AN: Note the rating change! Bolded -i- are your warning.
I still haven't finished AC3 so I don't know all the details regarding Juno, but I do know she's a bitch. Good enough for me.
In my headcanon Malik has full-on conversations with baby Tazim. Just sits him down and talks while he tends to the paperwork: "…and all of this was due last week but some of us are too busy being possessed by ancient artifacts to notice, not that I'm surprised, working with that selfish novice, if he didn't have a pretty face he'd be useless…" and Tazim's happily sucking his thumb in the background, not paying an ounce of attention.
And it's still a more productive conversation than the typical Malik-Altair exchange.
Ghouls and Stories
Altair hears it calling him from across the fortress.
He moves swift as desert winds through the narrow passageways, headed not for his desk in the main hall where all might see him work, but for the secret dungeon room where no one will see a thing. It feels more his than the desk and hall: those things were Al Mualim's first, and they will always bear his scent.
It's a silly thing for men to have nightmares, because what is the point in fearing what isn't real? But occasionally even Altair has them, and when he does he is always standing in front of that desk, back straight 'til it hurts, as Al Mualim turns from the grand window to look at him with his piercing gaze. Master Al Mualim, who knows all secrets. He shakes his head, disappointed, and he says to Altair, "You've made a mistake. I never betrayed you. You've been wrong in everything you've done."
But Altair rarely has nightmares.
When he reaches the room he latches the door shut and drops his black robes to the floor. They're an important symbol of his office, he'd never walk out in public without them, but they're also heavy, and through a strange quirk of design this room would swelter in a blizzard.
He ignores the table laden with scrolls, turning instead to the ones tacked to the walls. His eyes fall on the nearest one, the one least scrawled over, and after a moment's consideration he pulls it free and spreads it out over the floor. Inexpertly sketched out in the middle is a version of the hidden blade, with small differences. He's made notes around it, in Arabic and Latin and even French, but they don't link together yet. This particular hidden blade is still a thing of dreams only.
Altair frowns, staring at it, impatient for it to spring fully-formed from the paper. He runs the Brotherhood and the Brotherhood must stay ahead of their enemies. Al Mualim had been such a traditionalist, had been so against new weapons or even new models of old weapons—
He chases the thoughts away before he can linger too long on his old Master's face. The Apple of Eden calls to him again. Carefully he reaches for a leather pouch hanging off his belt. Its size belies its weight as always, for the thing inside has the weight of God attached.
Altair holds the Apple in his right hand, rubbing the tips of his fingers against its uneven surface. So small, so simple.
Malik has never trusted it, for its powers are beyond what should be possible. But Altair has fought with the thing, thrown all his might against it and come out still sane. It isn't as though he trusts it fully either, but he respects what it can do. He respects whatever man or sorcerer made it, and Altair doesn't lend out his respect often.
The Apple of Eden. Was it what drove Al Mualim mad? Or had the old man been a traitor all along?
Altair sets the orb on the table, where it glows faintly. Then he tends to other matters, answering requests made weeks ago and deadlines long passed, sifting through the clutter. Occasionally he might glance at the orb (fine, say that he does), but he doesn't reach for it, or touch it, or pick it up (because Altair is in control, not some wizard's trinket however useful). He's gotten into the habit of using the Apple only after he's finished other business. Malik says the thing acts alive, ridiculous as it sounds, and that it will consume him. Altair ignores it to prove to the Dai that he can.
Malik misunderstands the artifact, of course. He sees it as a weapon only, when violence is just one of the Apple's many tools. When Altair holds it he is transported—lifted—he finds himself in strange grey country, where voices tell him of the future. Sometimes he is given visions, quick flashes he must piece together if he can. If he focuses he can see his body, standing in the dungeon room, but still the Apple takes him somewhere. Lately it has been harder to ground himself to the real world. He doesn't always bother.
Altair doesn't know how the Apple works, which is admittedly annoying. But it does work. Some mind-clouding poison, he supposes, released when met with the warmth of human touch. Some heating agent, some metal not available in the Levant. And if it knows its own riddles, it won't answer them. Altair can stand in the grey fog and bark endless questions, but not all of them are answered. The voices speaking through the artifact have their own wills.
"A sword that thinks," Malik called it once. "A lump of metal that can keep grudges like a man. How wise is it to trust that?"
But it does work.
If Altair is shown a weapon with braces and buckles, then afterwards he sketches the design and takes it to the blacksmith, and the blacksmith is amazed by the clever invention. If he is shown a way to jump or run or hide, he tries it out in the real world and jumps, runs, hides, better than even he imagined.
Not all the visions are so clear. Sometimes after a session he is left seething with frustration, soaked with bits of knowledge he doesn't know how to use. Metal tubes that use powder to fling tiny stones with great force. Giant armored carts, moving of their own volition, faster than the best-bred stallion. Fire that springs from a small box to swallow everything, even water: Greek fire, it must be, but Altair has asked around and knows the recipe for such a thing has been lost since the fall of Rome.
The Apple knows the past, then, as well as the future. Does it learn? Does it choose who to teach and who to scorn? When Altair holds it, if he wanted, he could stay out of the grey country and instead use it as a weapon here, on his own earth. It tells him so in honeyed tones.
But he has promised Malik.
Not many in the Order know much about the artifact. They know it exists, kept hidden from Templar desires, and perhaps rumors reach the novices of their Grandmaster being invincible, able to read minds and fortunes. But those rumors were woven around Al Mualim as well.
(Altair grits his teeth. Stop thinking of him, he orders himself. The past is tainted. He was too different then.)
He looks down at the table and sees chipped wood all around the orb. Has he been so productive, or merely shoved scrolls aside? Either way the Apple waits patiently. He looks next at the scroll still spread out on the floor, at the hidden blade that doesn't require a finger removed. He's sketched out the brace already, but the inner mechanisms are unclear. How could it possibly work? If he were a traditionalist he would tear the design to pieces, because losing a finger has always been the mark of a Master Assassin.
Altair is no traditionalist, though. And in this world where Templars are generals and kings, he wonders if it is so helpful for assassins to stay as they are. They are meant to work in the dark, but they have always been wielded like an army: conquering lands, building fortresses.
"Fine," he says at last, and picks the Apple up.
The warmth swallows his hand and his arm, swallows him whole in a rush of gold light. He squints against the brightness, his pulse loud in his ears. As ever there is the sensation of pain, or rather, pain missing. A gap where pain ought to be. Then he is out and through and standing on a mass of swirling, chilly grey that soaks through the soles of his boots.
If he thinks hard he can remember that none of this is real, not the clouds nor the chill. He is still sitting at the table, bent over the artifact, eyes glazed and breath slow.
But there is also this world, where he stands with nothing in his hand but an invisible weight, and the sense of many others watching.
Who? says a voice both male and female, and then just as quickly answers, You are returned. You delayed too long. There is not time.
Altair squares his shoulders and wishes for his black robes. "There is time if I say so," he says, knowing he sounds petulant. Sounds, in fact, like his old self. The self he tries to pretend has been neatly defeated and put aside. But something about this place drags out the truth in him; there are too many illusions built into the world itself to allow even one more brought in by others.
"I am the Grandmaster of the Assassin's Order," he adds. He's pretty sure the voice is always the same one, but a reminder never hurts.
Oh, indeed? Such a small thing. We did not build humans to understand true distance. A few thousand years and your world will end. But you would fritter about as if you were eternal.
Altair asks with disinterest, "Are you supposed to be a god, then? Am I meant to be impressed by a myth?"
The he-she voice says, Be impressed with what stands before you! The Apple takes form, but like the grey mist around them both the figure cannot hold its shape. Now it is female, with a sweeping, layered gown and complicated headdress. Now it is male, with a thick beard and powerful biceps. Now it is both at once. Altair smirks.
"I don't think so," he says. "For all the power of this thing, it's still just another weapon. My guess is you're a shred of yourself, put in here as a guide for whatever purpose. If anything the Apple is the master. I can't be impressed by a slave."
He says, he says, murmurs the creature. One blue eye and one brown open very wide. We agree with you, fool that you are. We are not impressed by slaves. And what of our purpose? Would you not know it?
"Your failures are your own." Growing impatient, Altair orders, "That hidden blade you showed me last time, tell me how to build it."
We showed you last time, says the voice in woman's guise. She is pretty, with her long, straight, brown hair and flashing eyes: pretty in a frozen way. Her dress is low against her breasts but the collar is high, brushing against her chin, her curves glimpsed behind translucent fabric. A delicate femininity of the type Altair has no use for, though she must think herself powerful.
"Show me again."
Do you not remember?
"You gave me riddles and half-truths last time. Not the whole thing."
We gave you enough. We should not have given you anything at all.
"But you did. And you will."
Do not presume it, the figure thunders, flickering male. The headdress is molded differently now, rounded closer to the skull, and the cape it drapes over itself leaves an arm bare. It glows, backlit by nothing, as did its sister-self. Do not presume that you are all-important. There are others, in this time and farther on. There will be others. You are only one piece.
"Enough. Show me how to build the hidden blade."
You are one piece, she-he warns, and under you everything your Order was will end.
"You are a weapon, not a soothsayer. Save your curses."
It is not prophecy, Altair. It is fact. For we have seen and will seen, we who burned once already. And it is Desmond, not you, who will…
"If you aren't going to tell me anything useful," says Altair, "I'll drop you off the side of the mountain and be done with it. I don't need your help. I don't trust it either, since it was offered so freely. If you aren't going to cooperate then you've run out of things to show me and you're as unnecessary as Malik says."
Ah, Malik, it coos, and the voice is female but different still. Now the hair is black as tar and the headdress cut into sections around the crown of its head and its forehead. The eyes are black as well. Altair watches closely, because this is the first time he's ever seen this avatar. Yes, Malik, warning you of danger. Have you never thought that he is far more dangerous than we? There is much of us put into the Pieces of Eden, but we are scattered and our powers weakened. He is whole, says the voice in his ear, though the figure hasn't moved. He is whole and so close. Nearness brings temptation, Altair, does it not? What color is he, when you use your second sight?
Altair doesn't bother to ask how it knows he has eagle's vision. "Not red," he snaps, with a toss of his head.
But not blue either. What sort of people are gold, Altair? What does gold mean for you?
Altair looks at the black-haired, smirking thing, and takes a step backwards. Somewhere past the clouds are his table and his chair.
Would you love him or kill him? Which do you want? We will help you do both.
Altair steps backwards again, reaching behind him for his actual self, for the actual world, pulling himself away…
But now the creature takes its male form again. Its features shift seamlessly, the high cheekbones of the females settling underneath the male's heavy brows. It's a layered creature, wearing all its skins at once, but at least it looks familiar now. The hidden blade, it says, depends on angles. The blade itself must be realigned.
Altair is still tempted to turn back. Despite that, he answers, "Moved too far to the front and it snaps. I've tried it," and feels himself drawn into the conversation almost against his will. Images flicker in the grey, sword-steel and brace-leather.
The Grandmaster forgets to leave.
-i-
A million miles away and yet in the same fortress, Malik sits reading through correspondence. He's sent spies to the reaches of their territory and beyond, without asking Altair, because it's usually too hard to find the man. His stealth is beyond human, and Malik dislikes chasing after him like a king's minister. Even if that's essentially what he is. Besides, he acts with Altair's tact approval.
He frowns over the missives in his hand, seeing the same words repeated over and over: conquest, invasion, destruction. All at the hands of a foreign army Malik's never come across before. More alarming than the talk of how they swarm over cities is the occasional mention of their leader.
He works with absolute control, writes one spy. He is gifted with godly strength, writes another. He is restless, adds a third, and for Malik this is key. No sooner has he sacked one city, absorbing it into his massive empire, then he embarks for the next. He seems less interested in gold or trade or women than in the violence of battle. If he is searching for something it hasn't been found.
In Malik's experience men who fight for the sake of fighting don't manage to muster such massive armies for so long. It takes pretty words to get soldiers moving, righteous speeches or gold-stoked promises. Disillusion sets in quickly and is as fatal to generals as disease.
But what could he be looking for, this Genghis Khan? And wouldn't be such a coincidence if his search led him here?
The assassins should be preparing for this. Open battle isn't the Brotherhood's strength but there are other tricks that might be tried. Someone probably should have assassinated the Mongol general already, but that someone would be the Grandmaster, and the Grandmaster spends more and more of his time in other worlds. He has given the Order weapons, yes, and techniques no one else can fathom, but the price is steep. The price is trusting the Piece of Eden.
Altair swears he won't use it against another person, swears that he saw with Abbas what could happen if its wielder lost control. Malik believes him, but Malik has been betrayed before.
He runs his fingers along the loose pages, feeling a sharp pinch in his missing wrist, and remembers the days just after the amputation, when the pain had been so tremendous he'd screamed for the surgeons to cut off an arm already gone. Altair hadn't been there for that.
"Uncle?"
Malik swallows the old anger and looks up. Darim pushes the door to his room open fully and steps inside. He's wearing a sword on his waist, specially designed to be lighter and shorter out of consideration for his age. Though he trains in groups like any other novice, the rules as to what weapons are doled out when have been laxed somewhat over the years. These days students are given what they think they can handle, and are beaten to the ground with their hubris if they're wrong.
"Safety and peace," Darim says formally. "I'm sorry to bother you, but have you seen Father? He was supposed to fight me in the courtyard half an hour ago."
Malik hides a sigh. "I'm sorry, I haven't. He's been very busy…"
"He's always busy." Darim smacks his palm against his leg. "I don't know why he bothered to keep me here. At least with Mother and Sef I'd get to see Acre."
"Your father is the Master of our whole Order," Malik reminds him sternly, "and that means he never has a moment to rest. You aren't a child any longer, Darim, you know this."
"Yes, Uncle."
Malik studies the boy's dejected face. It took him a while to adjust to the idea of Altair having children—and once the children were born he wasn't sure how he should act. As teacher, as relative, as friend? He ultimately settled on an uneasy combination of the three. But it's been easier in the year that Maria and Sef have been gone, because Malik recognizes the damage done by separating families. It isn't wise to keep the boys apart for so long. Brothers have duties to one another, do they not?
"Still," he says, "a man should keep his promises, and if your father promised you a training session he should have given you one. Come, if you'd like I can be his stand-in. I need to get some sword practice in myself."
Darim brightens. "Yes, Uncle! If, if you aren't too busy here?"
"It's nothing that can't wait."
"Then do you think I could use your throwing knives? Just one or two. And I'll aim at the ground, I won't even throw them that hard. Can I?"
"You've never used them before. Knives are dangerous, especially with a crowd watching."
"So we'll tell them to go away."
"It's the main courtyard. Where else should the guards be?"
"It doesn't matter, Uncle, if you tell them to go they will. You're Father's voice when he's not there. He always says as much." He sounds too confident. Sometimes there is hardness in Darim that is beyond his age. Certainly he speaks more as a man of fifteen years than a child of ten.
"We need guards in the main courtyard."
"But you've got so many knives and the instructors keep saying I'm not old enough, and—and when Father was ten he was using them!"
"And did he tell you why he was using them?"
"Because he was a protégé. An amazing fighter from the time he was born, almost."
"Yes. But he was using them at ten because he used to steal them from the instructor's cupboards. He got caught when he nicked Abbas in the arm and had to survive off bread and water for a week."
"Oh. Really?" Darim considers. "Does this mean I should try to steal them?"
Someone else knocks at the door. "Come in," Malik calls, and an assassin in full facemask comes through. He holds a sniffling Tazim in his arms.
"The nurse said to bring him to you, Lord," says the assassin. "He's been fed and changed but won't sleep. She thinks he wants his father."
Malik stands up and holds out his arm. The guard hands Tazim over and bows his way out of the room, as the Dai adjusts his careful grasp. Tazim whines but doesn't fidget much, as if he knows his father's injury.
"You," says Malik to his son, "should not be causing your nurse problems. Assassins don't complain without cause."
"Ababa," says Tazim, and flings out a little fist. "Bababa."
"I'm not sure if you're trying to say Baba or just making noise. It'd be a little early for speech…"
"Bababa," Tazim says again, and beams. His eyes widen and he reaches out for Malik's stitched sleeve, gurgling, fascinated.
"Yes, there ought to be an arm there. Smart boy you are, eh?" Malik shifts his position a bit so that Tazim can reach the front of his robes. The boy proceeds to grab a handful before pulling his hand to his mouth and sucking on the whole thing. "There is a reason," sighs Malik, "why every robe I own has spit stains down the front."
Tazim giggles at his father's mock-stern voice. Most people think the Dai contemptuous and flinch, which he knows because he sees them do it and is quite amused. But Tazim is delighted by nothing as much as his father pretending to growl.
"I should make you wash the laundry," says Malik, watching him. How used to his son he's become in these last several weeks! Suddenly his world is not merely the Brotherhood but something else once again. Suddenly he must consider this pudgy baby swaddled in white. Tazim is good-natured but willful, and when he gets it into his head that he does not want to sleep or he will eat immediately, he can yowl himself right out of the frustrated nurse's arms and into his father's. He always calms down around Malik.
Kadar was the same way. But there is no blood connection, so coincidence is all it can be.
"Uncle?" Malik, startled, looks up. He'd half-forgotten Darim was there. Altair's son looks morose again. "I guess you're busy now," he says. "I'll go train in the courtyard, then."
But Malik says, "Wait a moment. There's a blanket in the corner there, and a pillow. Grab them and one throwing knife. If you can carry those for me I'll practice with you outside. Itfudul, it's my pleasure."
Darim brightens and tugs his sword's holster straight against his hip. Malik, already wearing his, steadies Tazim and follows him out.
The main courtyard is full of novices throwing punches, and not a lot of shade; Malik frowns at all the careless students pushing through the crowds, the bearded Rafiks and white-robed scholars standing in clumps, debating their favorites. Good to see the Brotherhood bustling, but no place to put a child. And in minutes those Rafiks will be swarming the second-in-command with any manner of distractions.
"I know another place," says Darim. He leads Malik around the training ring to one of the outbuildings, then through it to a patch of grass hidden between the fortress and the inner wall. Malik has never been here and cranes his head to see if the Master's garden is visible, or the cliff. Sometimes he half-suspects the fortress is alive in its own right, shifting its halls and adding rooms, because no one—not even Altair—can say he's mapped every corner.
But it's a good space, out of the way and unused. Darim spreads the blanket in a patch of shade near the wall, and Malik nods his thanks as he lowers Tazim onto it.
"Ok," says Altair's son, "I'm ready."
"Not yet. If I'm going to teach you anything new I think it'd be wiser to do so with easier weapons. There should be some wooden swords back in the courtyard, if you ask Instructor Rauf."
Darim's face falls. "But, Uncle…I know how to use a real sword. The blacksmiths made this one especially for me, I don't have any trouble lifting it."
"I'm aware. And when I'm sure you know what you're doing we can practice with steel. But I'd rather not have to explain to the Grandmaster why his son is missing a hand."
Darim looks as though he wants to argue more, his eyes darkening, but instead he turns to fetch the wooden practice weapons. Malik kneels by the blanket to wait, one eye on Tazim as he tugs on tufts of dying grass. By the time Darim returns, the baby has fallen asleep, his fist still buried in the weeds.
Malik scuffs one foot against the flagstones as Darim lifts his wooden sword. Malik lifts his own practice sword in his hand. He's fought enough one-handed that the light blade, little more than a stick, feels quick but unwieldy. Still, it doesn't take much to get comfortable again. Patterns learned from childhood are never totally forgotten.
"Begin," he says, and Darim scuttles around to his left side immediately. Malik blocks a quick swipe at his left shoulder and Darim teeters, then recovers again by stabbing forward and leaning on the swords. He still needs work on his balance. Malik resettles his feet facing the boy and sees Darim's eyes, bright and focused. He hardly has a brow to furrow.
Darim strikes again, one high and one low smack that Malik parries. The attacks are quicker than they are strong, and so Malik slices forward to test Darim's strength. When the swords hit they both shake: Darim's arms too.
The little eyas. No way to tell whether he might move like his father.
"Keep your guard up!"
The boy takes one hand off his sword, wincing. Instead of giving him another command Malik just attacks, striking down toward Darim's shoulder; he doesn't slow his attacks for the children. Darim isn't grown, so he needs to train against taller people.
Malik expects his sword to hit. But Darim twists out of the way in a movement that's mostly shoulders, and the Dai nods appreciatively before stepping forward to close with Darim again.
This time Darim throws a glance and then a swing at Malik's left side. Malik, who's been expecting such a move, swivels on his heel and blocks with the center of his blade. Well-honed muscles hold his defense steady as Darim clenches both hands around his sword's hilt, trying to break through.
Malik says, "A good fighter takes note of his opponent's weak points and exploits them for his own gain." He squares one ankle in the dirt and transfers more strength to his arm, and now he's pushing the boy back a step. Darim's eyes widen over the struggle of their swords. "But a great fighter," Malik continues, "realizes that any opponent with sense in his head will have practiced endlessly to cover the very obvious deficiencies. The great fighter finds a weak point that the opponent didn't realize he had."
And now Darim's stance is so wobbly that it takes barely a thought to twist around and shove him back. While his arms pinwheel Malik kicks his legs out from under him. Wooden sword and boy both go flying. The Dai lowers his own and stands over Darim, smiling.
"You got a little carried away, but you were thinking like an assassin. Just hone those instincts."
Darim sits up. "I would've been better with a real sword," he mutters.
"Better to make your mistakes with a wooden one."
"When I train with Father we use real swords. Even Sef got one."
"Over my objections. Seven is too young."
Darim gets to his feet. "What business of it was yours?"
Malik raises an eyebrow.
"…Sorry," Darim says, flushing. "I didn't mean it, Uncle."
"We're doing too much talking for a training session, anyway. You've been taught parrying well but you're too rushed. Sword fighting is about grace, and right now you're tripping over your own maneuvers. Let me see you strike out smoothly."
Malik sets the boy to practicing his swings, and to his credit Darim takes the order seriously, with none of a typical novice's whining over the repetition's dullness. The Dai's experienced gaze catches some mistakes in posturing and he calls for Darim to correct them. Then he falls silent, and the only sound in the courtyard is Altair's son attacking his invisible foe.
Tazim is still sleeping and Darim preoccupied. Malik slips into musing almost without intention.
What business of it was mine? Good question. You've realized more than I thought. More than you should.
In an Order that protects society from the outside, where culture and custom are often set aside, allowances must be made. Al Mualim never married. Earlier leaders trained their sons and daughters both, and those trained poorly they buried. This is typical, Malik knows.
But even within the Brotherhood, Altair's family is odd.
How much displeasure there was at the Son of None's marriage to a former enemy, Malik isn't sure. Whispers of it came to him, because he is so good at eavesdropping, but Masyaf isn't Jerusalem. His network of spies wasn't yet as developed here. For his own part he was very careful to remove himself from the issue, to give neither approval nor dismay, only his vague blessing that Altair had the right to take a wife. It would not do for a man of his rank to be seen criticizing such a choice.
But if he'd had the freedom? If he could have been just another journeyman, muttering his unease?
What business is Altair's family to Malik? None at all. And yet—
You who I thought would never marry. Did you think to make me jealous? I'd rejected you once. Did you think by making me nursemaid to your children you'd keep me here forever?
A backfired plan, if plan it was. Malik isn't jealous of Maria, and he doesn't begrudge Altair's children their inherited role. He does his duty. He always has.
"Uncle?"
He looks up to see Darim has stopped practicing. "What is it?"
"You were barely watching."
"You're right, I was a hundred years away. My apologies."
"Are you worried about something? The Mongols, the villagers?"
"Not as such. But I see your father keeps you well-informed."
"He lets me sit in on some meetings. And others I, er…"
"Don't worry," Malik chuckles. "I'd think less of any son of his who didn't listen in on deep secrets from various secret passageways."
"You know about the passageways?" Darim looks aghast. "I thought I was being quiet all those times."
"You were, mostly. But who do you think ordered half of those passageways built? They're not entirely secret, I suppose. I should have killed the architect when he was done."
"Wha-at? But the fortress is ancient!"
"Every new ruler takes what he's been given and changes it, unless he wants to die the same way as his predecessor. Something to keep in mind."
"Does Father know they're there? I mean, he's the Grandmaster. He has to know everything."
"What your father does or doesn't know means very little to how well you hold your sword. Come, let's see you…"
"What about Mother? How much do you tell her?"
Malik pauses, looking at the boy. Again there is a clever glint in Darim's eyes that doesn't (shouldn't) fit. "I'm not privy to your parents' conversations," he says at last. "As the Grandmaster's wife I'm sure Maria knows much of the Order's inner workings."
"Some of the assassins don't like that." Darim won't take his eyes from Malik's. "I hear them talking, though not to me. Some of them don't like her."
"No, they don't."
"Why is that?"
"I'm sure you know enough already, Darim."
"But tell me anyway. The parts I don't know."
Malik pats his hip, where his holster hangs heavy and familiar. "Grandmaster's son you may be, but you're a little young to be barking orders."
"Please," Darim says, voice a little strained. "You're my father's most trusted advisor. No one else will tell me, and if they do they're probably lying. But everything he knows he tells you."
"Not everything."
"More than he tells anyone else. You're the most dangerous man in the Brotherhood. I heard Mother say it once."
"Did she really?" Malik muses.
"Please, Uncle. Sef's too young and silly to notice how weird things are. But I want to know."
Malik drops the wooden sword, abruptly. "You took a throwing knife, right?"
"Uh, yes."
"See that dark smudge on the far wall?"
"Not…really…?"
"That's your target. Hit it ten times in succession and I'll let you keep the knife."
"Oh!"
He waits until Darim has grabbed the knife and positioned himself (rather poorly, really, but the King of Swords lets it go). Then, over the swish of displaced air, the thock of metal hitting stone, and the crunch of Darim's boots on the ground as he goes to pick up the knife again and again, Malik beings to speak.
He says, "Your mother is a Christian. That you know already. And before she joined us she was a Templar. That you've no doubt heard whispered if she hasn't told you outright. Focus on the target, Darim, not my voice. Don't let your aim be distracted. And don't lock your elbow when you throw."
"Yes, Uncle."
"What might be new to you is that Maria wasn't simply a Templar soldier. She was a close confidant of the man who was our greatest enemy, the leader of the Knights Templar." And she was his lover too, if you believe the rumors, Malik doesn't add. He's moving now, in quick, wide circles around Darim, who swallows and keeps throwing the knife, fetching it, throwing, fetching, again and again. Malik keeps himself out of the weapon's path and says, "It went poorly for her after Altair killed de Sablé. Their culture isn't so different from ours when it comes to views of women. For Maria Thorpe to speak and dress and fight as a man…they accepted it because they had no choice. Once Robert was dead she was an easy target for blame, the temptress who clouded his mind and brought him to ruin."
"But that isn't true. Mother said the first time she met Father she fought with him. Nearly killed him. She didn't ruin anything."
"You're surprised at the backlash? A woman, Darim, barking orders at knights in Jerusalem?" Malik is close enough in his circling to jab the back of Darim's shoulder. Darim, startled, nearly drops the dagger. "Focus. You need to marry yourself to that knife. It needs to be an extension of your arm, your fingers. Any fool can throw a dagger and hope it lands. You must know where it will land before it leaves your hand."
Darim doesn't answer, only goes to pick it up again. He's learning.
"So," continues Malik, "Maria lost her place. Her sword skills you must have noticed. I believe her father taught her. Her skill was what saved her life, if not her reputation. She battled her way out of Jerusalem and came here. Not to join us, but to fight us. Well, to fight Altair, since she blamed him for her ill fortune. Yelled her way right through the front gates. Altair nearly lost their fight, as I recall, but she was fighting hot with fury. Keep it in mind, Darim, not to do that. If you're angry, be so angry that you're sharp as ice. Otherwise your emotion will make mistakes."
Malik stops behind Darim again and watches his next few throws. If the boy's arm is getting tired he doesn't show it. His aim is true and there are only a few nicks in the wall where the knife has missed the target. Malik nods once, and resumes his pacing.
"She was kept here while we discussed what should be done." I wanted to put her in a far-off prison. I didn't trust her. But I don't trust the Apple and you've never listened to me on that, either. "Altair visited her often, speaking of our cause. He was fascinated by the idea of a woman fighter…your father has never had patience for weakness or charm, which is why I was sure he'd die a bachelor. Instead he marries the only woman for a thousand miles who can challenge him with a sword."
"And then?"
"And then you were born, and Sef. If the Brotherhood suspected their leader marrying a Templar woman they knew better than to say."
"What did you suspect?"
"I suspected theirs would be a loud engagement. If there's a man more stubborn than Altair, I haven't met him. And your mother is not a woman to bow meekly before her husband. Which is half the reason why he married her, he enjoys a good argument."
"Then why does Mother travel so often?"
Malik knows better than to answer fully. He moves closer to Darim, his black robes shielding his form, making it hard to pinpoint an individual arm or leg. "Maria still has contacts in Acre. She was used to traveling with Robert and I think the stationary life bores her. Your father would do the same if he could."
Finally Darim lowers his arm. The strain is back in his voice. "Why did she take Sef with her and not me? Did she think Father would notice? I don't think he has!"
I could tell you more, thinks Malik, looking at Altair's eldest and remembering how harshly it hurts to be abandoned. I could tell you how the stares she gets in Arabia are no friendlier than the stares she got in England. I could tell you how she fights with Altair, the two of them bickering like the worst enemies. And when they don't make up quickly I could tell you what your father does. Where he goes.
"Altair is not good with affection," he says. "But he knows you're here. Maria wanted to take both her sons with her on this latest trip, but Altair refused it. Sef is younger, and a year apart from Maria would be hard for him. But Altair insisted you stay with him."
"Because he wanted me to train here, that's all. Not 'cause he cared."
"Because he wanted his son close."
Darim shakes his head. "How do you know all this? Did Mother tell you?"
"Some. The rest I found out in other ways."
"You find everything out."
"That is my duty."
Darim turns his gaze to the blanket where Tazim is beginning to stir. Distantly he says, "I miss them, but I don't. Mother writes often enough. And Sef is just…"
"Sef is your brother. I wasn't thrilled with this trip's timing, you know. Brothers should stay together."
"Ah, he'll be fine with Mother. It's not like he'll do anything when he's so lazy."
"He's your little brother," Malik says sternly. "You have responsibilities."
Darim isn't paying attention. Scowling, he hands the dagger back to Malik. "I don't think I'm very good with this. Every throw feels wrong, even when it hits the target."
Malik acknowledges, "It takes some practice." Nudging the knife's handle between his fingers, he tilts his wrist and lets a second knife slip unseen from his sleeve. With both knives positioned just so, and without looking at the target, without any obvious planning in his eyes at all, the Dai twists his wrist and the weapons fly.
They hit the the wall so close together one nearly knocks the other out of alignment. The cut air sings around their wavering hilts.
Darim stares.
Malik strides over to pull his knives free, getting a closer glance at their placement in the process. "A little too far to the left," he says to himself. "I need to practice more myself."
His hand stings as he pulls the second blade out and stings worse when he flexes his wrist to prop the knife back into the holster under his sleeve. No wonder: the skin on the back of his hand is red and tight against the bone, swollen into blisters at spots around the knuckles. A couple of the blisters have already burst.
"Ew," says Darim, also noticing. "When did that happen?"
"Since the fire," Malik says absently. After he returned to Masyaf from the ruined village he'd put some salve on the worst of his burns and then, in an Altair-like way, promptly forgotten about them. He hardly had the time to linger on pain. He'd returned different then he'd left, and now there was a child to feed and clean and worry over…
"It looks bad, Uncle," says Darim. "You'll probably get scars from it."
"Probably." Malik looks over to where Tazim is stirring awake, struggling doggedly to push himself upright.
"Bababa," he calls, head up but the rest of his body still out of his control. It's early yet for him to sit but it hasn't stopped him trying. "Abaaa," he says, almost sounding indignant. He must love the feel of that sound, because it's all he ever says besides wordless infant babble. Malik scoops him up—his hand aches but he ignores it—and is pleased when Tazim giggles.
"What?" asks Malik. "Getting impatient, are we? Ready to go back inside?"
"Babaaaba."
"Such a demanding baby!" Tazim squirms, wrinkling his nose. Malik holds him more secure against his body and says over his shoulder to Darim, "I should get him to his nurse so he can eat. You did well today."
Darim says, "Um. Thank you for telling me about Mother. I didn't know the details."
You still don't, thinks Malik. But to Darim he only nods.
-i-
Altair returns to himself a wild animal, hackles raised. He staggers on numb legs, drops to all fours, crouching with feral eyes, the dungeon room so claustrophobic he thinks he could reach out and touch every wall at once. His white robes are stained in ugly patches with, with sweat? Blood? Does he know?
The Apple sits on the floor where it'd been dropped, glinting in near-darkness.
He pushes up to his knees in the swirling world, mind pounding with all he's been shown—but it's not enough—never enough—he must protect his Order—
He's on his feet now, panting, dimly aware of his nose dripping blood. He gives the bleed an irritated swipe of his hand, too busy to deal with it, much too busy, oh yes.
"What did they tell you this time?" Kadar asks.
The Grandmaster turns on his heel, fast enough that he trips. His gaze crashes down on the illusion with its clean uniform and earnest blue eyes. So friendly, this chimera. So much warmth and concern from what is only a trick of the light.
"Are you ok?" he asks. Altair cannot stop thinking of it as he. "You're bleeding again. And that was only a few hours, you've spent much longer…"
"Shut up," Altair snarls. "I'm busy."
"Busy with what?"
"I must, I need to, Malik must—"
"Malik's probably in his quarters at this time of day. Are we gonna go find him?"
Altair says, "I will go." His lips feel swollen, the words gumming up behind his teeth. The room's close air is a gag pressing into his mouth. "You won't. You'll stay."
"Stay where?"
"Here."
Kadar laughs, good-naturedly. "Nope," he says. "Come on, tell me, did they show you anything really interesting this time? A new weapon or something? Maybe a bit of the future!"
"They…there is…a fire coming, and we are the shields…no. Not for their bidding. That isn't right."
"You sound awful, Grandmaster. I think you should sit down. Maybe send for a water carafe? I'm worried about you."
Altair presses his bloodied hand to his forehead. "Why do you call me Grandmaster?"
"It's what you are. Heh! You must remember that."
"I was never…I was never your master."
"Nope," Kadar says again, and leans in close. "But, oh, how I trusted you," he says softly, with a smile. "I would have followed your every order, Altair."
Does Altair even control the hand that slashes upwards? It is such a habit by now. He stabs what should be the illusion's face with his hidden blade, but Kadar only flickers out and reforms by the door.
"Malik's not gonna like seeing you like this," he says. "I think you should wait."
Malik. Altair grabs hold of the name, like a beacon bobbing in a frothing sea, and pushes on.
-i-
There are phials of salve and bandages scattered across the table top, but after the third time Malik knocks a bottle over he's tempted to shove everything to the floor and tend to paperwork instead. He can knife his target blindfolded and walk with confidence on a mountain's edge, but the simple act of dressing his burns is nearly beyond him. It's impossible, he grouses in a rare moment of self-pity, to bandage a wound on his hand when he's only got the one hand to use!
Damn the ointments, anyway. Allah knows what's in them, these slimy tinctures from Baghdad the healers favor. Malik has become an elderly waste if he can't survive a burn or popped blister.
He reaches over with his hand hurting even worse from the aborted wrapping attempt to pull out a sheaf of expensive paper, and in the space of the movement his door is shoved open. Malik jerks back, alarmed at being taken by surprise. He should have heard any visitors from a mile of creaking floorboards away.
But it's Altair who stands staring with burning eyes in his doorway, and Altair has always been a phantom.
"Malik," says the Grandmaster.
"Yes?" says Malik, irritated already, caught in this vulnerable moment with his burns exposed.
"Malik," Altair says again, still staring. He's swaying where he stands, and there is a bit of dried blood around his nostrils.
"What is it, Altair? Did you need something?"
Altair opens his mouth to say something, but what, Malik never learns. Instead of speech the older man crosses the room in fast strides, on him in a second's breath, pressing him against the chair. Suddenly there are hands on Malik's waist, his shoulders, suddenly there are hands with scars he recognizes better than his own shoving off his black robes. Those hands are frenzied, must be kept engaged: they tug at the front of Malik's white garb next, pulling open the ties, exposing his chest.
Malik makes a half-smothered noise of protest. It's late. Tazim's wet nurse is only just down the hall, and she could walk in with a cranky baby at any time. He's not in the mood. Altair ignores him, and with reason. Malik's hands have already grabbed the Grandmaster's hips to pull him down.
How many times have they done this? How often do they grapple with each other in half-silence, wary of discovery? It was more frequent, once…
Malik doesn't count that time in Jerusalem—can't count it, for his own stability. (I'm sorry, I'm sorry.) But once Altair had become Grandmaster and recalled Malik back to Masyaf, once his fear of failing had been made clear (made clear to Malik, anyway, amazed as always at how everyone around them kept falling for Altair's confident veneer), how many times then? Near countless. The two of them grasping for things that were familiar, still tense around each other, the not-so-old poisons liable to bubble forth at any time…and every time they fucked there was acerbity, like something rotten deep down. At every stolen moment they snuck away, daring in their blatancy, and every time Altair sucked Malik's cock it was a tacky sort of penitence.
Their coupling dwindled, though, after Maria. Altair comes to Malik far less and Malik never searches the other man out. A dozen times, in the past eleven years? Maybe a time or two more? The feel of a muscular body against his, the press of teeth on his neck, these are things Malik usually does without.
He is brought roughly back to the present by Altair's mouth working down his chest, stopping briefly to bite at his nipple. Malik knocks off the man's cowl, buries his fist in his hair and pulls hard. Altair allows it for a second.
Then Malik finds himself on his back on his desk, panting with his robes bunched around his shoulders. Ointment bottles are scattered and break against the floor. His hardening prick strains against the inside of his breeches; he waits with a show of impatience for Altair's hands and mouth.
Altair leans over him. His eyes drift in a very unlike-him way, more dazed than lustful. He puts his hands on Malik's shoulders, moves them down under the clothing to touch skin, but he stops abruptly when the one hand reaches the amputation.
Malik frowns. This hesitancy is unusual, and frustrating. "Yes," he says, voice withering but a little breathy, "Yes, there's nothing there. Congratulations on your discovery. Is that all you came to see?"
But Altair has no retort, smirking or otherwise. "Your hand," he says, distractedly.
"Burns from the fire. It's nothing."
"You shouldn't have gone in there."
"Now you want to discuss this?! A second ago your mouth was too busy for lectures."
Altair picks up the offending hand by the wrist, studies it, brings it to his mouth. Malik squirms, reacting more with bafflement than lust as Altair sucks at his fingers. It's awkward enough having sex with Altair, knowing he's married and a father. This sudden softness isn't helping.
Keeping his grip tight on Malik's wrist, Altair lowers the hand down its owner's body, trailing down his chest to the lip of his breeches. Malik, understanding, pulls his hand free and his prick out. Gently at first he strokes himself, and then harder, pressing his palm tight against the shaft. Altair watches, breathing hard.
"Malik," he whispers.
"Mm," says Malik, distracted now himself. The urge is building, wanting more than his own hand, wanting Altair on him or in him or both.
"Malik, you…"
"Undress yourself, Grandmaster. I want, nh, I want you to…"
"Malik," says Altair a third time, still leaning over him, still fully dressed, "why aren't you blue?"
The Dai's hand stills. "…What?"
"Gold isn't right. It's just as she said. You do it to taunt me, I think." So saying, Altair reaches for Malik's prick. Malik stares at him, and then realizes, and wants to strangle them both.
He settles for cracking his elbow against Altair's jaw as he sits up and tries to make himself decent. The Grandmaster sits down hard, a hand to his jaw, and blinks.
"Idiot," shouts Malik, getting to his feet in a fluster. "Brainless fool!"
"I am not…"
"Oh, don't make me mention what you are, Master. I should have noticed at the start. You were using it again."
"It?"
"The Apple! And now your head is filled with sand. What if there was an attack on the fortress tonight, Altair? What if there was some crisis? What should I have said to the others? 'Sorry, the Grandmaster cannot lead you in battle today, as he currently thinks he's in ancient Rome!"'
"An attack tonight seems unlikely," Altair mutters, still rubbing his jaw from the floor.
"Al Mualim often vanished in the latter years of his rule," snaps Malik in response. "It did the Order no favors, so why you seek to emulate him…!"
The forbidden mention of his old mentor pulls something of Altair back into his body. He rises to his feet in open anger: "You go too far, Malik. Watch your tongue."
Again it works, thinks Malik with wry relief. Again it was enough to bring you back. And if next time you are too far gone to remember where or who you are, too far gone to come back?
"Well?" barks Altair.
"Well, what?"
"Normally an assassin apologizes to his Master when the Master is displeased."
"That would require me caring what the Master thinks, which I assure you I do not. Besides, I'm under orders never to apologize. Unless," –Malik looks at him sharply– "Unless you don't remember that decree. What else don't you remember? Do you know what village you're in?"
"We're in the fortress, don't be so inane."
"Where is the fortress?"
"Masyaf! Because I don't remember every word I've ever said to you, I've lost my mind?"
"Because you come staggering in here like a horny drunkard—"
"Said bousak."
"I'll shut my mouth when I've finished speaking and not before."
"I have no patience for another one of your lectures."
"Why would you come in here as if I'd want you when you were possessed? Did you think I was pining for you that much? Out of your mind and you thought I'd be interested? So typical, Altair."
Altair stiffens his shoulders. "I've other things to do then listen to you whine," he says coldly, and takes a step for the door. But his legs waver, nearly fall out from underneath him, and he has to press a palm against the wall to steady himself. Malik bites back a groan.
"You can't leave yet," he says, calmer. "The others can't see you looking like this."
Altair doesn't answer.
"Look, why don't you rest for a while? Give the ghouls a chance to leave your head."
"They aren't ghouls," says Altair. But he lets Malik take him by the arm and pull him over to the bed, where he stands frowning at the pillows. "And you?" he asks. "Where will you sleep?"
"I wasn't planning on sleeping for a while yet. There's paperwork to finish and afterwards I'm going to check on Tazim. He's been restless these past nights." Altair frowns but keeps silent. "Unless you'd rather not be alone?"
"What do I care?" mutters the other man. "I wouldn't be, anyway. I'd rather be alone, if he'd give me a moment's peace."
Malik pinches the bridge of his nose. The Piece of Eden's hold is too strong. It leaves traces of itself, scabs that Altair will be picking at for days, mumbling like an addict. Which is, in Malik's esteemed opinion, what he is.
"What can it show you?" he wonders aloud, half-accidentally. "What can it show you that's worth this?"
"Everything," says Altair, without hesitation. He sits on the bed, sits but doesn't lie down, legs spread and hands held still between them. Even now his posture is that of the consummate assassin, every muscle in his body held ready to strike.
But he hasn't pulled his cowl back up. Malik sits down beside him, awkward because he still has a flagging erection, and looks at him quite openly. Their friendship is worth nothing if he can't figure all this out.
"Tell me, Malik," says Altair after a moment, and his tone is hazy again, his eyes unfocused. "You remember Jerusalem?"
"Of course."
"You remember the last time in Jerusalem? When we…"
Malik sucks in a noisy breath. "Enough, Altair," he says. "Enough for tonight."
"But you do remember." Altair's eyes dart to meet his. "Don't you? And what you said. You never mentioned it again. I don't know if you meant it."
"Altair, stop."
"But do you remember?" the Son of None insists. Malik, despite himself, knows he's helpless to resist. It has always been the fatal flaw of both of them: to crave and covet, to never let anything alone.
Do you remember? Jerusalem, when everything between them was a shambles, soaked through with blood and bile, Jerusalem and what Malik said there, in the shadow of his brother's grave.
"Yes," he says, and Altair shivers beside him. And maybe it was unavoidable. Maybe Malik was a novice himself, in this bizarre world the Son of None has created for the both of them, to think such things could be forgotten while in the background the Apple always prods.
"I remember what I said," says Malik, and before he can put words to what he means (that certain things should stay buried, that they have enough recent histrionics without adding the moldering ones to the pile), Altair gives another shudder and falls against him.
Cursing to mask his astonishment, Malik tugs the semi-conscious Grandmaster off and over, until his body is at least mostly on the bed. He stands over, putting his face close to Altair's to catch the feel of breath on his cheek. "Novice," he says loudly, and Altair's eyebrows furrow for a quick moment before smoothing out.
Sighing, Malik straightens up. Nothing to do now but let the Son of None sleep off the Apple's drugging pull. And then tomorrow, or whenever the man wakes up, he will be lucid and have some fantastic weapon design for the Order to ooh over, and he will look unruffled and clever and godlike—
And only Malik will know Altair as he is when the Apple has him, Altair babbling, caught in memories he spends the rest of his days avoiding. A stronger second-in-command would take his concerns to the others, if the Brotherhood was really what he lived to serve.
But Malik serves Grandmaster Altair. He is not strong enough to do otherwise.
He watches the Son of None in his fitful rest, knowing nothing of what demons the man fights in his dreams, knowing only that he himself is not able to kill them. Knowing that he is a failure in this as in so much else in his life.
Knowing that it is still so gratifying to see Altair suffer.
Do you remember what you said in Jerusalem?
AN: Thanks to skywalker05 for getting the fighting started! First of several flashback-chapters is next.