Altair is a simple man. He has always known that, despite Malik's constant reminders. He needs only a target and a command, and his path is set. There is no need for remorse, no time wasted on niceties – his blade finds a home in the flesh of his mark, retracts just as quickly, and Altair takes flight for the next mission, the next target, the next success. It is hard to argue with his results, which is why most of the Brotherhood does not bother.
But Malik does.
He disapproves of Altair's methods, his attitude… his very face, if the scowl that deepens Malik's features at his presence is any indication. As far as his rival is concerned, every successful assassination is mired in a thousand failures, and it is his self-imposed responsibility to delineate them one by one for Altair's benefit.
"It is not that I believe myself to be perfect," he has said before. "I only seek to remind you that you are not either."
"I don't need your interference, Malik."
"Your actions indicate otherwise, novice."
It would be at this point in their earlier years that Altair would shove Malik, thereby ensuring a satisfying scuffle that will end with both of them bloodied but unbowed and assigned an extra set of unpleasant chores.
Over time, their fights become less frequent as they come to accept their roles in each other's lives. If Altair is Al Mualim's favored, then Malik is his chosen to keep Altair grounded and humble, for no other trainee is able to disarm him as readily. And if Malik falls into one of his black moods, full of brooding introspection, Altair can be counted on to break him out of it, through irritation or amusement, or some combination of the two.
For Malik is a complicated man. He had grown up observing some of the rituals and beliefs of Islam as his father Faheem had. While his blade has never faltered in the execution of his duty to the Assassins, the death of a fellow human being always lay heavily on him. Altair remembers the first time they were sent on a mission together: once he had claimed the life and stained the feather as proof, he leapt away to make for the rooftops, only to notice a space at his right hand that should have been filled with his rival's familiar, cantankerous presence. He looked back to see Malik crouched over the body, closing its unseeing eyes and murmuring a quick prayer for peace before darting away himself.
Whenever they work together, Altair seems the same ritual played out, and he has no doubt that Malik adheres to this practice even when he is alone. He stopped questioning the utility of it after their first and only argument on the subject, side by side on a bench shaded from the warm Damascus sun.
"What does it matter, Malik? He is an enemy of our cause, and the Creed demanded his death."
"No," Malik counters, "the Creed demanded nothing. Al Mualim, he who leads us and interprets the Creed, demanded it. We obey out of faith." He forestalls Altair's argument before it can leave his lips. "We trust Al Mualim not to lead us astray, not to call for the death of another lightly." He lifts an eyebrow in challenge. "What is that but another kind of faith?"
"You think too much," Altair grumbles, and Malik chuckles a bit. "Things are more straightforward than you make them out to be."
"No," Malik refutes him again. "The Creed is a mass of contradictions." He ticks each point off on his fingers. "We use violence to promote peace. We oppose the Templars' demand for absolute obedience but expect it from ourselves. We say everything is permitted, but the Creed itself is a list of rules we abide by."
Altair shrugs with a noncommittal sound. "I will leave it to the scholars to ponder these mysteries. I know what I must do."
"Take care, brother," he says with a somber expression. "The ability to obey but question, to live in darkness but bear the light, is what separates us from the Templars." Malik heaves a sigh. "To be an assassyun is anything but straightforward."
His thoughtful nature leaves him prone to a melancholy that Altair struggles to understand, so he falls back on his usual method to bring him out of it. "As you would have it, ajooz." He rises and holds out his arm as a support. "Let me help you back to your rocking chair, the other sages are no doubt worried you are lost."
Malik gives him a reluctant smile and shoves his arm away. "Idiot," he says without heat. "Only you would revel in ignorance." He stands up as well and the two walk back to the local bureau. "But one day," he bumps his shoulder against Altair's, "you will see that I'm right."
Altair does not doubt it, as Malik usually is right when it counts. "And on that day," he responds with a retaliatory bump, "I know you will guide me through it."
If Malik's tendency to over-analyze is puzzling to Altair, the haunted look that suddenly covers Malik's face is downright mystifying. "Take care, Altair, with whom you trust," he echoes himself quietly. "Take great care."
It's not the first time that Malik has looked at him so, fear and intent mixed together. There is a darkness about him that has always intrigued Altair, a forbidden knowledge that lies just below the surface of those deep brown eyes.
But if there is one man he can trust, surely it is Malik, bound by the simple but inviolable words of the Creed and the teachings of Islam that have shaped him into the man he is now. His constant companion and rival, who tempers his brashness and mocks his bravado, who sees to the heart of things and speaks the truth.
Surely Malik would never lead him astray.
ajooz - old man