Nothing seems real. Malik tries to find something to anchor himself to after the disaster at Solomon's Temple, but his mind is clouded. The memory of those first few weeks are filled with nothing but pain and grief and the temporary escape that the opium provides as the healers continue their work. Sometimes it's all he can do to make himself draw breath rather than drifting away into an endless sleep.
Still, he is young and strong, and his body has no intention of withering away despite what his heart may want. Too soon the healers declare he is safe to leave their ward, and he is cast out of the cocoon of solitude and drug-induced numbness he has come to know, if not enjoy.
The first day Malik walks out of his room to re-assemble his life is one of the most terrifying he has experienced. He has never had many friends, as prickly and sarcastic as he is, but at least he had the respect of his peers when he could hold his own against –
But he is not ready to even think that name.
He feels certain that no one will speak to him but everyone will be watching, pity and disgust in their eyes as he trudges towards Al Mualim's desk in the library. The Mentor is everything he needs right now – a familiar presence, offering praise for his success and reassurance for his loss – but he'll be damned if he can remember anything of that meeting beyond his new assignment: rafiq of Jerusalem.
Malik is still in a daze when he bumps into Omar on the way back to his quarters. He is about Malik's age, and they have been paired up as sparring partners and sent on missions together in the past. The other assassin looks far too pleased to see him, but he has always been easier with his words and smiles than Malik, so the newly appointed dai chocks it up to his natural cheerfulness.
"Brother, it is good to see you released from the wards," he declares, placing a casual hand on Malik's right shoulder. "Are you well?"
No I am not well, he wants to scream, I will never be well. Instead, he draws upon years of training in self-control to offer a brief nod. "I am fine, thank you, brother. I am off to prepare myself for my new position as rafiq of Jerusalem."
Omar narrows his eyes in thought before another smile takes over his face. "Jerusalem! That is one of the more important bureaus in the region, is it not? The Master must think well of you indeed to assign you there! And at such a young age!"
Malik blinks: he had thought of his new post as just short of exile, to maintain the pretense that he has a role in the Brotherhood while keeping him out of harm's way. Omar's words have him reconsidering his status, and his expression lightens just a fraction.
"Come, I will help you prepare for your journey," Omar says briskly, using Malik's distracted state to lead them towards his quarters. He keeps up a steady stream of talk, updating Malik on the things he missed while he was recovering from his injuries. It is comforting, and Malik is too relieved at this feeling of normalcy to question the gaze that lingers too long on his face or the hand that grasps his own.
The two men reach Malik's quarters, and Malik will later attribute his inattention to Omar's unerring steps to residual exhaustion. He opens the door and Omar follows him, asking politely, "May I sit on your bed?" and waiting for his nod before doing so.
Malik moves about his room as Omar continues talking, gathering what few possessions he has and discovering the challenge of working with only one arm. It is not long before he is weary and his left shoulder has begun to ache. He too sits on the bed, wincing as he massages his stump.
Omar breaks off in the middle of a funny story about training the novices and exclaims, "Shit! I did not even notice you were in pain! Here, let me help you."
"No no, it is fine, please," Malik protests as Omar brushes his own hand out of the way and draws the shoulder of his djeballa down to expose his wound. He has to bite his lip to stifle a sigh as deft, calloused hands touch his skin gently.
It has been many weeks since he has found release, and many months since his last visit to the women in the fortress garden. This is the first time he has felt such desire for another's touch that he is almost light-headed, and so he misses the calculating smile on Omar's face.
"Relax, Malik, it is only me. I will help you through this."
"Help me through wha-?" But his question is cut off as Omar leans forward and presses chapped, eager lips to his own.
Malik remembers to pull away after a few seconds, and tries to hide his yearning behind outrage. "Brother! What are you doing?" He holds him off with his remaining arm, trying to steady his voice.
"There is no need to dissemble, Malik," Omar says calmly. "I have seen the way you look at some of our brothers. Don't worry, you are quite subtle about it," he answers Malik's unspoken question. "It is the guilt on your face afterwards that gives you away."
Malik knows his silence will be taken as assent, but he cannot, for the life of him, come up with a suitable denial. His heart is hammering in his chest, fear and lust warring with each other. Omar leans forward again so that Malik ends up on his back, and covers the hand on his chest with his own. "I am not here to force myself on you, brother," he whispers as if gentling a wild animal. "Only to offer you a different kind of relief."
"It is haram," Malik whispers automatically, even as he feels himself weakening. "Allah cannot permit it."
"Allah is love, is he not, Malik?" Omar asks rhetorically. "But how can that be? How can Allah be love, if he tells us that to lie with another man is a sin, but gives us these unnatural desires?" He runs that clever hand, warm and inviting, over Malik's chest and under his thin tunic to emphasize his point, and Malik shivers. "How can he be beauty, if he strikes down my sister – lovely and innocent – with leprosy so that she is forced to beg in the streets?""
"How can Allah be justice?" Malik adds quietly before he can stop himself, drawn into this blasphemy by his anger and this new comrade in sin. "How could he take Kadar from me – Kadar!" his voice breaks over the name, "Whose only crime was trusting me and looking up to that… that traitor!" He puts his hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. "He trusted me, and Allah punished him for it."
"Yes, you see?" Omar lifts Malik's hand and presses a kiss to the palm before laving it with his tongue. "Can you bring yourself to worship a god who is so fickle, so cruel?" He captures Malik's lips in another kiss. "Do you believe that paradise awaits us at the end of our struggle?" He looks down at Malik and shakes his head slowly. "It does not."
"There is no paradise for assassins?" It is a struggle to form the words as Omar continues his sensual assault.
"No, any of us. People, in general. There are no bountiful gardens, no virgins, no eternal joy. Whatever happiness, whatever pleasure you desire, you had best take it here, for there is nothing after this life but suffering, or emptiness."
"You paint a grim picture, brother," Malik says with a frown, even as he lets Omar push his robes aside, touching him where no other man ever has outside of his dreams.
"Better to face the truth with eyes open than to fool ourselves with a happy fantasy," Omar murmurs into the skin of his throat. "Besides, that still leaves the pleasure of today, does it not?" He bites and sucks the skin over his heartbeat, hard enough that Malik jerks upwards with a gasp. "And no one, not even Allah, can take that away from us."
He knows he is damned, for sins of violence, for betrayal of his own flesh and blood. With this latest transgression, jahannam is all he can look forward to. But it has been so long since he felt something other than anguish, that when Omar takes him in hand with a sure grip, he cannot feel sorry that his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
Later, when Omar is draped over him, panting into his ear as he buries himself within his yielding body, Malik forgets – for a moment – that his brother is dead, that he will never wield the hidden blade again, that he has no one he can trust but himself.
He lets this intensity of feeling overwhelm the thoughts that have plagued him since that fateful day, giving Omar everything he wants to just keep going. He knows he is being used, there is no true warmth in the other man's touch, so he feels no qualms about using him in return to escape his grief.
And since Allah – spiteful and devious – has clearly renounced Malik, he thinks it only fair to return the favor.
jahannam - hell