October 3, 1207
Five years later
-/-
Desmond dashes around a corner and leans against a shadowed wall, panting for breath and desperately wishing he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. He closes his eyes and tries wishing himself away. Only of course it doesn't work, and a moment later footsteps come running toward him.
"There you are," Darim says. He sounds annoyed, and Desmond cringes. If Darim is missing training to come looking for him, then Desmond is really in trouble. "Are you seriously hiding?" Desmond shakes his head, which earns a snort from Darim. "Yes you are," he says. "Stop it."
Desmond shakes his head again, but this this time he's just frustrated. If he could talk, he would explain- but he still can't make the words come out when he needs them, and all he can manage is a stubborn look.
"I will drag you out of here if you don't come out on your own," Darim says, and Desmond frowns because he knows his brother, and Darim will follow through on his threat. Reluctantly, he steps out of the shadows and crosses his arms over his chest. Darim ignores the glare being directed at him, and actually smiles. "Come on," he says. "It can't be that bad."
Only it is, because today is supposed to be the day Desmond starts training with the other novices. And that's not going to happen, because the other kids his age are all awful. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that they don't like him- after all, Desmond knows he's weird. He can't talk, and he has to walk around using eagle vision half the time just to keep the shadows away. But Desmond's tired of being picked on and beat up, and the last thing he wants to do is put himself in a place where they can get at him any time.
"It's not that bad," Darim says. "I know it looks hard but you get used to it, and Sef's just starting, too-"
Desmond shakes his head, and Darim sighs, exasperated.
"That's not the problem?"
Desmond shakes his head again.
"I'm not just going to stand here and guess," Darim says, and Desmond suddenly perks up at the thought that Darim might just leave it alone, for once in his life, and Desmond can hide here instead of going to training.
That's not what happens, though. Instead, Darim leans against a nearby wall, clearly settling in for a long wait. "I'm going to stay right here until you tell me what the problem is," he says. Desmond gapes at him, mouth open, because they both know perfectly well that he can't explain. He's been in Masyaf for almost eight years now, and he hasn't been able to say a single word yet. That's not going to change now just because Darim wants it to be different.
For a very long time, Desmond stands in stubborn silence, fuming at how stupid this all is. If he actually could explain all this to Darim, then he wouldn't have a problem...
Unsurprisingly, Darim speaks up first. "You know," he says, "There's some bad stuff in your past. From before you came here."
Desmond looks at him and shrugs. He can't remember any of it, and he doesn't want to. He doesn't see what the past could possibly have to do with his present.
"And you haven't said a word since then," Darim continues. "So either your head is messed up somehow, or you're just being stubborn. I kind of think stubborn." Desmond shakes his head no, but Darim keeps going. "I don't think there's anything wrong with you. I think, if you really wanted to, you could say anything you want. I think-"
And suddenly, Desmond is angry. Really, really angry, and he pushes futilely against Darim. His brother just stands there, older and bigger and solid as a rock, refusing to move. "That's not going to work," he says.
But it's all he can do-
"You wanna try using your words?"
If he could, he would-
"Because I'm not really feeling it."
Something snaps and suddenly Desmond's on top of Darim, kicking and clawing and punching. He's not thinking straight. He's angry and helpless and frustrated. Frustrated most of all, because he's so tired of being stuck in his own head and not being able to say a word. He wants so, so badly to yell at Darim that there's nothing he can do, and he can feel himself choking on unspoken words until he can hardly breathe.
"Desmond!" Somebody yells, and it's not until he feels strong arms pulling him back that he realizes it's not Darim. He keeps struggling for several seconds, until finally he gets a glimpse of Altair, and manages to calm down. Slightly. "You okay?" Altair asks, and Desmond nods, still trying to breathe past the choking block in his throat. Next to him, Altair and Darim have a very short, quiet conversation that Desmond doesn't even bother listening to. Finally Altair nods at Darim, who frowns and runs off.
He looks up at Altair, then down at the ground. His face goes red with embarrassment, the earlier anger draining away from him like water from a creek bed during drought. It's stupid to be fighting like this but it's so hard to care anymore. He's tired of being cut off from everyone else, of being surrounded by people but never really one of them...
"I think Darim might be right," Altair says suddenly, in English. Desmond frowns at him, because he only has a vague familiarity with the language, but somehow... it just seems so familiar. "I think maybe it's time you started talking."
Right. Because it's that easy.
"Desmond-" he looks up in surprise at hearing his own name and winces as Altair grabs hold of his wrist, a little too tightly. "I don't know what's going on in your head right now. But I know that you're suffering, and you deserve better than this. And I know that you're stronger than whatever's keeping you from speaking."
Desmond shakes his head, tries to back away, but Altair doesn't let go of his arm, and his eyes don't leave Desmond's face. "Can you just try?"
Desmond stares back at Altair, confused and at a loss for what to do next. Then he opens his mouth.
"It really hurts."
The words fall out of his mouth without passing through his brain on the way, and for a second he's not even sure he's the one that said them. But then it all clicks in his mind, and Desmond takes a sharp, startled breath in as the world seems to shift in some almost invisible way, and suddenly he understands the words he's just said, and what Altair said before that.
Then he smiles, beaming up at Altair as he speaks for the first time. "I can-" the words are still an effort to force out, but it's just lack of practice. Something in his mind has shifted, some wall that's been in place since before Masyaf, and there's nothing that can keep the words in now. His voice is hoarse and barely audible and in a language he barely recognizes, but it's his voice and nobody else's. "I can hear myself, Altair, I can- I never knew what I sound like before and-"
Altair interrupts him with a hug that takes Desmond completely by surprise. He lets it happen though, mumbling into Altair's shoulder, babbling really, because he only half believes that this is permanent. Maybe, if he shuts up for half a second, he won't be able to make it happen again.
Finally, Altair draws back, still smiling but more serious now. "What do you remember?" he asks. "Before Masyaf?"
"What?" Desmond shakes his head. "Nothing. Why-"
"No reason," Altair says, but he sighs and pulls back a little, running a hand over his face. He looks almost... disappointed. "I'll tell you when you're older."
"But-"
"What did you mean when you said it hurts?" Altair asks.
"When I try to talk," Desmond says. "Usually it's like… there's something trying to choke me. It hurts a lot. I don't know what happened this time, but-"
"This is your first language," Altair says, and Desmond opens his mouth to ask why he doesn't remember learning it. Before he can, Altair goes on. "I thought it might help."
Desmond frowns, concentrating. "Why didn't you try this earlier?" he asks, and feels a vicious triumph when there's no pain past a slightly sore throat. Whatever's changed in his brain, it's not limited just to English.
"I didn't think of it," Altair admits. "I wish I had."
Desmond thinks about this. "Can I go say sorry to Darim?" he asks. The idea of actually being able to say sorry is amazing. "For punching him?"
"Later," Altair says. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere today?"
Training. His first day as a real, actual, novice. "Yes," Desmond says.
-/-
October 3, 1207 (Later)
-/-
No one is more surprised than Sef when Desmond shows up for training, late but apparently happy, even excited, to be there. He's done nothing but drag his feet about showing up today, and honestly Sef had expected him to spend the day hiding in some corner.
He's annoyed at being proved wrong. And at Desmond showing up at all.
It's not that he doesn't like Desmond. He's an okay guy. But he's also weird, and kind of a hassle, and he takes up too much of everyone's attention. And yea, when Sef's feeling sort of generous he can admit that Desmond needs more help than most people, but it still makes it really hard to have him as a little brother.
It would be better, maybe, if Darim agreed with him, but Darim is exactly what an oldest brother is supposed to be. He's always paying attention, always looking out for the first sign that something's going wrong in Desmond's messed up head. Only of course, that doesn't leave much time for Sef, and he really shouldn't be jealous but he is...
Nobody says anything about Desmond showing up over an hour late (even though Sef had been snapped at for getting there just five minutes after he was supposed to). A couple of the boys make jeering noises when their instructor isn't listening, but Desmond doesn't even seem to notice. Sef feels a little guilty when he laughs, but he does it anyway.
It's barely noon when the group of novices are dismissed for the day, but Sef's already exhausted and sore all over. Everything he's ever heard about life as a novice turns out to be true- it's harder than anything he's ever done before, and after only a few hours his arms and legs feel like they're about to fall off. He's excited, though. Ten years he's been waiting for this, and a little bit (or a lot) of pain isn't going to keep him from enjoying the moment.
Most of the boys leave together, talking and laughing as they stagger away from the training ring, trying to pretend the morning's exercises had been easy and they're less sore than everyone else. They don't go too far, though, and end up flopped in a small patch of shade not far from the training ring, too tired to do much more than talk.
There are only five of them total. Sef and Desmond, obviously, and three other boys that grew up in the keep or the village nearby. They're not bad guys, mostly. Usually, Sef even likes them, but today everyone's busy moaning and complaining over their first day of training, and it's starting to ruin his good mood. Then suddenly one of them- a big guy with fists about the size of Sef's head- looks over at Desmond.
"Why do you even have to be here?" he asks. "You're gonna slow us all down in training."
"Knock it off," Sef says, tiredly. He's tired because of the training he's just been through, and because this isn't the first time he's had to defend Desmond, and it absolutely won't be the last.
"Why should I?" the kid asks. "We're not going to be able to learn as much with him around." He stands up, paces over to where Desmond's sitting next to Sef, and kicks him a little. Not hard, just enough to be provoking. "He's going to get coddled by everyone 'cuz he's the mentor's kid and 'cuz he's a moron. Why should the rest of us have to suffer?" He pushes again, and Desmond frowns, opens his mouth, and then stops as Sef jumps to his defense.
"What are you doing?" he demands. "Seriously, what's the point of that?"
"Maybe I just need extra fighting practice," the boy sneers. "Since your stupid little brother is going to hold us all back in training-"
Sef is never quite sure how he ends up back in his own room with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, Desmond sitting morosely on the bed next to him. He bandages his hand, muttering complaints to himself the whole time. Occasionally he aims a few in Desmond's direction, too, because he's tired and frustrated and it's not like his brother's going to say anything about it anyway.
"But he was right," Sef finally says. "What are you even doing, going to training? It's not like you'll ever be a real assassin. Who ever heard of an assassin that can't even talk?"
He turns back to his hand, still complaining and knowing he'll regret it later. Getting angry at Desmond is like kicking a puppy- he never does anything to get even, just looks at Sef with big, sad eyes. Except this time, he doesn't.
"Malik only has one arm," he says, and Sef almost gets whiplash jerking his head up to stare at Desmond.
"What?"
"He only has one arm," Desmond says again. "But he's still a really good assassin, even though there's something wrong with him."
Sef sits there, gaping at Desmond with his mouth wide open. Finally, he asks- "Since when are you talking?"
"Um- since this morning," Desmond says.
"This morning," Sef repeats.
"Yea."
"Then why did you just let me fight for you?" Sef demands. His face is throbbing more painfully now. "You didn't have to just sit there and let him insult you so that I had to take a beating for you, again!"
Desmond doesn't answer for several seconds, maybe looking for the right words. "I think the other guy got more beat up than you did."
Sef snorts and turns his back on his brother. "Like that makes any difference," he says, and his nose throbs even more painfully. Stupid, waste of time fight for a dumb, lying little brother. He leaves the room without looking back once.