A/N: AltMal. malexmale! If you don't like it don't read. This story spawned from my overwhelming love for the characters. I want to dedicate this to two women on deviantart: doubleleaf and hiita-hime. Please check them out from more assassin's creed goodness.
Disclaimer: Characters copyright Ubisoft. I make no profit writing this story.
"Speech"
-thoughts-
"Demotion?!" Altair hissed, hurling his scathing tongue and body true to the wrath of a cobra. The assassin knew he made a mistake the moment the venomous word left his mouth. Such a display had made him guilty of arrogance again, but no instrument, ethereal or wordly, could have composed him from hearing such news.
Al Mualim stayed his steps, his form just shy of skirting the front corner of his desk. The bearded man perfered to stare ahead at his stone fortress rather than at his student. A wrinkled hand snaked down the familiar course over his scared right eye, remembering the countless sacrifices that built such empire. The towers had been growing more swiftly now, reaching ever closer to the heavens as their dreams teetered toward succession.
With another vessel housing templar blood purified, a step is added to the stairway leading them towards the light above, a stairway that yet remains unfinished. The crest-clad, red-white flags tacked along the walls, repeating in their numbers, made visible their sacrifice, their perpetual war. Such a beautiful sight. Surely, no mortal man could have envisioned this spectacle of architecture without the eyes of a Allah to guide him. And it all had come a needle's edge toward destruction because of one man: a prodigy that a Master only finds once in a lifetime.
Al Mualim turned to the said prodigy in question, a sharp undertone of ferocity just barely contained with his worn brown eyes and Altair flinches despite himself. To an innocent, the smart-mouthed assassin's reaction would have been undisclosed, but this was a Master card-shark of death.
"Yes," Came Al Mualim's coarse answer. His throat sounded deprived of water or perhaps swollen from rage. Altair recalled the gourd among his Master's parchments and knew then there was to be no further questions. This was one of the few times Al Mulaim demanded obedience from his problematic child.
Altair's mouth opened out of instinct, not heeding the warning clearly laid out for him, "Master, this is ..." Altair trailed off, searching for words that would not deepen his Master's convictions, "... we have no time for this."
"Ah, but we do."
The Master admired the sunlit entrance of their home that testified to Allah's blessing of forgiveness. Al Mualim can see it in every light that floods through the square windows, bringing life to stone as the moon does to the darkness. The old man closes his eyes and bows his head just slightly. He readjusts his hands behind his back. He seemed calmer now and accepting and like the God he alines himself too.
"Until you learn to follow the creed I have no choice but to waste my time training an impudent child. Did you know Altair, Malik seeks divine justice upon you? He came to me after the incident and believes it is only right I take your life for the murder of his brother."
Altair is quiet, his fists clenching and unclenching. "Why didn't you then?"
Now it is Altair who sounds betrayed. The poor boy might even cry, but Al Mualim knows his student better than to believe that. Altair would sooner kill him in a blind fury before he ever shed a tear. The old man sees the boy's fingers flick open. The hidden blade would be bared had he still possessed the weapon. The Master's lips quirk into a smirk and it's gone as quickly as it came.
-He could try, but would never succeed.-
The old man meets his livid student and faintly carries a smile as he speaks, "Do you see now? You do not know everything Altair. I spared you because you are my finest work. And too lose you over a petty feud would earn us both less then what we can accomplish together."
Altair's shaking seems to subside. If anything he's become more smug.
-That is my fault. I've let you escape with too much, spoiled you.-
"So be it. Tell me who my next target is," Altair orders.
It seems nothing has changed.
Al Mulaim returns to behind his desk, resting his wrinkled hands down onto it as if his back can not bear the wieght of what he's about to say, "All I can offer you is that there is talk of a traitor."
"That's it?!" Altair spits.
The Master raised a brow, "Displeased? It was Malik who obtained that sort of information for you. I doubt that will be possible now. Do not be so ill-mannered Altair. This is a good opportunity for you to start gathering information on your own. Now, off with you."
Altair snarled, ready to scold his Master for waving him away with his hand. This old man needed him and being the elite and vital assassin Altair was to this organization, he deserved more leeway than what he was given. Altair watched as his Master sorted through the mess of papers on his desk. The old man must have been married to task of finding the page he desired because he would not spare Altair any acknowledgment. It was either that, or, the Master was using his duty as a convienent excuse to avoid further debates with his student.
Altair felt something wrangle within his chest and somehow, the snide remarks were bitten and swallowed. He couldn't put a name to what had stayed his tongue, but he resigned to leave Masyaf while still held a loose sense of control. He leaped from the ivory banister down to the flat below, surprising a few followers. If nothing else, he could start off his quest for redemption with a stalwart attempt at restraining himself from remarking every sentence he disagreed with.
Al Mulaim looked up, just as the white robes of the assassin fluttered completely from view.
"You've already made me proud, my son."
Altair pushed open the door to his room harder than he needed to and it smacked against the stone wall with a pitiful squeak. It seemed like the only thing that wasn't sitting around growing old in this place was him.
He grabbed one of the lit torches on the wall and threw to the floor in heated anger. It satisfied him to watch the cinders spill onto the stone tile and flare into a thick cloud of fire. Watching the flames seemed to appease his fury, but when the fire began to flicker and die the emotion reawakened with a vengence. Altiar grabbed a second torch from the opposite side of the door and threw it down with the first. It rolled and caught on it's fallen metal sibling, cultivating a bigger flame, but this had no effect on pacifying the brunette as it did before.
Altair growled thickly in his throat at his own incorrigible temper and strode over to the window. His mission had been an utter atrocity. Not even a days worth of running around and gathering information nonsense had past and he was allergic to it. He ownedthe right to have complete juristication over his actions, not report his every move for approval! Thanks to this new method of business, it had taken Altair until sunset before Masun was bound and brought before Al Mualim for trial. By the end, Altair was happy to be rid of the heretic's bothersome stench. It had been enough torture to track his growing infection throughout Maysaf.
Altair thought it would be easy to takeover Malik's job. It seemed as nothing more than annoying detour from his usual routine and once he proved to be superior to his rival's investigation skills as well, he could boast until his tongue bled; all the while reveling in the look on Malik's face. But, Altair didn't expect the needless meticulousness for such a simple task. The whole operation from start to finish had been rocky for the once Master now novice assassin. It was as if every curse imaginable had been sentenced upon him to assure his failure. A commoner women who happened to be far too skiddish that particular day, ran screaming to the guards for protection at the very mistaken impression that Altair was tagging her, thus ruining his chances of a heartfelt talk with the man walking beside a ring of cadavars in the middle of the street wasn't exactly how Altair intended to start off his mission, but he had dealt with worse surprises. That was until, Altair chose the wrong alleyway to conceal himself in. A patrolling templar and his four crusader cohorts had the grave misfortune of unmasking him.
-How does Malik have the patience for this? What golden words does he spin with that mouth of his to be efficacious without dirtying his hands with violence? -
Altair was in no mood for thinking. He couldn't dare sleep either; not with all this aggravation burried deep within his every muscle.
Altair's hands landed on the cold stone window pane, his shoulders rolling forward with the action. His foot levered on the bottom edge of the window, ready to transform him into a messenger of justice with the right kind of push. He could jump and take his frustrations out into the night, permission be damned, but Al Mulaim's words insisted on pulling him back into the concil of his stone bedroom. He was doing the worst thing he could do: hesitate. Just what did his Master hope to accomplish by punishing him like this? Was he trying to make him question himself?
Altair admits that prowling for blood outside of orders isn't the most intellectual plan he's ever concocted. Undoubtedly, the nightly excursion will greet his Master with attention first thing in the morning. A stunt like that would only delay his progress through the ranks and that was not something Altair could stand to part with.
The young assassin climbed down and turned away from his recklessness in one swift motion. He stood for awhile, first looking at the floor and then settling his distant grey eyes on the unused bed. It looked odd in the otherwise barren room. Altair wondered why he even had one. There was always a mission taking him away to the city and Altair soon found himself sleeping in a pile of hay rather than the comfort of a bed. But here he was for the first time able to sleep liesureably and lost as to whether or not he wanted to. The bed could serve a better purpose as kindle or if it was carved into so manner of usefulness. The Master's looked more hunched as of late. He could use another one. Anything to keep the old man to tied to his bed longer.
Altair made his way to his bedside, still eyeing his bed with a piercing glare as if he knew it would have a role in murdering him. After killing so many men in thier sleep, there is little room for an assassin to like beds.
Despite that, Altair unbuckles his gauntlets and his belts and tossed them to the floor. It would be refreshing to leave himself vulnerable for once. Thinking on it, Altair greatly welcomed the challenge of anyone asinine enough to try and murder him in a heavily guarded stronghold of assassins that he called home.
There was always the possibility of the fortress falling under attack, but that was a given whether he was asleep or not. Though, if tonight was the lucky night, there was plenty of ways Altair could hear the enemy coming before any arrows reached him in his bedroom. Satisfied with those resolutions, Altiar rolled onto the wool-stuffed mattress, surprised it doesn't jab him in the back like the pointed straw he's become accustomed to.
It's a surprisingly pleasurable change.
For awhile Altiar lies on the blankets, arms behind his head, and watches the cieling. He listens to the owls and coyotes sing him a song so unlike the nighttime rummaging of the people. It isn't long before he falls asleep.
It has been so long since Altiar's had a nightmare. Day by day, death by death, Altair felt the cool touch of his own inevitable demise scour away his fears until finally, he became closed to his own mortality. Death's face gazed back at him like a dark-vieled lover in the greyed-blue eyes of his victims. The spirit would visit him in the early hours of the night; trains of robes flowing down over him, bony hands caressing him as naked teeth whispered thanks for the generous endowment of souls. But enough of that. The of a dream is the mystery, not his baseness.
...it is dark...
...so dark Altair can't see.
He can hear familiar screams intimately all around him. More voices have come to distract his concentration and there is no time to put faces to any of them. However there is one man Altiar recognizes: Robert de Sable. The assassin feels himself turn rigged. He reaches for his sword, but nothing of himself moves, nothing can be felt.
It is silent for a time...
There is a sound. It's subtle, barely perceptible over the ringing in his hears, but it's there. Altair continues to listen and the noise approaches obligingly. The sound is distinguished as one of the unknown men from before, screaming. He's being dragged by his shoulders, his knees scrapping along stone. Altiar can't see who or what is going on, but somehow he doesn't have to. The sounds are vivid enough.
"No! My brother! You must help him! Let me go!"
"He's going into shock. Hold him down."
"What are you doing?! Why aren't you listening to me?!"
There's the sound of someone being thrown onto a bed and of feet kicking against sheets. There's a wrenching of fabric as others restrain the screaming man, pinning his back down to the bed.
"We have to remove it. It's the only way to save his life."
It's blowing out his eardrums ... the sound of tearing flesh. The cutthroat assassin can't get the noise to end. His head is consumed with it. More gruesome wet sounds of metal teeth gnawing away at someone command his attention. The screams multiply in volume and tenor. Altair feels himself overcome with sickness.
Altair's eyes shoot open. There is a man's weight on his stomach and the sting of a blade pressed against his neck. The blade suddenly trembles and recoils back just an eyelash's length; frightened by it's prey's alertness. Altair opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry. He swallows first and tries again.
"Mal ... ik?" The name comes out as stubbornly as a rusted nail.
"Silence! Say not a word!"
The sword is shoved painfully against Altair's throat, hard enough to draw blood. Altair feels the adrenaline intoxicate his nerves, sending a delightful tingle throughout his body. The young assassin's breath starts to quicken in response, but it's nowhere near as labored as the man above him.
The room is dyed in a thicker coat of black then what Altair remembers. Even with the torchlight creeping through the cracks of his bedroom door, the master assassin can barely trace the navy blue against black outline of the man threatening him.
Absently, Altair makes himself aware of the cold drops rhythmically beating against his chest. The liquid is starting to pool, soaking through his robes to dampen his skin. It's then that Altair realizes he smells blood.
"Betrayed me, betrayed us all! You're no different then that filth Masun!"
This accusation piques Altiars interest.
"How did you ..." Altiar trails off. His legs are going numb and he shifts them slightly to get the blood flowing. Altiar's hands carefully rest on Malik's hips for lack of a better place to put them. Al Saytr is hot to the touch and Altair swears it's not just from hatred.
"Teh! So arrogant! After all these years of investigating yourtargets, do you think I would be ignorant to what's going on in my own home? There's no way I couldn't have known!" Malik roars in a fierce whisper.
Malik knows exactly what Altair thinks of his asset to the brotherhood and he will not have Al bin Lahad mock him, not now. Malik parts his lips to educate his partner on his significance, but his throat constricts and forces him to take in a curt breath. Malik's whole body shudders as he's thrown into a series of ragged coughs, which he conceals into his clothed shoulder. Altair feels his rival's violent shaking travel through him and knows their is no contest in this fight. With Malik's life so compromised by death, Altair could easily put an end to their engagement with a few calculated movements. Still, Altair could not fathom the reasoning for taking such a blind risk.
-Why didn't you wait until you were healed? You could have lured me into an enemy's trap anytime you wanted. Why this brashness?-
"Malik why--"
"Enough!" The word comes out gnarled and thick with blood. It's clear that Malik's body hasn't finished assualting him yet. The older assassin swallows and tries to catch his breath before attempting to speak again. Altair patiently waits.
"Are you ... are you still waiting for your role as favorite to save you?!"
"No. But ... this is a new side of you. For a man who fights with his tongue and not his sword you seem to be doing a lot of cutting."
Altair hisses as the blade presses deeper into him. His vision is starting to go blurry; not that he can see. He shuts his eyes. With sight gone, Altair's other senses amplify. Malik's sweat burns the young assassin's nose, but is the touch of the older man's warm blood against his chest that erects terror for his friend's life.
"Silence Altair! Do you spare me no pride?!"
Altair bucks his hips into his rival, clearly describing the dead-end his thoughts have taken. No one has ever dominated him like this before, and it doesn't help that Malik keeps involuntarily grinding his hips against him. The dark haired genious is the only man who would dare challenge him in such a fragile condition and still manage to ignite excitement in him. Altair decides now is a good as time as any to start exercising his passport to the harem. His work never fails to distracted him from such trysts, but it seems his body will take no more abuse.
Altair grimaces, his own anger coming into play,"Then spare me the wait and take your revenge. I welcome death. You, yourself, trained me for that, remember?"
The hands on Malik's hips clench hard as Altair is silenced with a slash to his lips. Altair's tongue reaches out to lick his new wound, whincing when the contact begins to sting. Malik sees this and wishes nothing more than to slice that unruly part of his friend as well.
"Damn you! Do you feel no remorse for what you have done to me and my brother!?" Malik's acidic word's tickle Altair's jaw pleasantly. The brunette wets his lips and breathes more heavily, his body becoming almost too hot for him to control. He strains against Malik for more gratification and when he can find none Altair groans in frustration.
"Dammit, Malik stop this. You're bleeding. Let me help you," the assassin breathes out huskily.
"Do not play with me Altair! I've seen the of concern you've shown me and our brothers!"
Again, Malik's torments him with the past. Just how long can hang onto the righteous conviction in his voice? How can he cling onto a forgotten memory so rebelliously?
-Why won't you succumb to the body's desire to move forward? Isn't it our duty to drown our sorrow with lust?-
"It wasn't supposed to happen the way it did! I was supposed to kill Robert and ... and bring us closer to ... revo ... lution!" With each passing word the blade made a new mark on his neck. Altair is becoming increasingly annoyed with his partner's indescion.
-Kill me or fuck me, but don't tease me with both and give me niether!-
"Why should I believe you? You've done nothing, but turn a deaf ear to me and the creed!"
Even if Malik intended for his words to ensure no chance of venialness for his friend, Altiar knew there was. He could hear it in the slight whimper of his partner's voice, that underlying signature of a plead. Malik still wanted to trust him, still believed in him. If Altair would show the faintest penitence and simply ask for forgiveness he could sew his friend back together and put him at peace. But Altair refused to give such a luxury.
"Understand that, I won't make excuses for my mistakes. I will live with them. I won't to grieve for you or Kadar! We are not children any longer! I will not allow you make me look weak in the faces of our enemies nor to our brothers!" came the explosion of passionate fire from scared lips. Altair doesn't come back to himself until after the words are released and realizes they were said out of too many ill-begotten things that had no business being Malik's fault. Altair knows there's no hope of amending the damage he's done.
Malik is quiet. Even his panting breaths seem to grow fainter. There's a rustle of fabric and Altair feels the older man sit back, no longer bent forward and pressed forehead to forhead to him. The sword against his throat retreats with it's Master, and Altair gasps in sweet relief.
Malik laughs, cryptic and not so full of amusement as it is grief.
"Is that so?" Malik responds solemnly, "How very foolish of me to think you capable of a heart. I see now, not even I will change you. It grieves me to think no one ever will."
The room is silent for a few seconds too long and Altair grows restless.
"Malik?" The master assassin calls.
A sword clatters to the floor beside the bed and Altair chases after the sound with his eyes even though he can't see it. Altair feels the weight of his friend wavering off to the right and quickly turns his attention back to the injured man.
"Malik!"
Altair catches him just before he capsizes off the bed. No breath escapes Altair lips. He can't seem to breathe or remember the last time he felt his body iced over like this.
Altair tightens his hold on Malik. A shaky breath escapes the brunette as he lifts each of his fingers, one at a time in a sequenced wave in a test against his friend's robes. His grey eyes are shocked to their limits, disbelief filling his entire being as the cool, steeped blood of his rival drips through the slits between his fingers. In a frantic moment, Altair removes one of his hands from under his friend to look at the crimson painting it. Altair knows there's blood on his hand, he can feel it, smell it, taste it, but he can't see anything in this damn darkness! Malik is laid gently onto his back and Altair runs to the door and throws it open to attain more light. Deciding that that alone won't be enough, Altiar turned to his left and grabbed a torch adorning one of the many pillars in the hall. Altair spun back toward his room, freezing in the doorway with the torchlight at his back.
There was Malik, cold, silent and dying; and Altair's shadow reigned across the broken man laying in his bed like that of an eagle standing over it's trophy kill.
-No, I ... this isn't what I wanted.-
Altair stumbles over to the bedside, falling to his knees once he gets there. He raises his torch, alighting all of Malik's ruined clothes darkened by the touch of his own blood. Altair feels himself sink down further into his knees. He'll do it, he'll bow his head to the floor and grovel to every damn God he knows if it will save Malik's life. The beginnings of tears threaten to spill over Altair's eyes; fifteen years of training to be a killer amounting to the deplorable man before you.
Then he sees it: the sagged left sleeve of his friend's robe. It isn't as full as it should be, as if there's nothing there at all. Altair sets the torch into one of the grooves alongside his door and takes a knife from his belt. Leaning over Malik, he cuts the seams attaching sleeve to shoulder and tears the rest of the fabric off. He flinches back. Shadowed beneath the clothing is a mess of blood-stale bandages letting lose ripe muscle and ripped stitches.
- That's not right. Hours ago I saw him and he didn't look like this! What happened to him?! -
Altair rubs the sweat from the corner of his eyes gruffly. Enough of this moping! He'll have three days to dedicate to mourning once his friend his wrapped in a kafan and an imam starts the prayers. Malik isn't lost to him yet, but his chances of surviving the night drop with each moment Altair spends being rueful.
Altair throws open Malik's robe, determined to find the extent of hisfriend's idoicy. Malik's bare chest is awash with smears of crimson and below that are bandages hugging his torso, but those too are sullied.
Altair looks back to Malik's face. It's calm like a dolls painted-on face when it should be contorted in pain. A hand is placed just shy of Malik's nose and Altair waits for air to blow against the back of his hand. None comes. Altair lowers his ear to his friend's lips, listening for any signs of breath. Two fingers are pressed against Malik's throat. There are hints of warmth on his skin, but no kick of a heartbeat against his fingers.
A swift backhand is delivered to Malik's face and his rival merely lies there like the abused doll he's become.
"Malik! say something! Do you want to die as foolhearted as your brother?!" Altair bellows. The words are entirely fiction and Altair grits his teeth already feeling the wrath of an enraged older brother's punch. There is nothing. Malik is still; not even a twitch or the flutter of eyelids.
Altair despises the ever-rising sickness in his stomach. The young assassin's eyes darted around the room, trying to find something that will tell him what to do. Altair finds the glowing halo of the torch he left sheathed in the wall bracket. Without a second thought, Altair took up the torch, peeled back what's left of Malik's sleeve and uncoiled the bandages before he jammed the mouth of the torch into his rival's amputated arm.
"YYYAAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!"
Malik's body raised from the bed along with his scream.
"Malik! Malik, thank Allah! Stay with me. Can you breathe?" The master assassin encouraged jubilantly. Altair smiled, almost laughing at how good it was to hear Malik's voice again regardless of the means.
"Al ... Al...ta--ir ... I .. h--ha....te ...you ..." The man croaked out, squirming and shivering irritably.
Altair laughed, "Good, good. Now stay alive so you can irritate me about it everyday."
Using another knife, Altair strikes a vertical incision, severing the bandages around his friend's abdomen.
Malik watches Altair with half-lidded, half-glazed eyes. The older assassin wheezes, unable to regain his breath or any articulate form of speech. He groans out his suffering between his teeth, gripping the blankets weakly. He shuts his sweaty, fevered eyes and swings his head from side to side when the pain builds; each blossom exceeding the last and speading over every inch of his body.
"... c ..an--n--t ..h-hate you for ... for ...--r. I ..ov ... ou too ... too m-m ... uch."
Altair's hears Malik sputter out some prattle; probably an insult, but he doesn't have the time to decipher it. He has work to do.
"Malik don't speak. I can't understand you anyway. Just keep breathing okay?"
The older assassin's eyes are too focused on ordering his stiff fingers do as their told to look at his friend. With these hands, he's stolen Malik back from the placid, white-laced seas of unconsciousness and yet, Altair can't seem to stop tying his fingers into knots. The nervousness is piling in the back of his throat, nearly suffocating him. Exigency pours deadening ice throughout his viens and his mind regurgitates the same tiresome apologies that he wished his mouth would. Al bin Lahad drifts farther away from what's in front of him, until by some inexplicable revelation he finds reality again.
Outlasted it's purpose, Altair tosses the throwing knife aside and pours the still smoldering torch cinders into his hand.
"Scch! Dammit!" Altair cursed as the cinders sheered away at his palms.
Malik blinks open his eyes at the soft touch of something across his lips. His body has finally been wrung out of it's last pain and now simiply shivers irreversibly with the aftershocks of it's cold destruction. He feels lighter; hollow. His head is a burning cauldron of tar and his heart hammers wildly against his chest as if it wants to tear free of it's corporeal prison and ascend to paradise. Breathing has become too difficult; his body permits only shallow intakes of air.
"Bite, your going to need to," he hears Altair's dillerum distorted voice instruct him.
Malik's eyes still haven't adjusted, the room looks like a very obscure persian rug and Malik won't ask his eyes to strain themselves just so he can see Altair's insufferable smirk.
"Wh-hy?..." comes Malik's obstinate retort, "I...w-was..wi...th.. ..th--..er... Ka ... da...rr." Malik turns his head away and shuts his eyes, denying Altair's assistance. His remaining arm lifts to hide his oncoming tears.
"L-let me ... go....It'ss... beau --beautiful ...Altair...please..."
- So many shadows are waiting for me there, in a field of white jasmine flowers. How can I possibly greet them if I am still alive?-
Altair stares at his friend in morbid fascination. How can Malik be parlaying with him to die? Al Sayr has never shown defeat in his eyes whether it's a training exercises or a suicide match with Grand Master of the Knight's Templar. This man takes every mission seriously; petty or not. He leaves nothing to chance and holds a strict rule over with novices and master assassins alike when it comes to abiding by the creed. Not because he's a miserable, tightly-wound, jealous prick as Altair would like to think, but to protect every last soldier's life without baised. But Altair's see no fight left in Al Saytr's eyes, just a knowing acceptance that there is nothing left for him in this life and that he belongs with his brother.
"I swear to take that irrefutable logic of yours to the deepest pits of hell one day! But when and how that happens is for me to decide! Until then, put that damned linguistic mouth of yours into good use and shut up! I want us both to live long enough to see the new world we're dying for! You want that Malik, don't tell me you don't! To stand with me and hear the people cheer our names!"
Malik stares at Altair with big bemused eyes for a long while, unsure of what to feel or how to react to his friend's words. Altair made the choice for him by rudly shoving his appendage against his friend's closed lips.
"Hurry the hell up! These coals are hot!" Altair barks.
-Ever the provacator.-
Malik used his remaining hand to secure Altair in place in conjunction with the brunette pulling away at the last second and ending up short a tongue. The older assassin chooses to close his eyes, a smile on his lips. He admits to himself that Altair's words have overrun him with misplaced happiness, but Malik doesn't try to disown the emotions.
"As you wish," the consenting words come out incessant and breathless.
Altair chuckles sadistically at the modest impression of teeth into his flesh.
"You might want to bite down harder than that."
Malik was about to quip back, but Altair hindered such from happening by pressing the coals into Malik's abdomen.
"Eeerrrrggghhhhmmmfff!!"
Altair laughed, "I told you to bite harder! And this is exactly what you deserve for making me argue with you. I won't be able to climb anything for a week thanks to these burns."
Malik opened one emerald eye to glare at his comrade, but quickly shut it again tightening his jaw around Altair as the son of none took guiltless pleasure in rubbing the coals good and hard into his friend's body, sparing no flesh from the fire.
"Nnn! NNnrgghh! Ssssshaaatttt!"
"Such a pompous prince," Altair teases with a smirk and a taunting brow. His eyes take on a different light; a look that promises an age-old fondness barely concealed inside an exterior of mischief. "Don't worry, I think your blood is finally clotting. I won't put you through much more of this."
Is that softeness Malik hears in Altair's voice? Al Saytr deemed himself insane to even think it.
The pains is ebbing. As more of it departs, Malik can feel something a lot less excruciating buried under it, drawing invisible paths across his body in careful scrutiny. Malik won't open his eyes because he knows Altair wants him to, baiting him with the novel sensation of kind fingertips across his skin. There's already too much Altair can see even without revealing the secrets laiden in his irises. And Malik still has his pride to consider, though, he was never one to attribute much to it.
Malik starts to concentrate more on the pleasurable feeling instead of the agony. Nimble fingers remove the coals one by one, checking the flesh under each rock to make sure it is thoroughly scorched over. Some areas of flesh are checked once, twice, fingers passing over the burns in succession. Calloused hands start to venture away from the raw wounds and sample over his hips and chest, tracing the many scars of lessons learned throughout his 21 years of life.
"It's done. You can let go now," Altair orders gruffly as if Malik is the crooked puppeteer of his wandering mind and hands.
Malik does so with timid attentiveness, but not without catching Altair's oddly cynical remark. The raven leaves the spiraling statement where it is. For once he doesn't have the mental stamina to persue the adventure it would take him on. His jaw is sore, tingling and hard. He can only imagine what condition Altair's arm is in from the treatment he gave it earlier.
"SSSSss!" Malik hissed.
"Sorry, forgot one," Altair admitted sheepishly, holding up the last coal he overlooked and flicking off his thumb and forefinger.
"NO!" Malik insisted. His back arched, his head was thrown back, and his hand clawed so furiously at his chest that scribbled red shapes appear on his copper skin.
"Can't--Can't! BREATHE!! Al-Alt!"
"Christ, Malik! I am not a physician! They didn't train us for this!" Altair floundered, hoping for a ray of divine assistance to come and enlighten him. When it didn't, his hands began to shake. Altair gripped the side of his head, wishing he could squeeze out a token of useful knowledge from his novice days; a skill Malik was profoundly good at. Altair drew blanks, unable to latch onto the speeding fragments of information in the vast catalogue of his mind. The master assassin frantically turned about himself, expecting a solution to slap him in the face as it did before.
"Air!" Malik dry heaved, desperate for breath, "Air!"
"I know you need air! I don't know how to get it for you! I'll go get someone! Just wait!" Altair reassures as he makes for the door, the panic evident in his voice.
"NO, NOW!" Malik demands, still contorting himself like a infruiated child.
Altair looks back over his shoulder with a grimace.
"What do you want me to do?! Blow into your mouth?!"
"YES!"
Snarling, Altair strides over to the bed; grousing under his breath that for as smart as Malik is he can be incredibly stupid. Before another discerning thought can dissuade him to do otherwise, Altair takes a deep breath and leans down. He misses his target, catching the side of Malik's mouth.
-How am I supposed to do this if he won't stay still?!-
Malik's chin is seized in a firm grip and Altair adjusts them accordingly. He releases his held breath, gifting it to his friend in one smooth, drawn-out zephyr. At first it seems to take effect. Malik's convulsions withdraw to a lesser extreme and Altair can alomst feel himself relax along with his rival. A second later and there is chaos. One man is breathing in when he should be breathing out and Al-Saytr jerks back, coughing in retaliation. Frustrated, Altair pulls back as well.
"Dammit, Malik this isn't working! Let me go get help!"
"More!" Malik objects, reaching up to an unsuspecting Altair and pulling him down by his hood. Their lips crash into each other. Altair can taste blood as his teeth pierce the thin layer of skin holding Malik's cracked lips together. Altair dully notes that this looks and FEELSmore like a misconstrued kiss then anything else and his cheeks grow somewhat warm at the thought. But Al-Saytr intentions are innocent as he gasps at Altair's mouth, needing the life breathed into him.
"All..Altai--r..!"
Malik opens his eyes, twin pools of hazel gaze at Al bin Lahad; red, tearful and begging for mercy. Altair takes a long drag of air and forgets about calculating his actions and about fufilling every petty request this assertive man asks of him. He lets Malik's curt breaths and heavy presence guide him to where he's needed. Their parted lips meet on their mark and Altair gives Malik all he has to offer, not once falling out of cadence. Altair can't explain why, but his hand moves to cradle the nape of his friend's neck, testing the thick hairs against his calloused fingertips and it feels perfectly natural despite it's complexity. It's belying thier hatred for each other, it's violating their friendship, and shattering every rule about their relationship from under their feet, but Altair's doesn't see it that way. To him, it feels like he's been holding Malik like this his whole life.
His other hand searches for Malik's and finds it still entangled in his white robes. He loosens his rival's grip on him with gentle persuading fingers. Malik, lost and destitute for constitution, immediately adheres to the salvation found in Altair's hands. The brunette brings their joined hands to rest alongside them on the bed. The men maintain their trade of air and the winded raven quickly becomes stable.
Altair was the one to do it. He turned their simple exchange into something it wasn't intended to be and he hesitated only a second to mull over the consequence before lips were savoring Al Sayr's. Malik moans into their kiss. His fingers are like talons in their bruising grip, wrenching the life out of Altair's fingers as if it he were a deadly serpent. Malik doesn't say anything, doesn't seem to realize what they're doing, but Altair does; distantly. Malik's mouth is hot on his, but his lips are dry from their recreation and illness so Altair licks his own and rolls his slick mouth over them.
There's a parade of advancing bootsteps and clanking armor outside the door. Altair's tongue bodly ventures past Malik's lips. The guards have reached them. Altair can read their annoying imminence like a sixth sense, his years of eluding their brood makes him uniquely aware of their patterns; but Altair doesn't want to be absorbed back into his work. Even as he forces himself to block out his reflex to, he has already anatomized their numbers, caliber, smell, value. Altair is growing intolerant of their company. All he wants to know right now is Al Sayr: his scent, his face, his sound.
"We heard screams," A soldier alerts the two distracted occupants in the room.
Altair manages to steal a taste of Malik's tongue before the man shies away from the trespassing touch and goes unconcious.
"What's going on in here?" This guard is a higher rank then the first one to speak. He wouldn't be encroaching into the dark room and taking an authoritive tone with a Master Assassin if this were not the case.
Altair removes the parts of himself connected to his rival, mindful of peeling back his hand from under the ridges of his spine. Altair finds himself lingering onto the coarse touch of dark strands on his friend's nape, fingers ghosting over a promiant muscle in the oh so delicate region of his neck. Malik's neck is thin and umarred like a womans, but not enough to disguise the established feature of a mans. Altair has seen many colors and widths in his career, each splattered with a trademark red, but Malik's is perfection in his hands. Altair's fingertips curiously followed up the cliff of Malik's jaw, over the rise of his cheek.
Al bin Lahad forces himself to stand up and surrender his caresses, but he cannot will his eyes to do the same and waver from the copper beauty.
"There's no need for you to be here. I have taken care of it myself," Altair said tersely.
"Oh, then you won't mind explaining it to us."
Altair greets the impudent guard with a glare, irises flicking down to his belt and up again. In terms of superior status, Altair was lacking in comparison and the crime of insubordination fell on him.
"Very well. If you insist," Altair flouted, "Malik came to me in a panic. Under a false pretension, he had mistaken me for his brother, Kadar. I can only conclude that he was hallucinating; relieving our battle in Solomons temple and thinking I was Kadar. Malik wanted nothing more than to protect me from Robert de Sable's blade. It's all justified considering his brother died from such. But as you can see, I've since calmed him down."
"Calmed him down huh?" The guard crosses his arms and nods his head towards the man on the bed, "Is that why he's throwing himself around like that?"
Altair eyes narrow warily, "Just what are you--Oh God, Malik!"
The raven is flouncing about like a spring bass dragged out of water. Altair's responded by jerking his hands across his friend in a muddled confusion, lost as to how to sadate him.
Altair turns to the guard for understanding, "You seen him! He was fine just a moment ago! I don't know what's happening to him!"
"Are you sure that's what reallyhappened?" The guard pressed, leaning towards Altiar with a suspicious eye. There was not a shred of concerned for Malik in this man's voice. The guard was more interested in catching Altair in his lies, convinced the demoted assassin had poisoned the raven (or worse) and made it appear to be an accident. In the guards eyes, Malik was as good as dead so he continued on with his interrogation.
"Because from what I can see, you are not very relieved to have him alive. No wonder you were so quick to have me leave. Perhaps this is all a skillfully crafted ploy?"
Altair aims his predatory eyes at his prosecutor, insulted by this accusation. "Surely, you don't think I--"
"Away from him!"
Everyone's attention diverts to the elderly doctor storming into the room, shoving all others aside to in his white robes. He sets to his work expediately, checking Malik for fever. Altair conviently moves himself out of the way.
"Tell me, has this happened previously?"
It takes a moment for Altair to realize he's the one being asked.
"Y-Yes," Altair sputters briskly.
"When? How many times?" The doctors questions are swift and concise, as if researched and practiced many times.
Altair finds his reserved tone again, "Once, mere minutes ago."
"And?"
"It ... it went away on it's own."
The doctor stares at the brunette, waiting for the parts of the story he knows Altair is leaving out. When Altair refuses to speak, the old man turns back to the raven, a syringe of viscosous liquid pulunged unceremoniously into his chest.
The old man sighs, a heavy burden upon his mind as he watches the raven finally slack into the mattress.
"If these acts continue, we may have to surgically open him."
"No you can't cut him open! I just burned him shut! Don't think he's another dead body for you to experiment with!" Altair objects, crazed at the thought of allowing such an procedure. As far as Altair was concerned, doctors only cared to harvest a new guinea pig to test out their new theories. People were merely experiments.
The old man gives Altair a reproachful gaze. His experienced eyes turn back to the reposed raven. The doctor's dappled hands lightly dust across Malik's wounds; becoming despondent as a thick layer of soot blackens his palms. He rubs his fingertips together and the soot snows into the air.
"So I see. The evidence is clear. Be glad he's young and full of vigor like you. He might survive the surgey. The infection you have laid out for him complicates things. His heart may have already taken on too much stress. Any more and it could burst. Is best not to move him so I suggest you find a different place to stay tonight."
"There was nothing else I could do. I feared a grimer outcome awaited him if I had done nothing."
The doctor awards him no condolences for this.
"I'll stay and watch over him. We are ... friends." Altair offers, placing a hand over his heart.
"Then why don't you go fetch me a wash basin and some rags? Perhaps then I will consider this. I need some convincing after paying witness to the results of placing him in your care."
"Very well." Altair bows at an 85 degree angle; a slight variance from his vertical posture but Altair feels he needs to express his gratitude.
Once out the door, Altair uses the trip to reflect. He vowes to devote every spare minute to Malik's recovery. He'll carry him, he'll feed him, and he'll train his body back into physical prowess even if it takes a lifetime. All the while enduring the punishments Malik sentences him to. Let Malik spit deriding insults of Altair's dishonorable heritage. Let his body be fodder for whatever objects Malik cares to throw at it. Let him forsake him in a foreign tongue so it salts the damage to his pride. Altair won't flinch or a raise hand to stop him because he wants to atone for the infamous wrong he's done. And so help him, if Allah would still spare his pity, Malik won't remember his foolish kiss. Altair has a sinking feeling that none of this will Malik happy.
Before he knows it, Altair's feet have carried him back to his bedroom. To his distaste, two guards stand on either side of the door. One of them bodly meets Altair's hooded eyes and before the Master Assassin could promptly release every pent up grievance on the man, the doctor spotted him far too readily in the doorway, as if he had been biding his time until the brunette appeared with the perscribed items.
"Ah! Good, you have returned!"
The grey man stands from his seat and sets down the stone medicine bowl on a side table.
"Now then, I'll leave the task of cleaning him up to you. I've mixed some herbs while you were out. Apply it once you have finished cleaning out the wounds. And remember to wrap him up when your all done," he said in with a cheerful smile.
Altair inertly stands there with his mouth agape very against the prospect of old men with effeminate faces. The doctor gives him an affable smack on the shoulder, making Altair tense and sending a wave of water to spill over the side of the pan. Altair grinds his teeth and snarls.
The old man's eyes belie his consoling appearance, dangerous in their askance.
"You did claim to watch over him didn't you? This is your apportunity to prove it. I will send in an aid to check up on the both of you. If he has another convulsion, come get me immediately. I'll be close by, reading up a few things."
The doctor pats the young assassin a few times in good faith, his advanced years shining through with the gesture. Altair watches the old man leave until he's completely out of eyeshot and then lays down the wash basin next to the bowl the doctor left behind. It's brighter in the room from the newly added torches and candles.
Altair sat down on the stool and took the cloth from his arm and dipped it in the water. He wrung it out, the rain of water very loud in the room. Gingerly, he washed the edges of the wounds. Altair takes his time in removing every spot of black, diligent to not to dig too deep or else risk Malik sitting up in bed, clocking him a good one over the head and no later whining about how rough the brunette has always been. Stupid really; asleep he can't feel pain. Although, Malik has never been this quiet. It's amazing out how soiled the water becomes after just one cleaning. Altair leaves the room only to change the water and arrives back shortly after. Each time he ignores his vicarious artwork: the massive stretch of mutilated skin that Malik frames with his flesh, an abstract scar brandishing Altair's signature.
The task finally done, Altair moved onto inspecting the lumpy brown mixture the doctor concocted. The brunette whipped his face away when his nose got too close.
"Echgh! Sweet mother of the great prophet Mohammad! Do you remember this stuff Malik? They used to use it on us when we were kids to teach us to tolerate pain. This stuff is more wicked than the damn wound! Works though."
Altair takes another sniff of it. "Too bad for you they haven't improved the smell."
The brunette scoops out a greedy amount and takes exceeding amounts of pleasure from smothering it across Malik's abdomen. The brunette starts to cough from the pungent odor but it escalates into a laugh at the thought of Malik's amusing reaction to waking up covered in the vile substance and the number one suspect who could have done it to him clutching his side in unabashed mirth.
"Really, I am surprised you haven't woken up yet. Probably good that you don't. I am in enough pain as it !"
Altair breaks out into another pitch of hysterics.
Altair hisses as the medicine peforms it's infamous wonders on his burned hands.
"Ahhh... it stings..."
Tunnel vision and overall lack of interest nearly lead Altair to stick his unsavory fingers into his mouth, as par his chronic tendancy to stick anything sore into his mouth, but his exceptionally picky nose saved him from such tragedy.
Altair rinsed his hands off in the water and dried them the most he could with the damp towel before a similair incident could occur. Now that Malik was liberally covered in the mixture, as par his instructions, he uncoiled the bandages and pressed one end down on the lower right of Malik's torso, the medicine's sticky consistancy doing well as an third hand.
For the sake of making the process easier, Altair sits Malik up in the bed and placed pillows under his shoulders. This gave Altair some room to work the bandages around his friend's abdomen without numerous folds and errors in each wrap. If the assassin fails to wrap him properly, it would be detrimental to Malik and that was something Altair wanted to avoid at this point. The task seems to take hours to complete. The stretching of the bandages and aggitated slopping of medicine uncomforting to his ears. The sounds take Altair on a journey through all the times he's shorted Malik in terms of credit and the infinite number of exploits to his friendship.
Altair sits Malik back up, inspecting his work and accepting it as something he would wear on his body. Altair removes the pillows and positions them at the head of the bed and lays Malik back down. Altair trailed his hand over the bandages, marvaling at the white that once was overshadowed by red. Altair gently rests his aching head onto Malik's good shoulder in a silent request to for forgiveness. The brunette's right hand lifts to caress the side of his friends face, the skin no longer boiling hot. The assassin's eyes quickly shut as tears threaten to come.
"I am so sorry Malik," he whispered, "Please ... don't you ever forgive me for this."
Altair sobs mutely to himself, weary of the guards outside and yet goes on unrestrained.
"Al...tair."
Altair's eyes blink open in shock. Did he hear right? His head snaps up to see if phenomenon is real.
Malik eyes rest peacefully closed with no signs of wakfulness.
"Malik?!" Altair whispered, begging for his friends voice to speak to him again.
"Don't cry," Malik said, eyebrows knotting.
Malik's arm raises toward Altair and the master assassin jerks away at the mere absurdity of it.
"I am sorry. I was too harsh on you before. The Master favors you as a son and demands more from you like no other, right? Then, you can cheat off me. I won't let you fail the test. There wasn't any time for you to study."
Altair laughs bitterly, nostaglia washing over him in a wave. If only the boy knew that it wasn't fatigue that kept him from his books but the allure of sneaking into the harem that he was yet too young too enjoy. If caught, severe punishment was taken. Altair would be beaten and starved to assure absolute submission to the rules.
Altair's takes up Malik's dangling fingers and warms them up in his grip. He tilted his head up from it's spot on Malik's shoulder. His nose and lips brushed the bone right below Malik's his ear, smelling and tasting him.
"Don't worry. I am going to stay up and study with you all night."
"Don't be derisive." Malik asserts, hurt by his friend's jest.
"No, no I am not. I am all yours. I promise."
Altair's scared lips press agaisnt the raven's knuckles, sealing his promise with a kiss.
Thank you for reading.
Comments and Questions welcome
Chapter Completed: January 10, 2010 11:02 pm.