The door thumped and rattled but it's occupant wasn't getting out anytime soon, thick planks of wood and steel reinforcing it. Malik felt the frustrated banging and scratching, the tips of paws poking under the gap, and angry growling. Stepping away, he felt for a hidden button in the stone and pressed it, a portcullis descending from a slot above the door. The bureau may not be the richest but it certainly had some tricks.
When he was satisfied that the grill of metal was secure, Malik placed two novices and three journeymen on watch at the door, then prepared another five of mixed rank to relieve them in four hours. They all seemed frightened and hiding it poorly but Malik didn't blame them. What they had witnessed that night would have destroyed the minds of the weaker.
Men who could turn into wolves. A legend. A story that had started with jackals and been added to with the advance of the Crusaders.
And Altaïr was one of them.
Malik laid down to rest, exhausted, but unable to in the face of a much bigger problem. Al Mualim's prize assassin had been forcibly changed into a beast. Somehow, knowing Altaïr's current level of control (fractured and erratic, but everything made so much more sense now - the sniffing, his second sight being triggered without desire to do so, the hypersensitivity to light and smell and sound, the strange possessiveness), Malik doubted that Masyaf would have any plans that involved a pleasant resolution for all. Yet shock and fatigue finally claimed Malik, and he didn't even stir when the watches changed, the first lot dragging up blankets and pillows from the residences below to sleep in the courtyard.
Altaïr, down below, continued to claw and scratch and howl, bloodying his paws and reducing his cell to shambles.
The moon hung upon him like an oppressive cloud, the strange possession of it winding around his body, strumming his veins like the string of a tightly wound instrument. It had been winding him tighter and tighter as the orb grew fuller. But today, as it reached the peak of the cycle, Altaïr felt particularly restless, his strings vibrating as they frayed and came closer to snapping.
He'd risen early, snuck away using the alley passage, locking it behind him, and ran. Ran until he couldn't anymore and when he couldn't run, he climbed until that too had expelled his energy. The city was putrid, worse than before, but he knew where to go, where he could feel alone and free.
The eagle had objected to commandeering the nest at first, then quietened as Altaïr fed it pieces of meat, mindful of his fingers as he did. Then it chirped and flew away, diving, perhaps for a mouse, and Altaïr didn't see it again for the remainder of his stay.
There had been some disturbing news five days beforehand; a vicious dog attack, leaving a woman in three pieces in a dark street. Altaïr knew it was the dog he'd faced on the rooftops - it hadn't died from the fall. Reluctantly Malik had given Altaïr permission to investigate, seeing as he couldn't return to Masyaf. A letter had finally come, restoring another rank of Altaïr's honour, and ordering him to stay in Jerusalem - another Templar would be there in a week that Al Mualim wanted dealt with. The result was that the errands were boring Altaïr and by being bored he would irritate Malik. Permission was granted to go after the dog.
But five days and he'd hit a dead end, managing only to procure a sealed chest from the original warehouse. He'd worked at unlocking it, but quickly realised it was trapped and required prolonged study. So he'd spent yesterday working on that and felt too frustrated to work on it as soon as he had awoken on the morning of tight strings and full orb.
Up on his perch the wind was strong and fresh. They were far from the ocean, but there was a certain saltiness to the air, a dryness that stuck to his tongue. If anyone were to look up at that moment, they would see only a ghost, and would quickly forget about it in the manner that civilians had to in order to survive in this harsh city. Some of them might see the ghost as an agent of their preferred religion. Some would remind themselves of another man in white and pay the tower no mind, not raising the suspicions of the guards posted at the base; debts were repaid in many ways.
Finally, knowing that he had to return, had to face that locked chest, Altaïr performed a perfect Leap of Faith, the wind whipping at his robes as he fell safely into a hay cart below. The mustiness made him sneeze.
Malik was eating breakfast when Altaïr returned, scanning a book and making notes. Accounts, most likely. They would swap that record for the winter and spring record when the winter convoy arrived; the scholars at Masyaf would check the books and send them back with the summer convoy to ensure bureaus were not overspending. Malik was concerned that Al Mualim might not see the bribes cost as necessary, as it had been rather high this half-year. But if Al Mualim wanted his Assassins to return from missions safely, then he'd pay the damn price for the information. The Templar Knight presence was at a disturbing high and this made people unwilling to risk their necks for the same rates as before.
While Malik was mulling over how best to phrase a letter to say so, Altaïr returned the alley key to his desk, and brought the chest up. It had an elaborate lock, and sloshed about with water. Altaïr had only seen something of this sophistication once and therefore wasn't quite sure how to proceed without damaging the contents or the chest. If he could keep the chest intact, then Al Mualim might find it a useful project for safekeeping documents.
It was disgustingly clever; when opened or disturbed in the wrong way the contents would fall into the water chamber - probably mixed with a parchment eating solution of some sort - and destroy the paper documents and render them useless to the thief. It was something Altaïr would normally take joy in unravelling, but now he felt hot and bothered and frustrated, pushing his hood off so that he might not sweat as much. If he were to just break the lock and open the lid, the documents would be a mush before he could get to them. If he sawed the water chamber off that would damage the box and he rather wanted it intact. His second sight was providing little help, having been erratic all week and only growing worse by the day (the implications of which Altaïr did not wish to discuss nor want to think about - only a few of the Brotherhood knew of his gifts and he didn't need their concern clouding his attempts to restore himself to full functionality), the entire box sparkling with energy rather than any small detail. He growled.
It was too much. He was not in the right frame of mind. The restlessness had returned and he scrambled from the courtyard to run through the city for the rest of the day.
Malik had noted how squirmy and energetic Altaïr had been but there was really nothing he could do. Focusing attention on one resident of the bureau would be at the suffering of the others. Despite the strange link of animosity that seemed to be growing stronger each day that Altaïr remained in Jerusalem, Malik felt mildly annoyed that Altaïr had managed to worm his way in and lodge himself there. No matter where he went, Altaïr seemed to follow. Yet the man was changing.
Hopefully for the better.
Reports of a man in white shoving guards from innocent civilians and fighting off whole groups at once were becoming common on Malik's information network. The others hadn't claimed the honours and there was only one that could consistently come out unharmed from such fights, yet Altaïr hadn't made so much as a peep. Old Altaïr would have bragged. This new Altaïr didn't seem quite as inclined.
That scared Malik a little - could one person change so much and so rapidly? But he realised that this wasn't so much as a new Altaïr than an Altaïr that had been left behind in childhood. He did remember a small, studious, and lonely boy - one that did not brag, did not possess arrogance. There had been doubts about that boy as to whether he was a suitable novice for further training. The arrogance had been bravado and a mask.
Then the mask became real.
When Altaïr dropped into the bureau with minutes before the grate was closed as the sun set on Jerusalem, Malik looked at him in a different manner. Their link thrummed as Altaïr touched his shoulder by accident while entering the bureau reception. A pulse seemed to wash through it, Altaïr physically reacting with a flinch.
A string snapped, a hum of something else singing in his blood.
Protect.
Altaïr stared in surprise at the laces on the side of his over robe. They had torn the eyelets out, leaving it hanging loosely. The robes had felt a little tight that morning, but not this tight. In fact he'd looked himself over and made sure he wasn't losing shape but he felt and looked better than before, his muscles in peak condition. The sudden tear had come from nowhere.
He hurriedly undid his belts and stripped to his under robe, hoping that Malik hadn't noticed. When everyone was asleep, Altaïr decided, he would sneak back out and fix the eyelets, stitching them back in place. The laces would have to be done looser in the future. Perhaps he had put on weight while ill. Yet he could have sworn it was fine yesterday. He pushed the thoughts aside as he tucked his belt and over robe under his arm, using his sash to tie his under robe in.
However Malik was still standing in the courtyard, quite preoccupied by a sudden tangle in his throat, and a panic that had gripped his heart and set it pounding. As he calmed, he told himself that he was being ridiculous and there was nothing between them. No bloody link, no twitching.
"The grate is still open," said Altaïr.
The twilight was creeping in, the last of the orange light in the clouds soaked out by indigo.
"I can do it if it pleases you," Altaïr murmured.
Malik went to close the grate just as Altaïr made a step towards the blue evening. The grate made an awful clanging racket, not at all like the quiet that Malik preferred. Something was wrong with the Daí. He reached for the other man, leaving the shadows of the bureau.
A stinging cold sensation poured through Altaïr's veins as faint moonlight spilt across his skin. He flinched again, chest heaving, body tensing in an unnatural way. When Malik turned, he saw the veins in Altaïr's arms rising to the surface before it disappeared when Altaïr backed into the bureau once more.
"I'll check on dinner," he said gruffly.
He felt so cold. If he were to take a breath, he was afraid he'd spit out ice. The kitchens had fire, had warmth. Get warm. Stay away from the moon.
He choked on his next breath, mouth feeling overly full of teeth, and stumbled, spitting out pearly pieces of stones. Snarling, he jerked away from the teeth on the ground, accidentally moving towards the courtyard once more. Malik grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to sit down, shaking him. There were words in there somewhere but Altaïr didn't recognise them.
He lunged forward, trying to use his teeth to bite. Nobody caged him. Nobody held him. He was not a pet.
The human pushed back, surprising Altaïr, even sticking a finger in his mouth. More words. Garbled. Words.
Someone else was coming up, smelling of meat and plants and spice. Their foot settled upon a fallen tooth. They dropped the tray they held, pottery ringing around in Altaïr's head as it shattered, a wet sound of broth slapping against stone.
With one powerful twist, Altaïr rolled away from the humans, balancing on four limbs. He screamed into the room; the younger human jumped. The human in black stepped in front of the pup, snatching up a sword hanging from the wall, flinging the scabbard off. This one was skilled. Injured but vicious.
He didn't like the look of the pointy silver stick.
A wave of fire washed over him, bones cracking in the heat after the cold had turned them to glass, rearranging themselves. Robes split at the seams, and Altaïr remembered that this wasn't him. He screeched in shock, backing up, staring at his hands as they sprouted claws, his fingernails dripping blood.
The strings of his body vibrated, squealing, and with each one that snapped he lost a bit of himself in the agony. Collapsing, he writhed on the floor, torn between wanting to scratch his skin and run into the moonlight.
Malik grabbed the back of his robes, and Altaïr kicked at him as he was dragged downstairs, shaking off his human form. The last scraps of his clothing tore off, but Malik still had him somehow.
Then Malik turned into a human, or a piece of prey, and he tried to twist his head around to bite the human's hand off. He smelt like kin but he wasn't treating him like kin, and rage filled the wolf. More prey flocked to them, throwing ropes and prodding at him, as they made loud noises with their mouths, the whites of their eyes stark in the low light of the stone and wood den.
Get off.
GET OFF.
He snapped the ropes with his teeth. But he was foiled by his own body, his back making a terrible snapping noise as it slid into place, his legs losing function from the jolt of shock that poured through him.
The supposed-to-be-kin was glowing a faint gold. The supposed-to-be-kin was important. To kill or to protect? The scent said protect but his anger said kill. And he wasn't supposed to kill blue? Or was he supposed to protect red?
The world spun as the one-front-limbed prey heaved him up with a mighty effort and threw him into a smaller den. He rolled onto his feet, stalking towards the hole. Suddenly, wood slammed into his face as he leapt at the hole, intending to rip the prey apart. Yelping once, he backed up, the stone chilling his paws as they silently padded across it, throwing his full weight against the wooden slab. It rattled. The prey on the other side shouted and made more noise.
Kill.
Supposed-to-be-kin had overpowered him.
Protect.
He didn't know. He didn't wish to submit to the supposed-to-be-kin. They were equal. He hadn't protected supposed-to-be-kin. He'd lost the limb.
Protect.
He howled pitifully, strength fading, the slams into the door weakening until he collapsed onto one side and panted, scratching at the door.
Kin. Kin. Equal kin. Equal kin he would protect. Obey to some extent. But he wasn't a pet, wasn't to be caged, and as soon as the foolish blue prey opened their wooden slab, he would rip out their throats.
