A/N: Hello again. I kind of forgot I was crossposting this to here as well. This is going to be the last chapter without censoring here on, so for the vastly superior experience head over to AO3 where I upload this under the name Sorsa while the story retains the same name
Malik woke up to the distinct feeling of being carried by someone. The world swam in and out of focus when he attempted to look around. Then he threw up on the person carrying him while feeling like his head was about to split, and proceeded black out almost immediately.
The next time he came to he was lying on a bed in a dimly lit room. His head was killing him, but he could also feel excruciating pain from his ribs when he attempted to sit up, making him wince in response. He gagged as his stomach attempted to empty itself of its contents. Somebody came through the door, but he was feeling too groggy and his eyes wanted to close despite trying to stay awake to see who had come in. He fell back into the realm of blissful nothingness.
The third time he regained consciousness, Malik felt infinitely more lucid than the previous times. His head hurt still, his body felt as if he had been run over by an entire Italian cavalry unit, a few bandages ran over his head, and his upper body was wrapped tightly, but he could think clearly.
He was consumed by a need to know how long he had been unconscious, but seeing how there was nobody to answer his questions, he was left to his own devices. The room was dark with the only window covered up, which he was thankful for because he doubted he could handle any sunlight with the thrumming headache he was feeling. The only light source was an oil lamp at a bedside table. He brushed his jaw with his fingers, attempting to feel his stubble, but there was barely any, save for the patch he deliberately kept on his chin. This was good he couldn't have been out cold longer than a day or two.
He attempted to recall the last moments of the fight with the monstrous fiend, but he could only recall the point where Ezio had somehow destroyed his own wards and how Malik had fought the released monster alone while the Italian had probably tried to set the wards back up again. He could even recall Ezio shouting instructions to bring the fiend back to the circle, but after that he could remember nothing. Malik had never dodged that many attacks than he had when fighting the fiend. His vision had been filled with antlers, sharp teeth, and razor edge sharp claws for a time, when he had been all alone with the monster.
They must have killed the beast though, since he was here alive, even if injured. But how did they manage the feat, since his memories ended when he was leading the monster back to the wards? Had they managed to recapture the thing or was Ezio secretly that much better a fighter than he was that he could have killed the monster by himself. He groaned, annoyed. No matter how much he tried, the pieces were not adding up, but then again he was missing a lot of them.
Malik decided he wanted to clear his aching head so he started counting the ceiling cracks. He was feeling exhausted, despite not doing anything save for thinking, hating himself for it. By the time he had reached the half-way point he drifted off into light sleep.
When he woke up his head didn't hurt nearly as much as it had the previous time, but he realized he was hungry, or more like ravenous. His stomach grumbled painfully in a protest of being left empty for too long a time.
"You should probably eat something," said a flat voice from somewhere in the room. Malik's eyes shot wide open while sitting up on reflex despite the stabbing pain the exertion caused, making him clutch at his side. His other hand reached for a weapon that was not there, making him frustrated at himself. He scanned the room with narrowed eyes to find the source for the voice. Malik had his face contorted into a scowl from the pain and the discomfort of being watched at brought him when he saw the stranger clad in white hood obscuring his face.
"Who are you? Why are you here?" Malik snarled at the intruder in an animalistic fear of being caught defenceless. There was something dangerous in the way the stranger was leaning against a wall, even apart from the obvious weaponry the man was carrying. No, he decided, it was something he had only ever seen Ezio doing. The man was a hunter like himself, which was all the more worrying.
"I'm Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad," the stranger introduced himself calmly. Malik had the most terrifying feeling of déjà vu he had ever had. His subconscious started hammering him how he knew the name, how it was important and how he should care, but the rationale side of his brain knew he had never even met the man, and how he should be wary of this intruder. His headache also picked up, sending jolts of pain through his temples. He reached up with his hands to hold his head and anything else the stranger might have said went unheard.
Malik found himself drowning in the headache induced by a sensation attempting to invade his thoughts like a battering ram through a door. He bit his lip to the point it started bleeding and feeling the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, which finally spurred him back into action.
"Get out! I can not deal with you or anyone else right now," Malik snapped with more venom than he had intended, while schooling his face back into an angry scowl in an attempt to not betray any more of his inner turmoil. The stranger didn't acknowledge him in any way, but simply left and for some reason even this action irked Malik.
When the door snapped closed, he sighed and slumped back to the bed. He covered his face with his other hand while shivers ran through his frame. He was losing his mind. There was no other explanation for all these sensations, dreams, and feelings he was experiencing except a sure decline into madness. He wanted to scream his lungs out, rip something into tiny pieces, and throw all the things he could get his hands on as far as he could, but he did not. Instead he chose to wallow in this bed half covered in itchy blankets while being tortured from inside by both physical and mental pain.
He didn't want to deal with any people poking at him and most certainly he didn't need any stranger seeing him while he was vulnerable. He wanted to be alone in his torture. They would shut him into an asylum if they didn't decide to put him down like a rabid dog. This was something he couldn't talk about to anyone, not even Kadar or Ezio. He would have to find a way to be rid of this sickness to his mind. Then he fell asleep, again.
When he woke up it was to the sound of Ezio conversing with someone with a heavy accent to their Italian. His sleep-addled brain was slow and it took him longer than usual to recognize the other voice, belonged to the stranger called Altaïr. But Altaïr didn't have an accent when he had spoken to him, which made Malik suspicious.
Deciding he had had quite enough of lying on the bed, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up on slightly wobbly legs. He felt all his muscles scream in protest as the aches instantly doubled. But the worst thing was his head spinning, forcing him to take support from the wall in fear of falling down in an undignified heap.
He stood there for several minutes, one hand on the wall and one clutching his aching ribs, while taking slow deep breaths in a vain attempt to tone down the pain coursing through every part of his body. He loathed himself for his weakness, his traitorous body, and the world in general, which manifested itself as a pained frown.
When the world finally settled before his eyes, he mustered all of his strength to walk as steadily as he could, attempting to conceal any feebleness in himself. Though there was no hiding the bandages covering his chest, he could still overcome the muscle pains through sheer willpower for a time. He had to be convincing because Malik was done with Venice and wanted to go back to Monteriggioni where he could throw himself at maps and books, and then at some demon possessed animal when his injuries had healed.
He opened the door and sure enough Ezio was there talking to, while gesturing with his hands. Altaïr was wearing his hood up similar to the way Malik had seen him the last time and leaning against a wall his arms crossed expression unreadable. Both men turned to face him. Ezio's face went through a series of emotions, starting from a surprise shaping his mouth to an 'o', then a smile and finally alarm with his eyes wide open, which would have normally amused Malik, if not for being too much pain to react. Altaïr was stone-faced except for a slight frown.
"I do not think you should be up, my friend," Ezio said concerned before moving towards Malik with the probable intention of coaxing him to go back to rest. But Malik had had enough of resting and he wasn't about to be treated like a sickly little child. The Italian laid his hand on Malik's shoulder, which made him snap.
"I am fine. Leave me be." At that Ezio looked at him like he didn't understand a single word he had said, which made Malik even more furious.
"Have you gone completely daft Ezio?" Malik threw his hands in the air, but instantly regretted it when he doubled over from the pain in his ribs. This seemed to make Ezio even clingier, but Malik pushed his friend away.
"It would probably help if you spoke to him in Italian," Altaïr said while Malik was fighting against the pains radiating from his broken ribs. Malik realized Altaïr had once again spoken without an accent, which was just confusing on so many levels, but there was also something else.
"What do you mean? I do not even know any other languages besides Italian," but then he had to stop, because Ezio was giving him a funny look once again. He started tasting the words that had left his mouth.
"Could you two turn back to Italian so I can understand," Ezio asked exasperated. Then the feeling of memory attempting to attack his mind hit like a ton of bricks, making him feel light-headed all of a sudden. He fought the terrible shock of pain wracking his brain and came out the victor this time, but also with the dawning knowledge of being fluent in Arabic, which he had never been aware of.
"I am sorry for confusing you Ezio, but I am fine, really. I just want food and an explanation of what has happened." He attempted to calm his voice, but it still came out with an unnecessary bite. Ezio seemed to accept this and stopped hovering over Malik.
Malik soon found himself sitting in the kitchen with food presented for him. The fresh bread and pasta smelled delicious, but for some reason tasted disappointingly rather bland. He managed to sate his appetite while Ezio explained him what had gone down whilst he had been unconscious.
By the time Ezio reached the point in his story where he told him how Altaïr had basically saved Malik from being gored to death, Malik couldn't help but look confused. Apparently Altaïr noticed his confusion, since the man interrupted Ezio just to say,
"I was tracking the fiend, the same as you, and just happened to the place by an accident. I only used the opportunity to my advantage to take out the monster." Malik could have sworn an arrogant smirk flashed through the man's features. Now he didn't know what to think about the man at all, because he had saved his life, even if it had been mere coincidence, but then again there was just something about Altaïr that made him extremely uncomfortable. Then there was the question of the man itself, because he really didn't know anything about him at all besides his name and yet the man still lingered among them.
"So why are you still here?" Malik asked, slightly irritated.
"Since you were incapacitated Ezio asked me to help him track the vampire in the city," and the way he said the word 'incapacitated' made Malik want to throttle the man right then and there, but he refrained from doing so. Instead he chose his own method: insults.
"But apparently you are not doing a very good job since you are still here, novice," the last part dropping into Arabic almost against his will, but he didn't care because the obvious surprise on Altaïr's face was just too delicious to pass up. Malik smirked, pleased with himself. Ezio raised a confused eye-brow, but didn't say anything even though clearly wanted to do so.
"The tracks have gone cold. There are no new bodies or strange killings happening. It is as if the vampire packed his things up and left, my friend," Ezio said calmly.
"So why is he still here? If the vampire is gone, he has no reason to remain," Malik demanded suspiciously. There was something going on, that he was not aware of.
"I was invited to Monteriggioni," Altaïr answered matter of factly. Malik's jaw dropped in disbelief and he directed a questioning glare towards Ezio. He didn't want a dangerous individual such as Altaïr at his home where he could possibly hurt his family.
"It was my father who invited him. He wants to give half of the reward to Altaïr," Ezio answered the unspoken question, and from years of being friends with Ezio Malik could also read the slight tone of disappointment. Ezio, being the only hunter in his family had a lot on his shoulders, so he must have felt like he was being undermined by his father. But there was a hole in the logic.
"Why not have Federico give him the reward?" Malik questioned, because he knew Federico had plenty of money on him. A hunter's reward should be a trivial thing for a banker.
"Apparently my father and Altaïr are somehow acquainted," Ezio sighed uncharacteristically. That made a little bit more sense, because even though he had never heard of any other monster hunters outside of Italy, it didn't mean they didn't exist and it would also make sense for Giovanni Auditore to know of them. But if the man was a monster hunter, why wasn't he hunting monsters in his own home country, instead of Venice? There was just no way he was there for a single fiend.
"So why are you in Italy in the first place?" Malik inquired neutrally.
"I'm looking for something, which I believe to be in Italy," Altaïr answered. Malik narrowed his eyes. The man was omitting something from his answer.
"And that is what?" Malik prodded.
"I can't tell you," was the immediate final answer. Malik's mind went to a full state of alarm even if he logically knew it might have something to do with his branch of hunters. The Italian hunters also had a few secrets that couldn't be told to outsiders, not even to the closest family members. But Malik didn't trust people easily, so he filed the statement against Altaïr's case.
Malik scoffed in disapproval. He would have also crossed his arms, if he had not already learnt how much it would hurt. He processed all the information he had been given before reaching a final conclusion.
"I need two days," Malik said sternly. Ezio looked at him confused. Altaïr didn't react at all.
"Two days for what, Malik my friend?" Ezio asked bemused.
"Two days to get my ass back in shape to travel back to Monteriggioni. I have had my share of this wretched city, which still by the way smells horrible," Malik added as an afterthought, because he had started to smell the unmistakable scent of faeces and dead fish again in the last half an hour. Ezio looked alarmed and was obviously about to voice his opinion.
"Do not treat me as if I was dying. I know myself better than you do and I know I can handle the journey back just fine," he snapped before Ezio had a chance to interject his opinion. The Italian submitted to nodding in return.
Kadar was bored. He was sitting on the fence surrounding the training yard with a practice sword in his hand, which he used to tap himself rhythmically on his right foot. His actual sword leaned against the fence sheathed in its scabbard. The setting sun coloured everything red, but Kadar hardly took any notice.
He had previously beaten two aspiring new guards in a sparring match without much trouble, leaving him nothing to do for the rest of the evening. His brother was back along with Ezio and a weird new person his brother called 'stupid novice', but who was actually called Altaïr. His brother had also somehow gotten himself badly injured in his stay in the Venice, was now drawing maps of a city he apparently didn't even know the name for and had learnt to speak Arabic, but Kadar didn't really care about all that since he had met the most wonderful girl he had ever known.
Her name was Francisca and she had waved to him when he was on guard duty. Kadar also had seen her once at the market while off-duty. She had the most beautiful brown eyes and dark hair, and Kadar would be lying if he didn't admit that he liked the sway of her hips when she walked.
He had told his brother about her and Malik had not cared the least bit, just nagged to him how he had said the same thing about Katerina and how had that worked out. His brother didn't understand that this was a completely different thing. But then again his brother was antisocial jerk with no understanding of human emotions.
Claudia had not been understanding either. She had just scoffed at him and proceeded to sulk for the rest of the day. Kadar didn't understand what was wrong with the people around him. At least Ezio had told him to go for it, though Ezio probably had just meant for him to bed the girl. He wanted to have a romance and then marry the girl. Kadar sighed, still bored.
He really wasn't in the mood for watching his brother draw maps while being occasionally snapped at. He could go to the brothel, but he felt like he would be cheating on Francisca so that was out of the question. Nobody wanted to challenge him into sparring match since he would beat them in the matter of seconds and he also wasn't in the mood to listen to Claudia's endless gossiping. He didn't really know what he was in the mood for, but whatever it was it wasn't sitting in the waning sunlight while endlessly tapping a sword against his foot.
"You don't look much like your brother," came an accented voice from somewhere to his right. Kadar turned his head to look. A stranger clad in white, with a hood obscuring his face, which meant he was Altaïr.
"Usually people say we look very much alike apart from our height and eye colour," Kadar said noncommittally. What a weird way to start a conversation.
"Usually the people saying those things are Italian. I am not," Altaïr said, betraying no emotion. Kadar didn't really understand the meaning behind the words, leaving him puzzled and at a loss at whether he was supposed to be offended or pleased at the words. At least the man was acknowledging him to be a separate being from his brother, which was always a huge benefit in Kadar's mind.
"I don't really understand what that is supposed to mean," Kadar said before he could think anything smarter to say and cursed himself for it as soon as the words had left his mouth.
"Apparently you are not nearly as intelligent as your brother either."
Kadar frowned at the words. He so 'loved' always being compared to his brother to the point of often feeling like a inferior edition of Malik. His brother was smarter, he was a monster hunter, and made those stupid maps, but Malik was also reclusive, violent asshole, who revelled in being an outsider, but somehow Kadar with his high position in the guard and likeable character was the worse brother.
"And? What does it matter? I'm not my brother," Kadar said, irritated.
"True. It doesn't matter," Altaïr answered nonchalantly. Then a sudden thought crossed his mind transforming Kadar's face into a smug grin.
"Want to spar?" Kadar asked enthusiastically. Altaïr cocked his head as if to evaluate Kadar's worthiness.
"Sure," was the uninterested answer. Kadar threw his practice sword to Altaïr and went to pick up another for himself.
"None of the fancy hunter shit and don't tell my brother. He'll kill you and then he'll kill me," he warned the hunter, using as much harshness in his voice as he could muster from his giddiness.
"Why would he do that,"Altaïr asked while inspecting the practice sword for its balance.
"He doesn't like me fighting anyone because he thinks I might get hurt," he uttered in the annoyance the words brought him.
"That's stupid," was the simple answer, but it made Kadar go, 'Finally there's somebody who understands me!' in his mind.
"I know," Kadar answered while his smile returned. Then they both went at it with their swords.
Kadar favoured an aggressive way of fighting where he would attack before giving his opponent a chance to retaliate, and then he would simply over-power them. It worked well enough against most of his opponents, but Altaïr was not like most, he realised.
The hunter moved past all of his strikes, as if it was nothing while delivering his own counter attacks. It took only seconds before Kadar's sword flew through the air and he found himself only few millimetres away from the blunted end of the practice sword. Kadar gasped in disbelief. How could their skill levels be so vastly different? This man was amazing.
The sword was removed from his field of view. Kadar steered his eyes away from the sword and into the hunter, realising the hunter was still wearing the same stony expression he had before the fight.
"You aren't completely without talent it would seem," Altaïr said, which translated in Kadar's mind into 'You are the most talented person I've ever seen, especially more talented than your brother'. Kadar practically beamed.
"You need to teach me how to do all that you just did!" Kadar almost shouted in excitement. Altaïr frowned. Kadar didn't care. Before him stood a sword fighting god, who could impart secrets to a talented persons such as himself and make him invincible.
Malik was in the middle of drawing a map when someone knocked his door. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had not been sleeping well lately because the vivid dreams he first experienced in Venice had kicked up a notch and now he was not only flying over the city he still didn't know the name of, but running through its streets in pursuit of something yet unknown.
He had started drawing a map of the city, because it felt a right thing to do. He thought that maybe if he drew the city, the dreams would go away. But they didn't, as proven by three complete maps of the unknown city lying on his desk next to the one he was currently working on.
One of the most annoying things was that he had even seen a dream where he drew a map of the unknown city. That particular dream had made him wake up boiling furious, and in a fit of rage he tried burn his maps. But as the fire caught corner of one his maps, a pang of regret hit him just as hard as the rage had earlier, so he put the fire out. So, Malik had drawn three complete maps, one of which was now slightly burned and one map was in the works, of a city he had only ever seen in his dreams. He was starting to feel like he might have made the city up in his own delusional mind, which was feeding him all kinds of unwanted things of late anyways.
He put his quill aside carefully, then turned towards the door to let in whoever had knocked, which already told him it wasn't Kadar nor Ezio. The former didn't bother knocking and the latter didn't bother to wait for his answer.
He opened the door, only to be greeted by Altaïr standing in the hallway. He honestly didn't understand why the man was still around Monteriggioni because he had claimed his reward and there was nothing else there for him, but of course Giovanni had welcomed the hunter to stay as long as he wanted in a true Italian manner of hospitality.
"Why are you here?" Malik asked suspiciously. He had spent five days in the man's constant presence, but learnt very little of him in the process. The few things he had learnt of the man were rather inconsequential, like he was of Arabian descent and had grown up in a place called Masyaf somewhere in Syria. Generally speaking, things anyone with a half a brain could have deduced after taking a hard look at the man and listening to the way he spoke.
"Can I come in?" Altaïr asked in Arabic, which was another thing the man did. He insisted on speaking to Malik in Arabic, which served as a constant reminder to Malik that he had not previously even been aware of his own fluency in Arabic. He had deduced that Altaïr must have triggered a memory from his life before Monteriggioni, which he didn't know anything about. It didn't take a genius to see that Malik himself was of a Middle-Eastern descent and even more obviously than Altaïr, who seemed pale compared to Malik. This was something Malik had been acutely aware of since he was a child, surrounded by Italians and realising at some point that he would never be one of them.
"Fine," he said and moved out of the way to let the other hunter in. There was an uncomfortable silence between them, which Malik didn't know how to break without saying something potentially offending.
Altaïr moved to his desk and picked up one of the maps there. It was the one with a burned corner. Malik cursed silently to himself, because if Altaïr asked a question about the city, he wouldn't be able to answer and people tended to ask him questions of the cities he drew maps of. He could see an expression of recognition dawn on the hunter's feaures.
"This is Jerusalem," Altaïr said with a surprised voice. Malik wanted to frown, but caught himself before the expression could manifest on his face. He mentally berated himself for being too stupid not to search the library for maps of the Middle-Eastern cities.
"Yes it is," Malik commented not betraying his lack of knowledge. He wasn't about to confess Altaïr that this was the first time he had heard the name of the city he had drawn three maps of.
"It is very good," Altaïr complimented. How could the man differentiate between a good map and a bad one when he could hardly hold a conversation that didn't revolve around killing things? Malik decided he didn't give a damn about Altaïr's opinion, since it held no weight.
"Thank you," Malik answered nevertheless, because at least he could pretend to be a decent human being for once.
"I used to have a very dear friend to me who loved Jerusalem. He was also a cartographer, so I've seen many maps of the city," Altaïr said with something akin to wistfulness, which caught Malik by surprise because out of all the things he had expected Altaïr to say the next this wasn't among them. The man was attempting to extend an olive branch to him for some reason. Altaïr wasn't even doing such a bad job at it since he had even called him a cartographer instead of map maker, which Malik hated to be called. Anybody could make maps, but a cartographer calculated them with precise math and with the help of instruments specially designed for it.
Malik was now on edge. He could accept Altaïr's silent proposal, but doing so meant he would give part of himself to the man and let his guard down at least partially. Of course the other hunter was just as reserved as Malik was, he realized, and there was some nagging part of his unconscious mind trying to break free telling him Malik was a fool not to trust him.
In the end Malik decided he would for once do a leap of faith. It wasn't like he had not already spent days practically sleeping on the same bed with the man during the journey back from Venice and he was still alive. Maybe he could even forget the notion of slowly losing his mind if he had something else to think about. He still had a month's worth of resting to do before his ribs and wounds would be fully healed. He could use some distraction.
They talked about Jerusalem and monsters. They debated advantages and disadvantages of different sword fighting styles. Malik lectured Altaïr of the finer points of cartography, while the other one listened carefully. As the night wore on Malik realised he, despite his preconceptions, had enjoyed himself and that Altaïr was not entirely without wit.
It was kind of funny really. Malik did not want to have anything to do with Altaïr, but somehow he had ended up spending more and more of his time with the man. Usually Altaïr would appear sometime after dinner and they would end up spending the entire night arguing about things.
Malik loved every second of it. During the weeks he had spent with Altaïr, he had learned the man was surprisingly cultured, forcing him to re-evaluate his opinion. The man was still an inconsiderate jerk, infuriating Malik on so many levels, but he was not simpleton.
Five weeks had gone by since the incident with the fiend and Malik wasn't able to stand cooped up inside with his maps anymore. So when Altaïr showed up that night, Malik had only one thing in mind.
"Let us go outside. If I spend any more time inside, I will rip someone's head off," Malik said already fastening his cloak over his shoulders. Altaïr nodded in response and followed Malik after he made it out of the door into the hallway.
The night was cool and the moon was full, illuminating everything in pale blue light. The air smelled of freshly made hay covering the usual smell of sewage underneath it almost completely. It was peaceful in the way only a small town like Monteriggioni could be.
Malik led them to the ramparts, where they climbed the steps leading to the top of them. He wanted to be in as high place as he could reach without hurting his still-healing ribs. He went out of his way to find a spot where the night guards couldn't see them, and when he finally found a place that satisfied him he took in as much of the surrounding landscape as he could.
The wind picked up slightly against his cloak. He could feel Altaïr to his left even without looking at the man. A smile tucked at the corner of Malik's mouth. When had he become so aware of the man that he knew where Altaïr was automatically? He shook his head at his stupid notions, but could not shake off the ridiculous amusement he was feeling.
"When are they allowing you to return back to your normal duties?" Altaïr asked.
"In a couple of weeks."
"Good. You look as if ants had invaded your pants half of the time, which I assume is because you have too much free time," Altaïr said smugly. Malik glared judgementally at the hunter.
"I am not going to respond to that idiocy," he retorted.
"But it's true, you want to go out there and fight monsters," Altaïr stated matter-of-factly. Malik sighed.
"It is. To claim otherwise would be lying. It was what I was trained to do. It is what I am good at doing," he said, slightly irritated. He would rather not talk about this subject, because at the moment there was nothing he could do to help advance his goals.
"A hunting bird won't forget it's purpose, even if it is made to live among hen," Altaïr said with a tone that suggested he thought he was parting with some higher wisdom. Malik rolled his eyes.
"I imagine such bird would eat the hens," he answered sarcastically. Altaïr snorted.
"Probably," Altaïr answered simply.
Altaïr lowered his hood, making Malik realise it was the first time he had an unobstructed view of his face. The hunter turned to face him and Malik could have sworn Altaïr's golden coloured eyes were glowing slightly in the dark. Altaïr looked him straight in the eyes, making Malik feel the urge to look away
Altaïr was handsome even with his lopsided smirk. There was no other way of putting it. He suddenly felt paranoid that his thoughts might show on his face, so he forced his expression into frown. He shouldn't be thinking like that, but it was so hard with piercing gaze Altaïr directed at him.
Malik found himself fighting hard against urges he had thought he had buried deep within himself years ago. Something so sinful, he refused to give a name even in his head for fear of acting on them. He felt like Altaïr had been put there in front of him, just to tempt him into sin because some higher power must have known about his weakness. Altaïr probably didn't even know the extent his influence had on him, which was a good thing because surely the hunter would be repulsed by his impure unnatural thoughts.
"Why do you do that," Altaïr asked, amused. Malik's thoughts turned frantic for a while.
"Do what?" he snapped back in defence.
"Turn angry without any provocation," Altaïr answered. At least his horrible thoughts didn't show outwardly, so there was that.
"Do I need a particular reason when everyone around me is an ignoramus?" he said annoyed because most people really were simpletons. Altaïr looked even more amused for some reason even though he had just called him stupid indirectly. What an annoying, arrogant bastard the other hunter was. Malik scowled murderously.
"I had a friend once, who often said something similar to that," Altaïr said with fondness in his voice, which infuriated Malik even more for a reason he did not know.
"You 'had' a friend, indicating you don't have one anymore. I can not imagine why since you have such a delightful personality," Malik retorted while rolling his eyes in an exaggerated manner.
"He got killed in the end, so yes you are right. I had promised to protect him, but I failed. He could not fight, so he stood no chance," Altaïr monotoned, the memory obviously hurting him more than he showed outwardly. Malik saw his chance at hurting the other hunter so he could put more distance between himself and Altaïr. He was already treading on dangerous water and he had no desire to have his unnatural desires found out.
"Maybe your friend should have been a fighter. Maybe he would not have been killed then. People can not just expect to be protected by others," Malik said with unnecessary malice. He looked away, not wanting to see the reaction his hurtful words had on the other man, because in reality he did not want to hurt Altaïr. He just had to make Altaïr hate him, so he could hate the man back. Anger was familiar and easy, disdain even better and open loathing the best. He needed something to latch on to besides his own growing fondness and desire towards the man.
A hand landed on his shoulder catching him completely off guard. Malik flinched at the contact but the pressure remained firmly in place. He turned to look at Altaïr once more and the man had one of the most infuriating smirks on his face. Malik frowned. This wasn't the reaction he had been anticipating.
"Yes. Maybe he should have been; alas he was not. However you are and I like it," then the hunter leaned to whisper huskily in Malik's ear, "Stop being jealous of a dead person." Malik turned every shade of red that had ever existed. He pushed Altaïr away from him.
"Stop speaking nonsense, novice," Malik growled while crossing his arms in defiance. Altaïr grinned smugly. Malik rolled his eyes.
Malik decided to sit and sulk on the edge of the rampart because despite everything he didn't want to go back just yet. His legs dangled over the air. Altaïr sat next to him in a similar fashion. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as they watched at nothing in particular.
"What was his name?" Malik asked carefully.
"Hmm?"
"The old friend who could not fight," Malik clarified, and somehow he was sure the friend was also the same one who did cartography. Altaïr just didn't seem the type of person to have an abundance of friends.
"He was called 'the King of the Sword' despite the fact that he would have probably stabbed himself if he had been given one. He fought his battles with quill, ink, and nasty words," Altaïr chuckled fondly. Malik felt like he was suddenly struck by something. He turned to look at Altaïr, who was leaning against one of his arms lazily, as the thought dawned on him.
Altaïr's friend had had the same name as he did, or maybe his delusional mind had decided to snatch the name from mid-air. This was too much of a coincidence. His surname was Al-Sayf, but he had not known this until now. He cringed and felt nauseous. His mood turned sour a the matter of seconds. He had now gone weeks without his madness bothering him too much. He could not tell this to Altaïr under any circumstance.
He could feel the makings of a headache. Malik groaned while running his fingers through his hair. How much more could his mind take before he wouldn't be able to recognize himself anymore through the fog of madness? Today he was drawing maps of Jerusalem obsessively and picking surnames for himself; maybe tomorrow he would run through someone with a sword or sit in a corner mumbling incoherent words to himself while rocking back and forth. It terrified him and he could not speak to anyone about it.
Malik reclined his head to watch the stars. Then he started counting them in an attempt to clear his mind. He didn't want to think about his insanity.
Malik's dreams took a violent turn. The violent dreams were always the same; he would no longer be exploring Jerusalem but running away for his life. He would be captured by a group of men who held him down by force, while being unable to defend himself paralysed him with fear. They would run a wooden stake through his chest, then release him, and he would sit up with his remaining strength. His remaining time alive would be spent caressing the wooden stake in wonder of how bizarre it looked sticking out of himself.
He always woke up panting and sweating afterwards. He could practically feel the wooden stake through his flesh and bones, even after several minutes of waking up. He ran his hands over his chest several times just to make sure he was in fact not speared with a stake. Then he would stare at his hands as if they were a separate entity of himself, despite his rationale telling him they were not. He felt disconnected from his body.
Then there were the sex dreams, which left him flustered and hard afterwards unless he had found his release in the dream, in which case he was covered in his own semen come evening. He blamed Altaïr for these dreams and not so much his waning sanity, which wasn't really that much better honestly.
In one of them, he was being fucked from behind, making him unable to see his partner. But he could feel very vividly the hands on his hips, the teeth puncturing his shoulder, the feeling of being filled and the hand on his own manhood pumping him towards sweet release. The hands on him were large and calloused wandering over his wet, slicked frame.
During his waking hours Malik was constantly agitated and easily irritable, which meant he constantly snapped at anyone who attempted to approach him. He started going out of his way to avoid people. He did not want to deal with anyone for fear of triggering his insanity even more. The most dangerous of all was Altaïr, whose presence seemed to fan the flames of both his insanity and unnatural lust for men.
"Begone from my sight. I do not have time for you," he growled angrily at Altaïr. He needed the man to go away.
"You used to have time in abundance not so long ago," Altaïr replied clearly frustrated and with a distinct frown on his face.
"That was a mistake. Do you not have some demon possessed scarecrow to kill or maybe a windmill?" Malik spat venomously. Altaïr had to leave or Malik would break down into pieces.
"No," was the defiant reply.
"Then you could go and bother someone who cares, like my brother for instance," he snarled viciously.
"I don't want to bother your brother. I want you," Altaïr all but shouted at him, which made Malik lose it completely. Why couldn't the man understand what was good for the both of them.
"Get out!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs. Then to make his point even clearer he threw the first object he could reach, which happened to be an inkpot. Altaïr dodged it which shattered into million tiny pieces, leaving an ugly smear on the wall. The man took his cue and left Malik alone.
He felt horrible for what he had done to Altaïr, to what he was doing to everyone near him, but he was at his wit's end with nowhere to go since he had started seeing visions even during his waking hours and they weren't tied to fighting either anymore. He slumped down to the stone floor of his chambers hugging himself with his arms.
He was conflicted in so many different ways that he couldn't even begin to unravel his thoughts. He was slowly going insane, but he could not tell anyone about it, not especially since he now had permission to return back to his duties, which he had done with glee so he could have something else to think about. For some reason he had cooked up this idea in his head that if he would just return back to his normal schedule everything would go back to way it was, but training himself back into shape and killing few minor monsters had not helped his mental state in any way.
Then there were his bodily urges. He had spent years and years conditioning himself out of them and staying celibate. Now everything hit him, as if he was a hormonal teenager all over again instead of a 25-year old adult. He knew he was a sinner and what his body wanted of him was unnatural. He should be killed for what he was. But then again he might be killed anyway if his escalation into madness kept going.
He was a truly fucked up individual. Maybe he even deserved to be put down. Maybe there even was someone who would enjoy seeing him beheaded. Malik grinned at the idea. Kadar kept telling him what a nasty and unlikeable creature he was anyway, so it wouldn't be like society was losing something valuable.
A/N: I love torturing Malik because I love him so much. Makes sense? :D