The Reclaiming
Hard to tell who is helping who, exactly, but Altair, Malik and Darim are making their way past the fortress' courtyard towards the village when the commotion catches them up. Malik has been fretting about the rest of Al Masyaf, the village emptied of everyone but mercenaries and bandits and traitors, who don't realize their master's been dealt with. Under normal conditions: hardly the effort of a thought. As they are now: a sincere and tremulous challenge.
But it seems as they cut down the main path that the fighting has forgotten them. Assassins streak down the alleyways and dart across rooftops, chasing men in the mottled garb of soldiers-for-hire and petty thugs, and after all the attrition of the past weeks it seems the assassins might have the greater numbers at last. Malik watches, bemused, thinking that no doubt they will find after the battle plenty of Brothers attempting to sidle back into the fold, hoping no one will look too hard at just where they've been and who they've supported. But there weren't all these Brothers left in Masyaf, so where has all this…?
Then they round a bend and a horse whinnies, and Darim says, "Look!"
It's Maria Thorpe on horseback, dressed as an assassin but no doubt it's her; she's replaced cowl with metal helmet, for one, and her hair casts out from underneath it, past her shoulders. She's giving orders to those around her as an experienced general and doesn't see them at first. Not until Darim yells, "It's Sef behind her on that horse," and runs to catch up, being the only one who really can.
Maria dismounts when she sees him and grabs her eldest to her without a word. Malik feels Altair shift against his shoulder and glances at him.
"Let go," says his Master, not harshly. "I need to…"
"Are you sure?" asks Malik. "It won't be very impressive if you fall over in front of your family and the whole Order."
But Altair shakes his head, pulling himself free, and Malik drops his arm, understanding. This isn't about the Order or the general winning the day. This is about Altair, who must go to his wife and sons.
Malik watches him go – walking steady if a little slow – but turns away when he reaches them. This reunion, what is said…it isn't his place.
The mercenary remnants are being dealt with, the fall of Abbas's order is complete, so there isn't much for him to do there. And while the days ahead will call on every strategy he knows, it's too soon for all that yet – to sort the loyal from the foolish, to punish or forgive, to fix what stress-lines in the Brotherhood gave way under rumor and grudge, to convince the outside world that this was a bloody blip and not a fixed future. They have been forced to fight like an army (he smiles, Malik, to remember how badly he'd wanted them to do that once, when he was young) and it has cost them dearly in men and in standing with the rest of the world. And perhaps the Mongols are still out there after all, demanding their day.
Malik pats at his shoulder with a wince. He'll be lucky if all he needs are stitches. He should find the healers and let his mind turn off for once. But instead he frowns, back up the way they'd come, frowning at the looming fortress and all it has and doesn't have. A broken gravestone, deserted halls. And a weapon, hideous thing, too dangerous to go near, dropped behind the stairs and waiting, waiting…
He turns back only when he hears his name called. Maria approaches him, helmet under one arm. Altair has been left behind on a bench, a son on either side, no doubt under orders to hit him if he tries to get up.
Malik bobs his head. "I won't ask what brought you here, and I certainly won't complain," he says.
"You were successful, then?" Maria can't quite hide her doubt and he grins.
"What, don't we look it?"
She says wryly, "I'm only not running for the doctors because you both look like you're about to die. I know the two of you are too stubborn to be the one to collapse first."
"True, true. We'll both just have to live." He says, with another wince, "Though I think I might regret that."
"Malik…" Maria looks unsettled. "I haven't had time to get the whole tale off Darim but he said…the weapon?"
"It's in the fortress, and it'll stay there. No one should go near it, not yet. Not until we figure out how to destroy it – hide it, at the very least. From ourselves as much as anyone else."
"You think so?" Maria asks, and he feels fragile muscles tense, can't read her face. But then she sighs, he relaxes, and she says only, "It's a shame. It could put us level with Europe's kings, that device."
"More trouble than it's worth," Malik says, and she replies, "I suppose."
Then someone behind her coughs.
"Oh," she says, "Right…" and motions someone forward. An old, old man, vaguely familiar, a local villager from the type of dress. He moves forward sheepishly but holds Malik's eye with the sureness of a man who knows age makes him untouchable.
"We found him just outside the village," Maria says by way of introduction. "He said he has something for the lords of Masyaf."
"A demon's voice!" the old man says, excited. "It tried to trick me! I think it knows everything that's happened here, all the fighting. I think that's what it wanted."
"What 'it' are we talking about, Grandfather," Malik asks. The old man produces a bit of cloth from the folds of his caftan, unwraps it and holds up his palm to—
The gleam of gold.
Malik sucks in his breath. Maria tilts her head. It's a sliver of a thing, the gold shard glinting in the old man's hand despite the overcast skies. Not a full artifact, he doesn't think, but something broken off…what? Not the Apple, perfect and consuming.
How many of these things are there? he thinks, a fresh headache bursting behind his eyes. How many of these clever, wretched things will we have to face? Who made them? Why? And what the hell are we supposed to do to stop them?
The old man, sensing Malik's distraction, is telling Maria some wild story of dead sons brought back to life. "That's what it promised," he says. "But then I heard what it brought back. Monsters. Things to make men go mad. Ways to control us, so we do what it wants. I've begged God many nights over it and I know. It's an evil thing and I was a fool."
"You're right," Malik says, more to himself.
"Is he?" asks Maria. "This weapon…or weapons, maybe. Is it evil or is it just more than we can understand? More than we can handle?"
"We can handle all things that are ours to handle," says the old man, who looks prepared if not delighted to debate theology with an assassin woman. "If this is beyond us then it is God's, and if it's God's then it's not our place to try and keep it."
"You're right, Grandfather," Malik says again. He takes the kerchief, wraps it tight. "Some things aren't meant for us. If the assassins can't last without using the likes of this then we won't last. Most things don't. Better that than-…" He sees again the agony of Altair, blinded and deluded with losses he hadn't suffered, about to throw himself off a cliff in his unnatural rage. And he thinks, how dare it! how dare it hurt Altair that way! how dare anything hurt Altair that way!
When he looks at Maria she sighs again but smiles. She isn't as pigheaded as her husband, Europe's kings or no. "Come, Grandfather," she says to the old man. "Leave that gold to Lord Malik and take some rest, some refreshments. It must have been a hard walk…"
She trusts Malik to do what he will with it, and what he wills is to throw it into the river. But that would be foolish; suppose it washes ashore? No, what must be done is to hide it with its kin some place guarded and far, out of the reach even of armies and betrayals. And it will fall on Malik to find such a place, if it can be found at all. So though his palm itches just knowing it's there he tucks the piece into his sleeve until a better spot can be selected. I bring this on myself, he sighs, seeing all the long days and nights ahead.
"Oh, boy!" the old man says suddenly, from down the path. "Turns out you were right all this time. Just waiting and waiting wasn't all there was to do. Sometimes we have to make the choice to let it end, and go on."
Malik looks after him, puzzled. But then he hears Altair calling him, so he goes that way instead.
-i-
There is much to do and few to do it – the resettling of the Brotherhood. Both Malik and Altair are out of commission for many days, forced to give orders by messenger, and it's hard to say who hates that more. Malik has Tazim kept with him, and looking at his healthy, squirmy child is to see all the sacrifices that kept him alive. Raed, Raed, Raed. They have not yet found his body.
Altair, meanwhile, sneaks away twice, much to the bafflement of his six (six!) guards, who watch the room's only entrance at all hours only to find their Master walking among the returning assassins on the other side of the village. Finally Maria threatens to tie him to the bed.
Malik has fewer guards and bides his time. So no one sees him stroll his stitched, stiff body across the fortress to Altair's rooms.
He thinks to discuss the Apple, what to do with it, who to trust, but when he sidles in around the guards he sees the other man's asleep. He finds a chair, relief in his bones…to heal, and heal, and heal, to always be healing, to find new scars. It is no easy life. And he had – has? – a chance to be rid of it, to rid his son of it, if only he could – can? – find the strength to leave.
But there are many kinds of strength, Malik is learning, and some he has and some he doesn't have, and of some he cannot be sure.
"Foolish man," he tells Altair. "To sleep when you have your victory." He smiles. "Though Allah knows you need it."
Footsteps. He glances at the door to see Darim come through, a covered dish in his hands. Darim, who looks less a child now than he did yesterday, and will look less still in an hour. Darim, who's killed and conquered this week, and wears that about his square-set shoulders. Darim: finally, fully, his father's son.
"Dinner," he tells Malik.
"You can leave it on the table there if it'll keep. I'll force it down his throat when he wakes up."
"I can wait too," Darim says, with a certain flicker of belligerence. Malik ponders it as the boy drags a chair over close to him – but not too close.
Silence. Altair is the one to break it after a time, with a low grunt as he rolls over. He's stripped to the waist and Malik is perfectly aware the only reason he isn't staring at those scar-flecked arms and that muscled chest is because Darim would catch him ogling.
(Altair is many things, including someone Malik much enjoys ogling.)
"I know what you said," Darim says suddenly, and for a second Malik thinks he's somehow been caught anyway and jerks his gaze away.
"What I said?"
"To Father. About your brother's death."
Malik adjusts himself on his seat, back aching afresh. Sitting is tough. "I've said many things to him about that," he says.
"But you blamed Father for it, a lot. Right?"
"I did."
"Even though…"
"Even though what, Darim?"
"Even though it isn't fair!" the boy bursts out. "Father didn't mean for him to die, didn't mean for – everything that's happened. And now you want to leave, I heard you say it, and you'll hurt him when you do. How is that any better? Isn't that cruel?"
Malik says sharply, "Words between men are not meant to be eavesdropped. You should keep yourself out of the business of others. I know I've told you this already."
"Forgive me, Uncle," says Darim, but Malik can see that he isn't an ounce sorry. The boy adds, carefully but in a crafty sort of tone, "You blame Father for killing your brother. But it wasn't him, was it? It was Templars. Yet Father bears the guilt."
Little assassin, Malik thinks as he meets that challenging gaze. Fighting your loved ones' battles for them, whether they want you to or no. Just like your father. God, so much like him. You'll have such a difficult future, Grandmaster's heir.
"Well, isn't it cruel?" Darim insists. "To never forgive him like that? He's tried."
"He has," Malik agrees. "He's tried very hard."
"Then how can you just leave?!"
"You can love someone too much, sometimes. You can hurt without meaning to, just by being around. I've been very cruel to him, Darim, you're right."
"Father's not weak. He won't mind. You're his right arm, his closest friend, even Mother says so. He'd never want you to go."
"I did warn him," Malik says. "I did."
"Warn him what? When?"
"A million years ago, and a million miles." The Dai of Jerusalem looks down on his Master, who has gone very still. How long has he been awake? Yet he won't open his eyes. He waits there, Altair, and he listens. Because Malik warned him once, in Jerusalem.