociously attacked, a brutal swing that Maria had to dodge by several backward steps. Malik followed up with a feint, a lateral swing, and then a vertical one, driving her back more and more. The shock on her face was evident; she had not expected him to be so well balanced without the second arm. He pressed the assault relentlessly, not shy in the slightest about kicking her or shoving her with his weight. It took some three minutes before she finally recovered enough to think, and when she did things at last got interesting. She ducked under a strike and grabbed at Malik's shoulder harness; Malik couldn't counter grab so instead he brought his knee up into her ribcage. Maria fell and rolled, trying to get behind him. She swung her sword up and Malik blocked it, but the follow-up strike was at an angle he hadn't been expecting and he was forced - at last - to give ground.
Maria was small but that did not mean she wasn't strong. Years spent pretending to be a boy, training as a boy, had given her excellent strength, and she knew how to use her size to her advantage. It made her a challenge, and Malik was grinning as the bout progressed. In the end, though, her small size gave her less reach, and Malik finally was able to disarm her and kick her to the ground.
The fight over, he belatedly became aware of the noise surrounding the ring, and looked out to see almost the entire Order had arrived to watch the fight. Money was changing hands, hands were clapping on backs, cheers and catcalls were being whistled, and in the middle of all stood Altair, still in a crowd of motion, his arms crossed and smiling faintly at the two closest people in his life.
The novices could contain their excitement no longer and burst into the ring.
"I knew no one could beat Master Malik!"
"I never thought a woman could fight so well!"
"How can you fight with only one arm? Is it hard?"
"I'm small like you, miss; can you teach me how to fight?"
"How come you have such good balance?"
"Doesn't those things on your chest get in the way? My mother's are much bigger and they're always getting in her way."
Malik leaned in, grinning. "Welcome to the Order, sister."
Maria turned, flushed from the exertion and the attention, but her smile was a bright as the sun.
If the amount of screaming were any indication, it was a difficult birth. A terrified apprentice had raced up to Malik at the training ring to report that Altair had threatened to kill him is he didn't get out of his way. Malik groaned, rubbing his head, and signaled to Rauf that he was about to be indisposed. The swordmaster nodded, taking over for him, and Malik followed the apprentice into the keep and up the narrow steps to the grandmasters rooms.
Altair paced back and forth before the closed door, the midwives had all shooed him out and now all he could do was listen to the terrible screams of Maria.
The grandmaster looked up to Malik, a quick glance that acknowledged his existence, and went back to pacing. The one armed man motioned to the apprentice that he would take it from here, and the boy gratefully ran away.
"She screams so terribly," Altair said, still pacing. "I fear she is dying."
His thought was punctuated by another scream, and Altair tensed, looking as if he would break down the door.
Malik watched the grandmaster pace back and forth, debating on what to do. "Do you want to go to the gardens?" he asked. "Or maybe beat up some novices in the ring? I can always find paperwork for you to do - since you haven't done much since coming back with her."
Altair shook his head, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. Maria kept screaming behind the door.
"I cannot leave her," he said, turning and pacing again. "I will not abandon her; I refuse to repeat my old mistakes."
That made Malik frown. "When have you ever abandoned her?" he asked, his head bobbing from side to side as he watched his best friend pace. "You've been almost inseparable since you arrived here. Did something happen on Cyprus?"
"No," Altair said.
"Then what makes you think you abandoned her once?"
"Not her!" he hissed, stopping in his pacing long enough to glare at Malik from under his hood. "The Order!" He resumed pacing again, his steps heavy and erratic, energy threatening to burst from his body. "Malik, I thought I made it clear. I will never again abandon the Order as I did you and your brother. I won't have more deaths result from my actions; I cannot lose anyone to a decision I made. I cannot!" He growled, deep and menacing and low in his throat, as he turned abruptly on his heel, stopping his pacing to glare at the door and the screams behind it. "I should be in there," he said. "If she dies I should be there."
"She is with a midwife," Malik said, "She is in the very best of hands."
"The best hands are my hands."
Malik tilted his head back, banging it slightly against the stone he was leaning against. "Stupid, stupid, arrogant novice," he growled.
"Do not call me that!" Altair shouted, turning to focus his fury on Malik.
"I call you what you are!" Malik shouted right back. "If you want to do what's best for the Order, what's best for your wife, then you have to allow other people to do their jobs! You cannot keep thinking you are the only one capable of taking the risk - you have an entire brotherhood that wants to help you achieve your goals! You have to trust them to make the right decisions! If the midwife says it's better for you to be out here, then you should be out here. Thinking you know better is the same type of thinking that created Al Mualim!"
The name was a heavy blow to Altair, the taught energy in his body crashing to a halt, making him completely still. The grandmaster's eyes widened, and color drained from his face.
Malik held his ground, holding his glare at Altair. He hadn't pulled his punches - he never was one to - and he rationalized that the blow would keep Altair pliant until the birthing was done. That didn't make him regret the accusation any less. Maria was still screaming behind the door, and even Malik had to admit it didn't sound good, but unlike Altair he accepted the fact that he knew nothing about giving birth. If there were a problem, someone would come out; for now, they simply had to endure.
Malik stayed with Altair for several hours. The grandmaster had scared away anyone under the age of sixteen, but the older journeymen - fathers themselves - weren't the slightest bit afraid and would come to offer words of support or advice. Altair was in no frame of mind to even hear them, but Malik thanked them and accepted their words, mentally taking note of who arrived for when Altair could actually manage to think. It was deep into the afternoon, almost evening, when the midwife finally came out and beckoned the two men in without so much as a word.
Altair, Malik noted, fought his first impulse to shove the woman aside and instead bowed his head to her, walking past quietly, before his steps quickened to the side of his wife. Malik stayed at the door's entrance, this was a private moment, and so he instead whispered a few questions to the midwife: where screams like that normal, how long would it take Maria to recover, was the baby well, etc. She answered in a deep, husky voice, knowing Malik was trying to give the new parents privacy, and explained that she would be kicking everyone out soon so that she could clean up. It was then that Malik saw the pile of bloody rags, and he gulped noisily and thanked his parents he had been born a boy.
"Malik," Altair said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Come here."
"... I don't want to intrude."
"Oh, stop being so fussy," Maria said, her voice weak but her ire still strong. "The godfather needs to know his godson."
Malik stepped forward hesitantly. " 'Godfather' ?"
"A Christian tradition," she said, pale but smiling brightly.
Malik frowned, still trying not to get too close. "I am not a Christian," he said slowly. Altair looked up and beckoned him again, his face split into a magnificent smile.
Maria sighed, leaning deeper into the pillows. "I haven't been a true Christian since before I joined the Crusades, but you are still the godfather. You are in charge of his spiritual education - as much as it exists with assassins - and you will be the one to take him in if anything happens to us."
That stopped Malik in his tracks, the weight of the responsibility slamming into him like a horse at full gallop.
Maria opened her mouth to say something else, but Altair put a hand on her shoulder and the two shared a look that Malik didn't quite understand. The brunette nodded and Altair took the bundle he had been staring at into his arms and walked around Maria.
"Darim," he whispered to the collection of cloth, "Meet your godfather, Malik. He has a foul temper and a quick tongue, but you will never find a more loyal and intelligent man to be by your side. He even puts up with your father."
And, Altair shifted his hold on the bundle and Malik saw the tiny face look up. An even smaller hand reached up through the cloth and Altair took the tiny appendage with a finger, smiling endlessly. "Say hello to Malik," the grandmaster cooed, his voice gentler than Malik had ever heard it.
The baby's face turned, blinking, and his large eyes locked onto Malik.
And he smiled.
"... Oh," was all Malik could think to say, and suddenly Altair was guiding his arm to take hold of the little baby, Darim, and letting him hold it. Darim smiled again, so small, so innocent, and reached up, his arms flapping against the rough cotton of Malik's djellaba.
He couldn't refuse after that.
It was, oh, months later, when Malik and Altair were doing paperwork together in the upper study. The summer heat was oppressive, and the pigeon windows were all open to help circulate the air. The cries from the training ring below could be heard, but Malik was very deft at tuning out the noise. Altair playing with little Darim, however, was a different story.
The change in the grandmaster had been incredible. The entire mountain celebrated the birth of Darim; and Altair and Maria took it graciously. Altair could often be seen talking to journeymen and rafiq and dai, asking about their own parentage, seeking advice, a smile almost perpetually plastered on his face. Holding the baby seemed to be very important; whenever Maria was busy (or, more likely, understanding of Altair's sudden change, allowed) Altair was holding Darim. Currently he was bouncing the child lightly on his knee while he read through reports, the baby greatly entertained. At regular intervals Altair would stop his work and focus his attention on little Darim, cooing or speaking to him, or just staring into the tiny baby's eyes.
Malik watched with a certain level of fascination of his own. The child was so tiny, and it was hard to believe something so innocent had come from Maria and especially Altair. They had both done things in their lives, Malik had done things in his own life, and yet he had been granted the privilege of being the boy's instructor, watching over him when both parents were working, helping keep Altair from a panic whenever the child coughed or gurgled. In the end, he, too, found he just kept smiling, and he couldn't imagine what it would be like if he ever had a child of his own.
Altair's attention was with Darim, and Malik looked on in pride, before stretching and saying, "I dread the day when we have to bring him into the Order. You're so possessive of him I expect a fight."
The dry comment hit Altair slowly, and Malik watched as the bouncing slowly stopped, the grandmaster looking up and staring at nothing, deep thought suddenly hitting him. It made Malik sit up a little straighter - he had learned over the last four years that when that happened Altair was about to rearrange tradition. Again.
"I... have been thinking about that," he said softly, looking again to Darim. "And I wonder."
Malik could hear the senior assassins gnashing their teeth already. "What do you wonder?"
Turning to face him, Altair asked "Malik, what do you know of your father? Not as an assassin, but as your father?"
The question was a little sudden, and the one armed man had to think.
"... He had big hands," he said, "Rough and calloused. I was fascinated by their texture. I liked listening to him breath, it was a treat whenever he held me and I always pressed my ear to his chest to listen to it."
There was a long period of silence after that, Altair once more lost in thought. Malik waited, knowing something was coming.
"... I have asked many brothers about their fathers," he said. "All of them talked about their fathers as assassins. They talk about their sons with pride but they do not truly know their children. I never even saw my father until I was six; all I knew were the stories. I look at my own son, and I wonder, is it such a good thing that he will not know me as a father, and only as the Master? Is it a good thing that I should look at him so abstractly as a 'future member of the order'?"
Malik leaned forward, paperwork forgotten. "Do you regret not knowing your father?" he asked.
Altair glanced at Malik, his eyes hidden by his hood. "Al Mualim, he once said I filled my father's shoes as if they were tailored to my feet. I... It hurt when I realized I did not know what he meant; but I did not question it then because it was my life, the only life I had ever known. Now, now I have a life in front of me, one that I can shape, and I... I just wonder."
It was that kind of thinking that always managed to turn heads in the Order. Malik - having been exposed to it more than most as Altair's second-in-command - could only shrug his shoulders. The logic, such that Altair was hinting at, couldn't be argued, but years of tradition were hard to buck.
Malik looked at Darim, however, and understood. "Not everything has easy answers, Altair," he said. "There is merit in how we are raised, that cannot be denied; and the logic behind it is sound despite the old man. What you are really asking yourself is if there is a better way, and I can't help you with that - that is your decision. I only advise that you take the time to think about it." He added with a grin, "Since you usually don't."
Altair smiled faintly.
Author's Notes: Maria is a giant question mark for us. She's nothing more than a cameo in AC1, and neither of us have played the game where she shows up, and so her character is entirely based on supposition. We've read her profile on the AC wiki, and after thinking about it, we've come to the conclusion that after years of living as a boy she just naturally acts like one, and is forever irritated when people try to treat her as a girl. Where Altair barely talks to you Maria is in some ways his opposite because she's more than happy to give an opinion. I can only imagine what their fights are like - er, when they're not devolving to sex that is. Poor Malik.
We're fudging with the timeline a little bit for this fic. Maria's game, Bloodlines, theoretically takes place one month after AC1, but neither of us can imagine Altair up and wandering over to Cyprus before taking the time to solidify himself as grandmaster - especially after Abbas' insurrection. There's also the fact that purchasing Cyprus by the Templars takes place AFTER the Third Crusade is over, and while the Battle of Arsuf was the last of the fighting it had to have taken - minimum - weeks or even months to settle who the next King of Jerusalem would be. In light of that, we assume the Order took the winter to themselves (where the events of It Must Be You take place), and then Bloodlines takes place. This shouldn't affect Darim and Sef's births, but if anyone can suggest otherwise, let us know.
Next up, the Fourth Crusade. Let's see if the history buffs know what that means... :D
