The Confinement
In a final show of spite, Abbas refused to have Malik's wound treated, and an indeterminate amount of time passed before Malik could open his eyes and stomach the dim light of his cell, even longer before he could sit up and move around without his entire head exploding in pain, and by then it was all pointless anyway; he had done all his could, and now his life was over. All that was left was for him to rot away, hopefully before Altair returned. Abbas would blame all of this on Malik, gloat as he incited the grandmaster to kill his best friend, and Malik refused to give the old lion the pleasure.
Most of his thoughts, when they were coherent, centered around Kadar and Sef, two beautiful young men who had so much to offer the world, destroyed before their time because of him. It was his job to protect them, was it not? A fine job of it... He could only hope that Rauf had somehow sent word to Sef's wife and family to stay in Alamut; if they returned to Masyaf Abbas would surely commit another travesty. Did Halim in Jerusalem get word, would he try to break from Masyaf and hold the Creed on his own? Would any of the new branches, still so young and suckling on the wisdom of Altair? Would his gambit work, or would the brotherhood blindly follow Abbas and drive Altair off the mountain when he returned? Would Altair ever return...?
Food was, at best, intermittent. The garden visions who normally looked after the cells and other parts of the keep were, apparently, permanently reassigned to the gardens, and it was up to the cooks to remember to feed the prisoners. Many filled the other cells, staying for perhaps a week before they were dragged off never to be seen again. Soon even that activity faded, and Malik was left completely and utterly alone.
The silence was maddening.
The nightmares were worse.
He became a shell of himself, hollow. His mind would wander dark corridors and darker emotions. Where was Altair? Why hadn't he returned yet? What was taking him so long? Didn't he care about what was happening in Masyaf? When had he last written a letter? What was he doing? Damn him. Damn him! Damn him to the fires of Abbas' grudge! Malik would shake his head when those thoughts hit him, growling and refusing to fall into the same trap as that hated old lion. But, if he could not blame Altair, the only one left was himself, and it was on those days that he became desperate for one of the cooks to come in and feed him. He needed contact, human contact, mental stimulation in some way to prevent his dark thoughts - even for a few minutes.
"Master Malik?"
He jerked awake, wincing as his ever-throbbing head gave a twinge, and sat up, patting off the worst of the dirt, trying to look presentable.
The door opened, and a girl came in with food. She gasped softly before kneeling down and ripping a strip off her work apron, rolling it up and dipping it into the cup of water. "Master, what have they done to you?"
Malik blinked, a little confused, as the cool damp cloth touched his temple where Abbas his struck so long ago. Was it a long time?
"How long as it been?" he asked, wincing again.
"Six months since that man took over," the girl said. She had green eyes. Barakah...?
Malik sucked in a breath. "You're-" But a hand covered his mouth gently, and she shook her head.
"Many ran from the gardens when we realized what our new roles were to be. I am now a scullery maid here in the keep. Please do not reveal me." Her words only barely reached his ears. In a louder voice she said, "I know it stings, please be patient, Master Malik."
"I... I do not deserve that title."
"Not so, Master," she said, and she dipped the cloth again and moved elsewhere, slowly, gently, cleaning his entire face, then his hands, and even his feet. She broke off a chunk of bread and held it out to him. "Can you eat?" she asked.
"... Yes," he said slowly. He took the bread and chewed slowly, mindful his stomach was not used to large meals anymore. He marveled that in addition to the bread was also a bowl of thin soup and even a half-spoiled bit of fruit. "Luxury indeed."
"It is Eid ul-Fitr, the end of Ramadan. This is my act of charity, since I've no money to contribute."
Pride immediately filled and chafed Malik, even through his dark mood. "I am not poor."
"But you are in need, Master," Barakah said, her green eyes penetrating. "And my hope is to help fill those needs in some way."
She stood. "I will be back after prayers. I hope all will be eaten by then."
"I was not aware you were a practicing Muslim." So few on the mountain were.
A smile could be seen through her hijab, and what little of her skin could be seen pinked, before she turned and left.
It was not the last time she visited, either. Every two or three days she would come down to his cell and offer him food, or clean his hands and feet. She said little at first, always eyeing the door and motioning for Malik to be quiet when he pressed for conversation too hard. His sense of time was still poor, locked away in his cell as he was, but after perhaps a month of this she finally spoke more directly.
"The guards no longer watch me," she said, sighing in relief as she came in. "We are safe for a time."
Malik asked the first and most obvious question. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you spoke the truth that day. That man is mad. The garden visions are now expected to lay with any assassin that comes, we do not maintain the keep and our education has been revoked. Many of us disappeared into the mountain, moving back with family or taking posts in the keep like me." Carefully, her green eyes giving him warning, she slowly took of her hijab.
An ugly scar ran from the tip of her ear down her jaw line, marring her perfect skin. Lifting up a sleeve, a similar scar ran up her forearm. Malik stared, horrified, as Barakah explained. "A girl cannot be a garden vision if she is scarred. Many of us performed similar acts to be reassigned. Lady Umayma shuffled us away before she killed herself, refusing to be a part of what that man was doing. No one knows we snuck back into the keep."
"But... but... why?"
"Because we are assassyun," she said fiercely.
Malik swallowed.
"Lady Maria taught us well, and I am sorry the time I knew her was not longer. She told all the new girls, as soon as we entered the garden, that we were assassyun, pillars of the faith. Where the men go out and change the world, we in turn ensure that they are not tainted by their work, that they remain strong in the face of their deeds, and that they do not waver. That man is nothing like an assassin, and we all agreed to be ready when the grandmaster and Lady Maria returned."
He swallowed again, slow to fully process what he was hearing. "How... how many?"
She looked down. "Not enough. If there were more I would offer you a coup, but I cannot."
She was even willing to do that? Malik almost felt lightheaded, uncertain if that was because of his injury or not.
"Truly, your parents named you well."
"Master, what can I do for you? You need but name it."
In the end, Malik was finally able to pull his unexercised brain together enough to manage tactical thought. There was precious little Barakah could do, with him locked away in a cell he could not organize much, not enough to reverse the travesty Abbas had committed, but he had her send two letters. The first was to Halim, the only Bureau leader he trusted completely, to explain what had happened and to become independent of Masyaf in any way possible until Altair returned. He asked if any of his documents he had sent Rauf to collect were received, and if so if he had sent copies to Bureaus he trusted. He also made other orders, wondering if Halim would even be able to follow them, issued as they were from a broken, fallen star of the brotherhood, but he tried valiantly not to dwell on those thoughts.
The second letter was much harder to write: to Sef's family in Alamut, urging them to stay there where it was safe and away from Abbas, and apologizing over and over about his failure to protect a boy he considered his own son. His hand shook so violently as he was writing that Barakah had to take over. In some ways that was worse, because the dictation, the act of saying it out loud, made it real, and several times he was overcome with emotion. This covered him further in shame because Barakah witnessed his breakdowns. She was gentle about it, however, just sitting quietly and waiting, only once putting a hand on his knee.
Winter was difficult. Blizzards swept over the mountain every week, Barakah said, and the cold was bitter in the prison. No fires were allowed down there, and Malik only had his worn djellaba to keep him warm - and it was not even his heavier wool one, but the lighter summer cotton. Most of his days were spend shivering as he curled up in a corner, trying to keep himself small to conserve heat. Barakah always came with hot soups and once even cooked meat. She apologized several times that she could not sneak in a blanket for him; guards for the prisons had switched again and each new set was told to be suspicious of anyone who had business in the cells; Abbas wanted to be certain no one aided Malik in any way. Her green eyes were afire every time she talked about "that man" and explained another travesty he had committed.
More than once Barakah would come in stiff or bruised in some way. She was invisible in the kitchens and as she delivered foods, but she was not a skilled eavesdropper, often she would linger too long and someone would demand why she was about. No amount of bowing and begging would save her, Abbas or Swami or one of their weak-minded allies would strike her and send her on her way. Malik growled at the very thought, but the Lady shook her head.
"It is my inability that gives me these wounds. I must become better, so I can learn what I need to help you."
"I can't ask you to do that!" Malik hissed.
"You do not have to," she hissed right back. "I look forward to the day that man is killed. The other assassins are very nice to me," she added, reaching out and touching his shoulder. "They see my pain and seek to help me; your Order has not broken yet. Many of the novices sneak into the kitchens for food, and I tell them stories of you and the grandmaster as I heard them from Lady Maria and Lady Umayma. In the village any city guard I come across helps me carry my packages or offer to walk me back to the keep to see their physicians. The Creed is still there, Master Malik; we are stronger than you fear."
Malik's eyes watered, not for the first time, and he quickly dipped his head down so she would not see him weep again.
But she was still a garden vision, and she artfully placed her hand on his cheek and lifted it up so she could see his emotion.
"Lady... I am a failure," he confessed, unable to contain his guilt any longer. "Altair left me with Masyaf, and look at what has happened. He told me to mind Abbas, and see what he has done. He trusted me with Sef and now..." His voice broke, and after that he could no longer control himself. Regret poured out of him, how his empathy with Abbas had made him blind to the man's madness, how keeping Sef close to protect him lead to Abbas having the perfect excuse to have him murdered, how all the novices and apprentices under him would now grow up under a madman's direction, how Kadar should never have gone with him to Solomon's Temple all those years ago, how he should have fought better, thought better, been better, how he should never have blamed Altair for his arrogance in his youth, how now Barakah and other women of the gardens were forced to spy on Abbas because of his failures and being beaten for it, how Umayma had killed herself to prevent Abbas from knowing where all the garden visions were, how brothers had died trying to stand up for him, how he was not the leader he should have been, and now the entire brotherhood would suffer from his weaknesses.
Where was Altair? Where was Altair?
Where was Sef? Where was Kadar?
Warm arms held him, rocked him, and a soft voice whispered in his ears.
Then soft lips touched his cheek, and fingers caressed his hair.
And he was so desperate for the pain to stop that he let it happen.
She was gentle in all things, slowly working him up to it, softly touching him and guiding him, letting him sob when he needed to. She cried with him, apologizing over and over that this was all she could offer, that she was not skilled enough to do more for him, that she had loved him since she was twelve and had tried to save herself for him, that he was the epitome of the Order and that he should never have suffered as he had, and she helpless to prevent it.
They shared their pain, and they shared their bodies, and the cool spring night was warmer for it.
In the height of summer, Barakah visited him and he could tell immediately that something was wrong.
"Have the guards changed again?" he asked, weakly helping her set down the tray. A year of inactivity had taken its toll on his body.
"I... I will be going away for a while."
Malik blinked, suddenly struggling to process what he had just heard. "... What?"
"My brother has at last created his first child. My parents and younger sister will ride to Alamut to see them, and they have insisted that I come." She looked down, her hands ringing together. "I do not want to go, my brother will see my scars and berate me for the length of my stay, and I can do more here regardless, but... I must go. Father insisted, and after that man took over and I returned to my family I've had to do as he says. He is generous to allow me the freedom to still work in the keep, so... I have to go."
Malik nodded. "I understand," he said, reaching out and touching her shoulder. The physical contact made her blush again, accenting her beautiful green eyes. "Honoring your father is important, and Alamut will be safer for you to say the least. You can... you can look in on Sef's family, if they are still there, and tell me if they are doing well when you return."
She looked down again, still uncomfortable. "I don't want to leave you," she whispered.
"I will be fine," he said, trying to smile. "I'm hardly going anywhere."
"I will be gone a long time," she pressed.
It was easily a month travel from Masyaf to Alamut, and harsh travel, too. Visiting would likely be a month or two, they would be returning to Masyaf around late fall. It... it wouldn't be so bad, Malik rationalized.
He tried to smile again, but that only made her sob and she quite suddenly kissed him, hard, grabbing his hand and placing it on her abdomen. Just as suddenly she broke away and stood, leaving Malik perplexed and still reeling from the lightning-quick display.
She, too, tried to smile; watery and shaky and very beautiful. "We will be fine," she said, her voice choked.
"Yes, we will be fine," Malik tried to assure.
"We will be fine..." She nodded, once, twice, and wiped her face, struggling to put the emotion away, to close off any sign that her visits were nothing more than duty to prisoners.
And then, just like that, she was gone.
The departure didn't seem real at first. She sometimes disappeared for a week in fear of being caught, and as time stretched on he would wake sometimes wondering where she had gone, only to have the memory of the lightning kiss crash down on his head and he would growl, rolling over and wanting desperately to go back to sleep, to sleep away the time he would be alone. Without her his meals came at much more infrequent intervals, and there were days when he could feel the weight disappearing off him. He did not like the shape of his limbs, or how loose his dirty robes had become. He tried not to think about it, but he quickly realized how dependent he had become to Barakah's visits - she was the only human contact he had for over a year, and now without her the silence pressed upon him, and his mind once more wandered dark roads and dark emotions. He spent hours, perhaps days, he could not be certain, trying to picture the maps in his old Bureau in Jerusalem, the path his garden vision would take to Alamut; he wondered how she was doing, what she was eating, if she were safe from brigands, if the Mongols had spread far enough west to be a threat to her. No, Altair would prevent that from sheer force of will.
When the nights turned cool he began to anticipate her return.
When the days turned cool he began to worry.
When winter came...
He tried to rationalize it, to tell himself that the family had lingered, that they were perhaps stuck because of mountain blizzards - some years Masyaf was physically blocked from the world because of their snowstorms. Perhaps her father, trying to protect her, wanted her to stay in Alamut longer, he might have ordered her to stay and her honor prevented her from refusing. Perhaps...
Perhaps she was dead.
That was when Malik finally broke.
Time was meaningless, and he curled in his corner trying to keep warm and not caring if the winter claimed his life. Without her, without Altair, without anyone, he was nothing. He had been nothing, he had amounted to nothing, and he had at last returned to nothing. Days past endlessly and Malik was heedless to it, locked in his mind as he outlined every mistake he had ever made in his life, ruminated on very failure, and lingered on every death that he had caused. He fantasized how his Lady had died, killed by brigands, captured and tortured by Abbas, perhaps even committing suicide when she realized she was wasting her time with a nothing like him. He did not notice as the days began to warm, and he had long since stopped trying to talk to the scullery girls who gave him bread and water.
Abbas had won. There was no point.
Author's Notes: ... There's is SO MUCH I want to say, but I'll keep it for the next and last chapter.
