
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/879372.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Assassin's_Creed
  Relationship:
      Malik_Al-Sayf/Altaïr_Ibn-La'Ahad, Altaïr_Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria_Thorpe
  Character:
      Altaïr_Ibn-La'Ahad, Malik_Al-Sayf, Al_Mualim, OC's
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Child_Abuse, Sexual_Abuse, Friends_to
      Lovers, Drama
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-11 Updated: 2018-01-13 Chapters: 220/? Words: 286816
****** Hard Secrets ******
by scarletcougar
Summary
     The trials and tribulations of two friends who have grown together
     and been driven apart by duty and tragedy. Does time heal all wounds
     and reveal all truths? What secrets are sealed in silence and bound
     by trust? When you see the great eagle soaring, can you see how
     broken the wings of its soul are? Assassins endure in the shadows and
     fly the moment they are seen. The eagle mates for life and soars solo
     and lonely when its mate is lost till its body and soul dies.
Notes
     I own nothing of Assassin's Creed but I deeply appreciate the
     imaginative inspiration that Ubisoft and my friends that work there
     have given me.
     Originally on FF.net but now, I edit and move it here so I may get
     reacquainted with it and finish it.
     Art that inspired this chapter: http://luulala.deviantart.com/art/
     Which-Never-Comes-Back-139928886
***** Altair's Prologue *****
Crouched high above the city of Jerusalem, the amber eyes of the eagle gaze
out. It let out a sorrowful cry before it took flight and circled the tower of
its perch as the wind blew at white robes. Altaïr peered down across the city,
his hood shading his amber eyes, hiding the truth. The pile of hay seemed so
far below. It was always a leap of faith when he dove from the ledge and
trusted that his landing would be soft. He never missed... except that once
when his leap of faith was more metaphorical and he questioned the master of
the order, Al Mualim. He banished all thought and memory as he leapt. God would
give him a soft landing if he was to continue, death if not. He surrendered to
the wind.
Brushing bits of hay from his robes, he walked away one more time from the
impossible drop. A woman with a clay pot on her head yelped in shock and
dropped her pot with a crash.
Hide in plain sight. Be unseen. Become one with the crowd.
Altaïr smoothly dipped his shoulder as he slid invisibly between two people in
the growing crowd, eyes locked on a thug farther ahead. Each step drew him
closer to the small blades at the back of the man's waist. His fingers flitted
out and nicked three throwing knives to complete his own set. He turned with a
single step into shadows and was again gone from view. A swift leap brought him
to the protruding stones of a building in a darkened corner. Moments later he
stood unnoticed on the roof. A flutter of white and red fabric and Altaïr flew
from ledge to ledge, roof to roof, across beams and vine covered lattices till
he almost skidded upon the smooth stones of the Jerusalem Bureau. His heart
pounding hard as he stared at the trickling water of a fountain in the open air
room below. The sharp scratching of Malik's quill almost made Altaïr step away.
He stood long as he thought through his last orders from Master Al Mualim.
Be unseen...
Altaïr wished he could be invisible to Malik. Yet, at the same time he wished
deeply to be seen... truly seen. But that was long gone with the life of
Malik's brother, Kadar, and Malik's left arm... gone as was any trust or
friendship that was between them.
Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.
Who is innocent? Does this target deserve death? What is the purpose? Why hunt
these specific men? What is this... piece of Eden. So many questions that
Altaïr needed answers to, but to ask was risky. He wanted someone to know, to
believe in him, his doubts and concerns. Would Malik? Not likely.
Altaïr sank down to crouch on his haunches by the opening in the roof.
Never compromise the Brotherhood.
Since he mysteriously died at Al Mualim's hand and was revived and stripped of
rank, every step he took seemed to. Altaïr was not sure why he felt that way.
However, in his bones he knew. Each targeted death revealed more of the hidden
truth, but not enough. Each death now was as his first strange few with a
moment stopped in time and shrouded in fog where the dying soul spoke to his
own. A gift? A curse? He told Malik once of this and soon learned to bury and
hide the ability.
Ever wonder, Malik? Ever doubt your duty? Ever wonder... if your duty is not in
accord with the Creed? Ever think that maybe Al Mualim is wrong... mistaken?
He asked that once when he was a teen. Malik laughed. Another teen told him he
was crazy. He now calls Al Mualim Master... just Master. He does his duty and
tries not to question. To question or to fail had dire consequences. Death...
would be a blessing compared to the punishments. You lived by the code. You
obeyed the Master. You did your duty.
Altaïr clenched his jaw and watched the sun set at last. The lamp light faded
from the main Bureau room and blinked out as Malik slipped behind a secret
curtain to an inner room to sleep. With a soft thud, Altaïr dropped onto the
carpets below. He cupped water in his hands from the working fountain and
sipped. WHY! Why couldn't you have waited, Altaïr! WHY!? If you just waited...
Malik's angry words in fevered fury on the healer's bed rang back into his
ears. He waited patiently.
After several hours he padded silently into the main room of the Bureau. Maps
in rolls littered the table and the long counter. Bottled inks lined one shelf
along with many books. The dusty smell of the books and paper tugged at near
forgotten memories. Altaïr closed his eyes and remembered a moment long ago. He
had always hated the books and reading and writing, but loved curling on the
blankets in a small room full of books with Malik and Kadar. Incense and tallow
from the lamp had filled the air with the dusty scent of paper. Malik and his
younger brother had discussed and debated what they read together while Altaïr
pretended to ignore them. The messy in the books always boggled him, but he
missed now the joy as those two brothers inadvertently shared the knowledge
within the pages with him.
A light hop over the wooden gate brought Altaïr to Malik's side of the counter.
He would never dare cross this barrier in the day. He no longer had the right
to be so close. He laid his hand on the deceptively painted fabric that gave
the illusion of a wall. A tiny push and he could peek through at Malik asleep
on a bedroll on the floor, surrounded by books and maps, a tallow lamp
guttering almost out of fuel. Altaïr's throat tightened and he flinched
painfully away.
Malik rolled over sensing a change in the air and feeling eyes upon him. He
looked toward the fabric door. His eyes narrowed with the light movement of the
edge. However, Altaïr vanished into the night, taking instant flight before
discovery, remaining unseen.
 
***** Malik's Prologue *****
Chapter Notes
     Art by doubleleaf and the inspiration for this chapter: http://
     doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/moonlight-144088324
     Fanart drawn for this fanfic belongs to AngelOfThyNightmare: http://
     angelofthynightmare.deviantart.com/art/Broken-and-Bitter-326066852 (I
     AM SO HONORED!)
Malik rolled over sensing a change in the air and feeling eyes upon him. He
looked toward the fabric door. His eyes narrowed with the light movement of the
edge. However, Altaïr vanished into the night, taking instant flight before
discovery, remaining unseen.
It was almost a year since the incident at Solomon’s Temple. His fury at
Altaïr’s arrogance and later abandonment had faded along with the fiery pain of
the loss of his arm and the anguish at the loss of his little brother. And then
there were moments like this where Altaïr invaded his private space without
warning and didn’t even bother to stay and say why. His anger stirred and he
tried to shove it aside. Altaïr was like an irritating stray cat that came and
went of its own will expecting food and safety, yet remained too aloof and
twitchy to be approachable. Maybe not a cat but more like the true wild eagles
you tried to tame, untrusting and untrustworthy. They were just as apt to hunt
for you as they were to hunt you. Malik wondered what Altaïr was doing.
He heaved a sigh and stood. Altaïr was never around long enough for Malik to
gentle himself or welcome him. The verbal banter between them always ended
badly and left Malik abandoned in the Bureau alone, again. They had bantered
verbally all their lives, but once past the initial rash words there had been
camaraderie. They were two wilful and strong-minded individuals. It bothered
him to see Altaïr skittish and passively obedient. Malik sometimes wanted to
tell him openly that he forgave him for what happened, but Altaïr was locked up
tighter than an iron box with no hinges and never stayed long enough to hear
it.
Dressed only in light pants, his shoulder gently bandaged against potential
chafing, Malik walked through the curtain to the main room and scanned the dim
moonlit room. He was expecting Altaïr from the message bird he had received
from Al Mualim. To the empty air he whispered, “Safety and peace Altaïr. Safety
and peace.” He wanted to try this time, really try, to not fight with Altaïr.
Malik had heard things today from a chatty novice that reminded him to the
chatty rafiq in Damascus. These rumours he heard disturbed him… deeply.
“And then Yusef told me all about what happened. Altaïr was hero and traitor
all in one day. It didn’t make sense to me. How can you be both? He saved
Masyaf, saved us all. I overheard one of the basket weavers saying that he ran
out alone into the city to fight the templars just to give the people a chance
to get within the safety of the fort walls. And then he did a leap of faith out
the back tower! I can’t wait to learn that!! They say he leapt to his death and
yet there he stood. I saw it myself! He stood in the lookout watching the logs
crush Robert’s army. He released the trap. He was a TRUE HERO. But others say
he’s a traitor. They say he lead Robert right to us, broke the Creed, all three
edicts! And before you were healed enough to go, they executed him in front of
all the brothers. I don’t know what sorcery brought him back to life. But there
he is, stripped of rank! Once I learn the leap of faith, I will be the same
rank as he! Do you still hate him? Did he really abandon you? I can see why
he’d be a traitor and stripped for it. Hamal, I traveled part way with him,
told me he’d take a feather for Altaïr just for you.” The youth leaned on the
counter, uncouth and unafraid to bluntly ask things that would normally be
impolite, “Does it still hurt? I’ve never been hurt before much past scrapes
and bruises from training.”
Malik had to shove food at the teen to quiet him. Then he sent him on an errand
to find some information. He concluded with sending the lad to Damascus to
train further there. The rumours though dug in his gut. The boy would never
know how much he revealed. Malik’s critical mind had already picked apart the
boy’s words and analyzed their implications.
Months ago, Malik would have agreed that Altaïr was a traitor and when
confronted with those rumours didn’t bother to correct them. As time passed
though, he knew there was nothing Altaïr could have done save beat his fists
bloody against crumbled rock and never get through to save him and Kadar. Malik
also knew who really lead Robert back to Masyaf. He traced a line on a map in
the dim room swallowing that guilt. Altaïr was taking the blame for him and not
fighting it for whatever reason as he normally would have, as he should have.
Altaïr saved Malik that disgrace and shouldering it himself. He still broke the
Creed, his arrogance still ended Kadar’s life, but some things were not his
fault. Malik understood that now that he had a year to ponder it. His question
was why. Why did Altaïr act against the Creed? What was that golden ball? Why
was it worth doing literally anything for? The question that bothered him more,
one he never dared voice was… What were Altaïr’s orders from Al Mualim? Altaïr
seemed to still be following them, though now in silent foggy shrouds of
secrecy that seemed to poison him slowly.
Malik? Ever doubt your duty? Ever wonder if Al Mualim is wrong… mistaken? Ever
wonder if what we are doing is actually against the Creed?
Malik paced to the open air room and looked up through the lattice hoping to
see Altaïr crouching there. Altaïr was but a teen with a wild reckless grin,
fearlessly throwing himself into his training. Malik wondered what changed him,
something had. And now again, apparently Al Mualim executed Altaïr and revived
him again, changing him further. He clenched his one fist, “Altaïr, if you are
up there… get your arrogant ass down here where the archers won’t pick you off!
I don’t want to have to get the next novice who comes in here to scrape your
corpse from the roof. You’ll be reeking by the time the next novice comes
through here!” He listened, already regretting his tone which did not seem to
invite nor give a sense of safety or peace.
Sighing he set out a small tray of food. Altaïr usually never ate before riding
anywhere by horse. To do so seemed to always make him vomit on route. He
scanned the walls and floor carefully in case there was blood traces to
indicate that Altaïr was wounded. Relieved somehow that his one link to what
was somewhat family, albeit broken and bitter, was unharmed as far as he could
tell. Malik thought to himself that Altaïr was a true hero for Masyaf. Few knew
Altaïr’s total phobia of water. To take the leap off the back tower in Masyaf
was to risk dropping into the river. To get from there to the lookout tower for
the trap meant crossing not one but two long narrow planks over a hundred foot
drop to the river below, followed by an almost sheer climb up the lookout wall
at the edge of the cliff over that river. Then, to accept such a blow to his
pride as to be stripped totally down to being a novice, willingly. Why did he
do it? Malik gave one last peek up through the lattice at the empty night sky.
What bothered Malik most was the idea that a Brother of the Order would kill
one of their own. Brothers of the Order were willing to take a feather out on
Altaïr even though he was struggling slowly along a hard path to redemption.
Altaïr went from prodigy to nothing to awaiting an assassin’s mark from people
he should be able to trust. This was a rift in the Order that troubled Malik as
he thought and walked back through the wood gate and the curtain into his
private back room. He carefully tidied the maps and scrolls and books there,
listening till he heard the soft thud on the carpets. Altaïr must have waited
till he was out of sight to enter. Nothing but water scared Altaïr before. Why
was he scared now? And especially why was he scared of Malik of all people.
Malik opened the curtain a tiny crack to see Altaïr carefully sniff the food
and test it before actually eating.
I am NOT about to poison you! Malik ground his teeth, insulted. Then he
remembered his earlier train of thought. What if Altaïr knew Brothers might be
out to kill him? Of all people, Malik had the most cause, no? What is the world
coming to? What are we, the Order, coming to? Yes, Altaïr, I doubt and I
question. Do you still?
The night slipped by silently. Malik struggled with his anger at Altaïr and his
concerns. He paced out once more unable to actually sleep, blade in hand to
practice some moves in the larger room as Altaïr slept on the cushions under
the stars. On still silent feet, the only sound being the slight rustle of his
robes since the night air was chill, Malik stood over Altaïr with his blade
glinting in the filtered light. The moonlight spilled softly over Altaïr’s
sleeping form as he gripped the pillows in twitches of some night terror. Malik
whispered, “Safety and peace,” and watched as Altaïr relaxed a little. Other
memories flooded his mind, but so much blood had spilled between them. Malik
was not sure if he trusted Altaïr enough and was fairly certain now that Altaïr
didn’t trust him. A salty drop trickled down Malik’s cheeks.
As the sky grew lighter with predawn, Malik left Altaïr to sleep in peace. He
locked the main door so they could both sleep in safety, before retiring to his
own room and grabbing precious few minutes of sleep for himself.
***** Altair Hiding *****
Chapter Notes
     I am trying a counter relay perspective style of writing. Altaïr then
     Malik then Altaïr. I hope I can manage it.
     Art that inspired this chapter belongs to Corrupted Mooch: http://
     corrupted-mooch.deviantart.com/art/Between-Missions-156425804
As the sky grew lighter with predawn, Malik left Altaïr to sleep in peace. He
locked the main door so they could both sleep in safety, before retiring to his
own room and grabbing precious few minutes of sleep for himself.
The sun rose to bake Altaïr’s eyelids through the lattice roof. He grumbled and
scrubbed the sleep from them. His fingers ached as though he had hung all day
from the ledge of a building. The pillows were practically punctured by his
talon grip on them through the night. It was another terror plagued night that
did not inspire any gentleness in him for the day, not that one would ever
think of putting the word gentle and Altaïr together in the same sentence. He
was just not. Well, not any more. Ok, not when anyone was looking and often
even when they weren’t, but sometimes wanted to be. He shook the weak betraying
sentiment from his head physically as he stood.
The Bureau was silent, much like the outside world, everyone still sleeping
including Malik. Altaïr splashed water on his face in a rough attempt to wash
and then ate the remaining food off the tray Malik had left for him, especially
the meat jerky. He then filled his two small belt bottles with water for later.
It always bothered him how sometimes the poor, the drunk and the crazy pissed
in the fountains of the cities. He double checked the cleanliness and readiness
of his various blades before tugging his hooked cowl down to shade his eyes.
In a flutter he was on the roof. There he crouched and scanned for danger.
Rooftop archers were distant, the bureau safe. Safe. As much as he felt Malik
hated him, Altaïr felt more comfortable here than anywhere. He frowned at the
feeling. It bode ill of the other Bureau’s, especially that of Damascus. It
also bode ill of Masyaf, which should feel like… home.
His eagle sharp vision tracked the circling shadow and soon the circling golden
bird of prey. Its perch was his next destination. Muscles tensed a moment then
he took flight across the roofs. He flew across a wide gap between buildings.
He dashed over crates. He skidded around a corner as his wrist blade pinned an
archer to the ground through the throat. He flew again leaping to grip the
grill of a window on the spire of his destination. Hand over hand he climbed.
At the perch he hung as the eagle landed to eye him warily. It spread its wings
and cried out its indignation as it again circled the spire. Altaïr pulled
himself onto the perch envying the eagle’s freedom.
The now noon sun beat down upon him while he debated his next move. He stood to
take a leap of faith, adrenalin already speeding his heart rate. A ripple of
red and white fabric betrayed a Templar flag. Fury rose in Altaïr and he ground
his teeth restraining a growl. He changed his direction and inched his way down
the spire, glancing frequently at his new target, that baneful flag. How dare
the Templars lay such claims! He bounced off the side of the spire to land and
roll on a roof, over to neatly drop between the walls of balconies to the hated
flag. There he ripped it ferociously from the wooden beam it was nailed to.
With a knife he shredded it, venting some of his hate and loathing, wishing it
was Robert’s throat. That man, ruined his life… ruined the lives of the only
people he truly cared anything for. His blade bit into his palm before he
realized there was no more flag, just threading and shreds. He examined the
wound and concluded it was inconsequential.
Altaïr roamed aimlessly through the streets of Jerusalem for hours, listening
to the gossip. His gut still churned with hatred. Though now he no longer was
sure who he loathed more, Robert or himself. It was his own arrogance, his own
belief that he was so good he was above the Creed, that got Kadar killed and
lost Malik his arm. The sun was setting and he was no closer to news of his
intended target. He dipped his hand into a clean-looking fountain to wash the
blood from it and ease the sting of the cuts. Should he return to the Bureau?
He needed guidance, but would Malik actually offer it? He had never really…
asked… for help before. His stomach flipped thinking about Malik and he decided
not to return to the Bureau. It was starting to get late. He nibbled a handful
of dates he stole on his walk and drank the water from one of his small
bottles.
A beggar invaded his personal space demanding money. He tried to shove her
aside. She was insistent. He was not in the mood. He never really was, but less
so now. He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her roughly away. She tumbled and
screamed and ran. Altaïr stepped into a shadow invisibly till his temper
calmed. As he turned he saw a ladder conveniently there. He climbed it as
darkness descended on Jerusalem. On this roof was a small covered balcony. He
hopped inside and flopped onto the dusty warn hay there. The fabric roof and
panels were so forgotten and worn that it revealed the stars and moon through
the thinning weaves. He chose to sleep there, unable to face Malik this night.
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Introducing two OC's here. They are relatively minor. Please be
     patient with them.
Chapter Notes
     Chapter inspired by SIRbluemoustache's art: http://
     sirbluemoustache.deviantart.com/art/ac-request-strong-ones-wins-
     146454553
Altaïr chose to sleep hidden in a roof garden balcony, unable to face Malik
this night.
Malik yelled in frustration in the empty fountain room. Altaïr had left before
they could speak, before they could exchange news and information about the
mission Al Mualim assigned. He kicked over the empty food tray. It clattered
coldly against the stone wall. “Altaïr! You arrogant… Prideful…You son of…”
Malik let his breath out in a huff realizing the insult of finishing that
curse. Son of No One… a cruel curse to inflict on anyone, and yet it was what
Altaïr’s last name translated to. He was furious with Altaïr for leaving. “You
think you know what you are doing. You always ignore the protocol. Do you still
think yourself above the Creed?!” When he realized he was yelling at no one, he
kicked the tray again for good measure before picking it up and dropping it
into a basin to wash later.
He squinted into the sunlight and returned to the main room. At some point,
Altaïr would have to return. Malik needed to open his Bureau and look like a
scribe and cartographer to the public. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his maps
onto table, thumped the wood or stone blocks onto corners, and thudded books
into shelves. He almost broke an ink bottle when it hit the table from the
force of his frustration. There he urged himself to calm. Ink was expensive,
not just financially, but also bodily. He hated going to the market and
allowing the thugs and guards to pick on the crippled scribe. His cover grated
on his pride… as did Altaïr. Today’s anger recalled all the original pain and
sense of betrayal.
It was an hour or three before he came to terms with exactly how he felt. He
was angry mostly that he never really got the opportunity to talk to Altaïr. He
felt alone, far from home and not allowed back, with no family left. And, every
time he reached in any way out to Altaïr it came out wrong, bitter, and ended
with Altaïr fleeing. Malik sighed missing their friendship, even if their
childhood was rife with small battles. It was also rife with small moments of
unforgettable bonding.
Malik set out a medical book with details of anatomy on the desk to study from.
It was stolen from the Hospitalier that Altaïr assassinated months ago and
manifested here mysteriously. He never questioned it though. Medicine was a
secret passion of his. Although he barely read the page before him as he
drifted into daydream, remembering some of his early encounters with Altaïr.
Altaïr was brought before the assassins of the Order and the other young
recruits. He was such a strange boy with his fair skin and light brown hair.
Even his eyes were strange, not brown, lighter, almost golden like an eagle’s.
Malik was ten years old standing with his elder brother, Faruq, another
assassin who was also an excellent doctor and was likely going to be removed
from Assassin duty soon for that very reason. Altaïr was barely eight years
old, thin, and a bruised mess. The story was that his mother was a Christian
from a foreign land and his father was a Muslim from Acre. Both were killed in
some attack and Altaïr alone had survived. Al Mualim introduced the boy as
Altaïr Ibn-la-Ahad, flying eagle and son of no one. He was too young really to
be put among the ranks of the new recruits like Malik, but considering the
circumstances there was little choice. Al Mualim had in a sense adopted him and
placed him as Malik’s partner to share a room and all other things, learn the
ways of Brotherhood and the Order. Altaïr was a quiet introverted child even
then, one with so much fight in him, angry at the world.
He and Altaïr fought over everything in those first few months. They argued
lots, tumbled aggressively, and destroyed their small shared room. Altaïr never
would study or read when Malik was determined to be the best in all things.
However, even at such a young age, Altaïr excelled at the physical lessons,
even the disagreeable ones. In the practice ring, with others watching, Al
Mualim instructed the children on wrestling. “The strong one always wins. In a
fight, be the one to walk away.” Altaïr would then abandon grace and polite
fighting in order to win, pulling Malik’s hair and behaving almost like a feral
cat. And yet, later in the night, Malik would find Altaïr sitting beside him
watching over him as he slept. “Promise me, Malik… Promise not to leave me?”
The anger of the day would evaporate then and Malik would pull Altaïr down to
sleep with him. “I will always be your friend Altaïr. Always. I promise.”
Malik pinched the bridge of his nose and abandoned the medical text, stuffing
it under the counter among the other hidden boxes of feathers clean and
bloodied. Just in time too, as a young girl of fifteen walked in guarded by her
older brother. She was the veiled daughter of an apothecary merchant. Her
father sold medicines and other alchemical substances. The girl smiled
prettily, her eyes taking in the whole room before she entered, glancing even
in the direction of the sunny room with the fountain for just a second. “Rafiq,
I have brought you something new. Oh, and something usual.” Malik could not
help but be endeared to her eagerness. He rolled his map to give room on the
counter for her to place her basket. “I brought you some mint essence. It will
cool the water and the body. Just add some drops to a jug of water or into a
bath basin. But you know that already.” She almost bounced on her toes as she
brought out a wide flat jar. “Here. This is a salve, for your arm. I bet it
hurts sometimes.” Malik didn’t know what to say. She simply smiled. “My father
would like if you could send him a map of Acre. He is going there to secure a
boat to export some of his wares. We missed you at our stall or he would have
asked you then. So I figured… I thought maybe you were unwell, so I brought
these over myself and offered to pass his request directly. Is there anything
else you need?” This girl, this especially bold girl was very perceptive and
attentive. Although, she was the sixth daughter in a family with eight
children, her being the youngest of them all.
“Thank you, Tibah. Please extend my thanks to your family. I will have a map
for your father in a week.” Malik pondered a moment wondering if he dared ask,
and decided to toss caution aside. “Tibah, there is in fact something I do
need. There are often bandits and thugs who are rough. It has been hard to keep
apprentices with me for this reason. Maybe, could you please supply me with a
goodly amount of bandaged and basic medicines? I could use a more full kit to
offer to care for my apprentices and aides. Then maybe they would not abandon
me so swiftly.” It was part lie and part truth. It would have to do.
Tibah tilted her head almost coyly, her hair coming a little loose of the scarf
she wore. She tucked it back into place. This was a look Malik knew, the look
of transaction. She was going to name her price and he wasn’t sure he was going
to like it. “Of course… in exchange for,” here it came as she glances back to
her brother at the door and whispered, “for your trust. For your trust, I will
keep you well supplied. And for… a service exchange later that I cannot name at
the moment.”
These were both VERY high prices for Malik. He simply nodded feeling like he
cornered himself in a trap and worried what this would mean later. However, he
needed those supplies too badly. The last novice and mentor who passed through
the Bureau, nearly died for lack of them. Malik had a reputation of not losing
the life of a single wounded assassin who took refuge in his presence.
“Very good! I will see you soon with everything.” With that she turned and
walked out greeting her brother on the way out.
Malik overheard her brother chastise her, “If you be bold like that all the
time, you will insult every man in the city and father will never find you a
husband! I hope the rafiq was not offended.”
***** Altair's Scar *****
Chapter Summary
     Ever wonder how Altair got his scar? I know I have.
Chapter Notes
     Someone drew art for this chapter! Thanks letyumino: http://
     scarletcougar.deviantart.com/art/The-Scar-202286875
Malik overheard Tibah’s brother chastise her, “If you be bold like that all the
time, you will insult every man in the city and father will never find you a
husband! I hope the rafiq was not offended.”
Few people truly offended Malik. Actually... Altaïr seemed to be the only one
who really did. Less so now that he saw so little of him. He was missing the
feeling of being offended by Altaïr, especially knowing he was in the city
somewhere that night.
The sparse layer of hey smelled of mould and found its way through Altaïr’s
robes to itch his skin. He tossed and turned waking often throughout the night.
His mind plagued him with the chaos of his recent kills. The memories poisoned
him into doubt. His worldview used to be so clear, so black and white. But
nothing is true and everything is permitted. Now it was clouded in shades of
grey, as stormy as a rainy season sky.
Rolling over yet again in the prickly hay, the feeling coaxed out old memories.
Maybe that part of his life never happened, maybe it was just a dream. Maybe if
he told himself often enough it would be true. But nothing is true and
everything is permitted. Reality blurred.
The life of an assassin is a hard one. Assassins are trained to endure, to be
strong, to be the best. Swift, deadly, and silent. Altaïr and Malik crouched in
a hay stack trying not to move or scratch where the bits of hay poked at them
through their training clothes. At ten, Altaïr was already surpassing twelve
year old Malik in all the physical training, pushed and almost favoured by the
head of the Order, Al Mualim. Altaïr often felt that Malik was jealous of his
skill, even though Malik would always be Altaïr’s better in anything that
involved study, reading, mathematics, or philosophy. Altaïr was not interested
in the messy on the pages of the books or the confusing debates and discussions
of morals. He preferred knowing his task and accomplishing it. His disregard of
the book and discussion studies often resulted in Altaïr often breaking the
rules to achieve the desired goal. The strong always win. Nothing is true and
everything is permitted. The rules were restrictive and sometimes hindered
success. Yet, partnered with Malik tempered Altaïr. Malik was his moral
compass, his true friend. Altaïr believed that to at least be absolutely true.
As potentially dangerous as Altaïr could be as a child, Malik managed to gentle
him. In the hay, they took hands as a reminder of this friendship, even though
they were to race to a goal as rivals today.
“RUN!!” yelled their trainer who stood with Al Mualim and other assassins and
trainees of differing ages and stages. Both boys abandoned their hold on each
other and bolted out of the hay on one of the roofs of Masyaf. The run was to
take them across a natural obstacle course of roofs to a flag target. Small
feet kicked up dust as they ran. They climbed. They leapt small gaps between
buildings. They rushed around posts. Pushing each other here and there to try
to be the one ahead. Altaïr was fast. Malik was smart. Yet Altaïr seemed to
earn the praise for his successes. Malik’s jealousy sometimes ended in a brawl
in their shared room. Altaïr suspected it would be the same today. He intended
to win this... again. Altaïr almost flew over crates, leaping with arms spread
like wings. He clung to ledges, pulled himself up, and leapt fearlessly across
wider gaps, heedless of danger. His eye was on the goal, especially with Al
Mualim watching.
Malik dove through a small roof garden’s curtains to gain extra distance on
Altaïr, the route more familiar to him. He had taken the time to study it and
map it in his head. He passed Altaïr with a grin, and then shoved him into a
line of drying clothes. Altaïr lost his temper as usual, snarling as he
disentangled himself. He fumed at the trainer’s praise of Malik’s tactic. Al
Mualin yelled from below and Altaïr launched after Malik, close on his heels. A
reckless pounce and he pinned Malik to the roof, then kept running. The
surprise attack slammed Malik’s face into stone and knocked out a tooth. At
Malik’s outcry of pain, Altaïr skidded to a halt and turned back to his friend.
Al Mualim yelled, “Altaïr! Leave him! RUN! He is the enemy today! Leave him!”
But Altaïr seemed rooted where he stood weighing the right and wrong of this in
his head, struggling with Al Mualim’s orders and his own private promise with
Malik to never leave each other. Malik was always taking care of Altaïr. Now he
needed care.
Pain and betrayal flashed in Malik’s eyes. Altaïr murmured and apology as he
turned and hopped off the roof calling for Faruq. Malik wept into his arms at
his failure, at both their failures. Altaïr thought he was doing the right
thing as he watched Faruq climb the building and tend to his sibling there.
Al Mualim gripped Altaïr’s shoulder and almost dragged him back into the main
fortress and into a private room. “What the hell happened up there?! No, don’t
tell me. I know. You disobeyed another order. You cannot keep disregarding
things like this Altaïr. Will you never learn?!” Al Mualim walked back and
forth as he spoke, hands behind his back. “You are training to be an assassin,
the best assassin. I know you can be. Assassins are fast, strong, and cannot
afford to fall prey to weaknesses of blood. We draw blood. We bleed. We ignore
the pain and finish our task.” Al Mualim turned to face Altaïr who was intently
studying his toes. “So Malik fell. I ordered you to keep running. If he were
the enemy, you could be dead! You all must learn that when one falls, the other
must keep going, or the mission might fail and you both might end up dead,
Altaïr.” Al Mualim lifted Altaïr’s chin to glare into the golden eyes. “You
must abandon fear. Wounds mean nothing, Altaïr. Malik knows this. Must I teach
it to you myself?!” At Altaïr’s stoic silence, Al Mualim pounded the lesson
into him. If young Altaïr yelled or cried, he was stuck again till he learned
to take the pain in silent acceptance. This went on well past dinner.
Malik had continued his training alone that day, angry at Altaïr and the shame
of failing, especially when other boys teased him about it. Altaïr missed
dinner, having stayed in the privileged private room of Al Mualim. Malik
seethed and as he returned to their shared little room, he planned to punch out
one of Altaïr’s teeth just to make things even. Altaïr was sitting in the
corner, gripping a pillow in his hands tightly. Shock widened Malik’s eyes when
he forced Altaïr to look at him. His angry words were forgotten at the scene
before him. There was so much blood. Altaïr was shaking slightly and seeing the
shock in Malik’s eyes drove the tears out of his own, though he dared not make
a single noise. Blood crusted on his face and neck, soaked his shirt. It still
oozed from purple bruised places and especially the swollen gash on the right
side of his mouth. Had he moved his lips at all, the upper and lower cut
through his face would split open to show his teeth.
Altaïr watched Malik almost numbly as the other soaked a thin summer shirt in
water from a jug and pressed it to his wounded face. Malik made Altaïr hold it
in place. Questions were plain on Malik’s face, but he only got silence for an
answer. Altaïr followed Malik’s movements with his eyes as the older boy left
the room to fetch his big brother. Faruq was easily ten years older than Malik
and acted as much like a father to the two younger siblings as he could in
place of their own who was gone already dead from a mission. Their mother died
birthing Kadar, who desperately wanted to join the training and was told he had
to wait yet another couple years. All three brothers had grey eyes, Faruq’s
were a medium grey, Malik’s a dark charcoal with brown hints, and Kadar’s
lighter grey tinted blue. Like Malik, Faruq’s questioning eyes received silence
from Altaïr.
Altaïr remained silent even through Faruq neatly stitching his face. Any other
boy of ten would have screamed and cried from the experience. Altaïr merely dug
his fingers talon-like into the pillow in his lap. Faruq gently washed the
blood away from Altaïr’s face and instructed Malik on how to help Altaïr care
for the wounds. Malik loved learning, and especially medicine, history, lore
and geography. Medicine would be useful later... well now actually. For Altaïr,
everything in his body hurt, but he learned Al Mualim’s lesson well. And Malik
would care for his wounds gently in the privacy of their shared room.
Altaïr moaned and tossed again, banging his face into the wall and waking
suddenly to the jab of a stick in his side. A dagger in his hand ready to fend
off an attacker before full wakefulness cleared his thoughts and vision.
Groaning, he dragged his sleep deprived body from his hiding place.  He felt
filthy like the poor of Acre. He spent the morning slinking around the poor
district of Jerusalem and into the rich district. The sky was painted hues of
orange and purple with the setting sun. Altaïr bumped tiredly into a guard who
shoved him and yelled for him to leave that place. Altaïr steered away toward
the markets, stomach complaining loudly. He dipped his burning hand into the
fountain there.
A girl of fifteen from one of the stalls came up to him and said hello several
times till he finally warily acknowledged her. “Hello. Here, you seem to need
this.” She gave him a fruit. Her brother hovered protectively behind her.
Altaïr glimpsed the young man who had a flicker of a grin as he nodded to a
friend of his watching from another stall. Altaïr envied the two men and their
easy friendship. He accepted the fruit from the girl and mumbled a thank you.
She smiled pleasantly. “My name is Tibah. You don’t have to pay me,” she said
as he was fumbling into a pouch. “Just... remember the kindness and offer that
kindness to someone else who might need it later.” She then left with her
brother to finish packing up their stall for the night. Altaïr nibbled the
fruit thoughtfully. His head ached with the moral questions of her actions and
the knowledge that invaded.
Later, he dropped almost gracelessly through the roof lattice into the Bureau
and dropped onto the pillows there with exhaustion. From where he lay, he could
see Malik still working on a map, bent over the counter and purposely ignoring
him. Altaïr crossed his arms and rested his chin on them.
***** Malik Watches *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter has no art... but if there is art for it... or if
     someone draws art for it... I will post it in.
Altaïr dropped almost gracelessly through the roof lattice into the Bureau and
flopped onto the pillows there with exhaustion. From where he lay, he could see
Malik still working on a map, bent over the counter and purposely ignoring him.
Altaïr crossed his arms and rested his chin on them.
Two days of wondering and Malik was certain that Altaïr was doing this on
purpose. “This” was Altaïr’s tendency to not follow orders of report into the
Bureau as he should. Malik crunched a feather quill in irritation at Altaïr’s
apparent disregard for his position and responsibility. Earlier, a novice and
mentor were present to notice this irritation.  At their delicate query, Malik
snarled out Altaïr’s name as if it explained every frustration in Malik’s life.
“Want that we hunt him for you?” asked the mentor with a wicked grin. Malik
felt ice race down his spine and cool his temper. He declined the offer and
suggested the two train in the quiet poor district. The fact that a mentor was
quick to suggest hunting Altaïr worried Malik. Brothers should not hunt
Brothers, especially one’s like Altaïr on a mission who could lose sight of
friend from foe and kill you anyways because you are between him and his
target.
Malik paced. Malik locked the door. Malik paced some more. Worry mixed with
anger... anger at worrying and anger at being made to worry. If only Altaïr
would just follow the damned rules!  When Altaïr finally did drop into the
Bureau after dark, Malik was in a ripe sour mood. He broke two quills
scratching out the lines of the new map of Acre for the apothecary merchant.
Altaïr didn’t even greet him with the customary saying, or any saying at all.
He just sprawled on the carpets and pillows. Malik refused to acknowledge him
until he did.
He finished the base sketching of the map and put away his quills and ink.
Still ignoring Altaïr, Malik came around the counter and drew a short knife to
do some training of his own with. He didn’t want to be out of form, just in
case. He had this sense, like ants on his skin, that something terrible was
coming and he needed to be ready for it. As he trained he ranted about his days
out loud. He often did this while alone in his Bureau. The walls never cared.
Altaïr’s silence made it easy to forget he was there.
“There are extra guards on watch for some reason in the poor district.”
Altaïr’s husky comment caused Malik to stumble mid-swing. “I’ll find them and
direct them to a safer training area. Mentors and novices should be training in
Masyaf, not out here.”
Malik didn’t think Altaïr was even listening to his ranting. He eyed the prone
figure and sheathed his knife.
“Safety and peace, rafiq.”
Malik answered the greeting, “Safety and peace, Altaïr.” He approached and saw
how the man on the carpets looked haggard, blood smeared on his white
assassin’s robe, which were filthy and still showed bits of hay clinging to the
hems. Malik brought over a large basin and wash cloths. “Don’t soil my fountain
with your filth.” He then brought over a towel with which Altaïr could dry
himself. “Are you hungry?” Altaïr grunted that he was fine as he dipped his
head and hid in the shadow of his hood. Malik didn’t believe him. Altaïr was
always hungry, so he stepped into the back private area and retrieved a bowl of
left-over stew and set that too on the floor. “There are clean clothes in the
trunk by the chess table.” Malik wanted to yell biting words about protocol and
preach at him the rules he should be following, but he saw how Altaïr looked
and it was not good. He leaned in the doorway and watched critically as Altaïr
removed his armour and weapons. This haggard man was going to refuse food and
sleep and help another Brother and a novice? Malik was realizing how much
Altaïr had changed. And yet how much he had not, still recklessly running off
and saying he was fine when clearly he was not. He frowned, thinking of
Altaïr’s words and knowing them to be right. Novice training was never outside
Masyaf before.
Altaïr tugged off his cowl and sash and robes, peeled off his shirt and pants
and underclothes, dropping them in a tangled heap. Malik rolled his eyes
knowing he’d be stuck washing them. There were many more scars on Altaïr’s body
than Malik last recalled, some more recent than others and showed Altaïr’s poor
skills of self-mending. Malik studied the body’s movements, looking for signs
of weakness or tight muscles from poor healing, favouring of certain movement
to ease the pain of strains or ignored breaks. Altaïr always ignored his wounds
and endured them in silence. He watched as Altaïr filled the basin with water
from the fountain. Malik was sensitive to Altaïr’s phobia of water that
extended so far that he would not even sit in a bath. Altaïr never looked up at
Malik during this whole time, never met his eyes. Before the incident at
Solomon’s Temple, the two would glare challenges at each other, sometimes just
for fun. Now... where was Altaïr’s inner fire?
“Uniforms are like feather’s Altaïr, they are not easily acquired. You need to
take better care of the one you have.” Malik bent and collected the soiled
clothing to pile with others that needed cleaning or mending from other
assassins who had been through here in the last couple weeks. Altaïr remained
silent save for the sounds of washing. Malik returned with salve and a bandage
for the wound he spotted on Altaïr’s hand. “And, you only get one body. I can’t
replace that,” Malik found himself chastising Altaïr.
Those golden eagle eyes glanced at him and swiftly away again, unable to hide
in the hood since he was nude. Malik reached for the wounded hand. Altaïr
jerked away, “I am fine.”
“Stop lying to me, Altaïr.” Malik pointed to the clearly cut and angry red
hand. His tone was harsher and snappish, not what he intended. The muscles in
Altaïr’s jaw clenched as he relented and held his hand out to Malik. I will not
hurt you. It is my job to heal you on your missions. He treated the cuts on
Altaïr’s palm with skilled gentle fingers and wrapped it. Altaïr was tense like
an eagle ready for flight. Had Altaïr not been naked and bathing, Malik was
certain Altaïr would have fled again. He wondered what happened to Altaïr to
change him. This was not the first time he wondered this. The first was when
Altaïr earned that scar on his lip. The most he discovered was that Altaïr
received a punishment and a lesson from Al Mualim. Some things... are not
permitted, Altaïr. And some things, like my promise to you, are true. Malik
could not bring himself to voice his thoughts. He tried to express them in his
actions. Be an example to others, for they are always watching. That was a
lesson from his elder brother, Faruq, when they both caught little Kadar spying
on the training.
Once dressed, Altaïr ate the stew and left the Bureau on his task, the one that
was not Al Mualim’s. Malik cursed extensively at the mess left behind that now
he had to clean. Although, Malik hoped Altaïr found the mentor and novice,
alive. He also hoped Altaïr would return. Altaïr needed sleep, needed proper
rest to safely accomplish the missions Al Mualim set him to, missions that were
increasingly more dangerous. He fingered the slip of paper from the pigeon with
Al Mualim’s note. The Eagle is coming for the Regent.
***** Altair & the Novice *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr needed sleep, needed proper rest to safely accomplish the missions Al
Mualim set him to, missions that were increasingly more dangerous. Malik
fingered the slip of paper from the pigeon with Al Mualim’s note.
The Eagle is coming for the Regent.
Altaïr was not sure why he was delaying so much. Maybe it was because of Malik.
Maybe it was because he was beginning to doubt his missions and the Master. He
rubbed his eyes and shook his head. The night air was blessedly chill and
helping keep him awake. Malik was right... again... Altaïr needed decent sleep
badly. However, it was not likely to happen tonight. A mentor and novice were
out where archers were likely to pick them off. It made no sense to him why
they would train outside Masyaf.
He pulled himself up to a higher section of wall look across the dark city. He
flexed his injured hand to feel the neat bandage under the leather of his
fingerless glove. It still hurt, but much less. Malik had cared for it much
more gently than Altaïr had expected, like when they were younger. A sharp pain
twinged in his chest and he took a deep breath to ease it. Malik had remembered
he was afraid of water and did not try to get him to take a bath in a tub.
Malik had even watched him bathe. Altaïr wondered what Malik was thinking. A
few years ago, the watching would have been very welcome, an open invitation
for something more. Now, Altaïr thought that perhaps Malik was studying him for
the best way to kill him in vengeance. It is no less than I deserve. Nine lives
to take to redeem myself in the eyes of the Order, nine lives for my own. That
is what the Master said. But how do I redeem myself in Malik’s eyes? Can I ever
do that?
He sighed and launched to another building to begin his hunt. Night hunting was
actually not one of Altaïr’s favourite things. He preferred to hunt in the day.
No one expects an assassin in broad daylight. Also, there were even more guards
roaming the streets and roofs at night. It made hunting tedious for all the
dodging and extra caution. Altaïr pressed his back against a wall and peered
around the corner at three archers on the same roof as he. He cursed in his
head. There were a few times he thought he was caught when calls went up about
intruders or assassins. Sometimes he though those he sought were caught, but he
never found evidence of it when he reached the commotion. He was out of
throwing knives now too with no means of pick-pocketing more till sometime
during the day. He sneered and ground his teeth. This was almost futile. He was
tired and growing totally impatient. He took a moment to acknowledge this along
with his state and compartmentalize it, then burying it. He was on a mission.
It was a bit odd to be saving lives instead of taking them. It reminded him of
the solo mission he was on before the Solomon Temple tragedy. It was his first
failed mission in triplicate. He lost the Sacred Chalice. He lost Adha. It was
also his only secret he had kept from Master Al Mualim. When he went on the
mission and came back with a woman and some news of the mission. Al Mualim had
devised a further plan to obtain the Sacred Chalice and concluded that since
Altaïr brought back a woman, he should wed and bed her to produce children to
be raised in the Order. This was not unusual, but Altaïr was not entirely
interested in the idea. Al Mualim gave him this task as his next mission before
sending him back out to retrieve the Chalice. With reluctance he obeyed. He
charmed Adha in his way. That he had saved her life lent well to her liking
him. It was the first time he was with a woman intimately. It made things
between him and Malik even more awkward. When Adha found out that Altaïr was
just following an order, she was furious. She almost left him there. Instead
she insisted on joining him on his mission. At first he did not know why. When
he realized that Adha WAS the Sacred Chalice, it was too late. He had lost her
to the enemy on a boat. His mission was a failure. He lost the Sacred Chalice.
He lost a woman he was starting to maybe like despite her anger at him. He
tried so hard to save her. And he lost the child she was carrying. With this
failure, Master Al Mualim decided that Altaïr could not be trusted to do
missions alone anymore. It was a blow to his pride. Instead, he was to work
with Malik, a lower ranking assassin, and Kadar, a novice. The first mission
was also the last... Solomon’s Temple.
 
Saving lives was not one of Altaïr’s strong points. It irritated him when
people apologized for the loss of Adha. It irritated him more that Brothers in
the order let him know they were still looking for Adha. To this day, Altaïr
would not say to anyone that she was the Sacred Chalice. But it was possible
someone figured it out. He never wanted a woman. But the prospect of a
child.... Altaïr shook his head as he realized he was daydreaming, or night
dreaming, wakeful dreaming. He peeked around the corner again before slipping
through the shadows to take flight off the roof down into the alley.
The sky was becoming lighter and he still had not found the mentor and novice.
The near abandoned nook of an alley surprised him with the first clues. There
lay two dead guards. One a broken mess tangled in his own bow; he must have
been pushed off a roof. The other a bloody mess stabbed in many random
inaccurate places. Altaïr shook his head at the horrible lack of skill and
tisked the mentor for his sloppiness. The tisking would have been more
effective if the mentor were actually there. At least this was a clue.
He followed the faintest traces of blood to... a hay stack? Rolling his eyes he
searched the stack and found nothing. He returned to the two dead guards and
climbed to the other building’s roof and searched there. More blood. The kills
happened up there, or at least a fight of some kind. There were smears of blood
into a roof hay stack. He searched that pile of hay too... and found the
mentor, dead with too many arrows in him to have survived. He frowned then.
Where was the novice? Now he felt foolish for not getting details from Malik.
He had no idea what this novice looked like, not even his age. He searched
roofs, souks, hay piles those little covered garden places. His pulse rushed
with more worry than he expected to have.
Altaïr slipped invisibly through the morning crowd of people to another alley
and stopped to listen in on a conversation between two women that caught his
attention.
“... he couldn’t have been more than ten years old... and the poor thing showed
up bloody and naked on the doorstep...”
“Oh my! Whatever happened?”
“I have no idea. He was in so much shock he did not say a word. I bathed him
and clothed him and gave him a place to sleep. I was going to bring him to the
synagog this morning but he was gone.”
“He must have been just so scared.”
Altaïr clenched his fists feeling even more like a failure. The boy must have
been caught by the guard, stripped down to ready him for prison, and bolted the
second he could. Knowing the novice was only about ten would help... a little.
But now there were no novice clothing to help identify him from other children.
Altaïr boldly walked up to the women and placed a coin in the hand of the one
who cared for the boy. “For your charity to a lost soul,” he murmured before
fluidly vanishing in a group of wandering monks. The boy could be wandering
dumbstruck from the shock of his mentor’s death. That alone could get him
killed. Altaïr needed to find him fast and get him to Malik for proper care.
The stress kept him awake and alert for now.
He scaled a ladder to look from a higher point for random children, regretting
not having asked the woman what the boy was wearing. His annoyance with himself
swiftly turned to inner fury. With a little reckless abandon he dropped onto a
templar guarding a crate of swords. His wrist blade slid between the back plate
armour and the helm into the soft neck as the ribs crunched from Altaïr landing
on the man. “ASSASSIN!!!” Altaïr swore not having noticed the guards that were
only a couple buildings away. Not just guards, but two more templars who were
speaking with them. It was a dangerous mistake. Not having the time to clean
and resheath the blade he took off at a dead sprint. Over a bench, shoving
people aside, diving through a merchant stall, crashing into women carrying
pots of water on their head, around sharp corners, desperately trying to lose
his unexpectedly tenacious pursuers. He managed a short climb up a balcony to
dash across a roof. They still gave chase. He spotted a boy sitting on a bench
across the street and leapt across from his roof to the roof above the boy. His
shadow was that of a low flying eagle on the cobblestones before the boy’s
eyes. The boy looked up from his toy horse to see the eagle, but saw nothing,
only some yelling templars and guards. They chased Altaïr another block over
the rooftops. They followed him into an alley.
He skidded to a halt around the sudden corner and sat on the bench next to the
boy. Leaning forward lazily, he rested his elbows on his kneed and dangled his
hands between them, hiding the bloody wrist dagger from the innocent eyes of
the child.
As the clanging of metal on stone thundered with stamping feet, guards ran past
them. Then turned to yell for the templars to follow. As the templars ran by,
the boy turned and smiled at Altaïr. He raised his toy wooden horse, “Hello,”
and proceeded to bounce the horse in the air playing, or trying to, with
Altaïr. The guards and templars barely glanced at them and ran on. When they
were well gone, the boy then spoke again, “I am lost, can you help my find my
way home?” Altaïr opened his mouth to decline, but the boy spoke again, “After
that’s clean and sheathed.” He pulled a rag from the folds of his green striped
scarf and handed it to Altaïr nodding toward the bloody offending wrist blade.
Altaïr took it a bit stunned. “Why the hell are you not at the Bureau?!”
“I was lost. I don’t know where it is. So I hid. I figured, I would keep trying
to find it, but then I heard the yell of assassin,” he explained. “They were
expecting us on the roof. They knew my mentor by name.” He looked down
confused.
“You are a sloppy killer. Were those two your first?” Altaïr found himself
asking gently. The boy nodded. “Alright, I am taking you back to Malik. He is
the rafiq of this city’s Bureau. You tell him everything. He’ll place you with
another mentor, probably, and keep you safe while you train. This mistake is
not his. He didn’t know there were extra guards out on the hunt. I have spent
all night looking for you.” The boy hugged Altaïr suddenly, leaving Altaïr
feeling very VERY awkward.
They traveled by rooftops toward the Bureau. Altaïr instructed the boy in short
curt terms what to look for, what to avoid, and how to plan a route. He then
carefully lowered the boy down through the roof access to the Bureau, hoping
Malik did not have any daytime customers. The boy’s foot touched the top of the
fountain and he made his own way down to the ground while Altaïr dropped mostly
soundlessly. They stepped into the doorway to the main room of the Bureau once
Altaïr was sure only Malik was there. “The mentor is dead. Here’s the boy. I
need sleep. I’ll be up in the roof shelter till later.” He then left the boy
there and climbed back up for much needed sleep hidden in yet another veil
covered shelter on a roof.
Chapter End Notes
     Art By:
     http://raccooncitizen.deviantart.com/art/The-Eagle-and-The-Chalice-
     212034417
     http://sunsetagain.deviantart.com/art/yaoi-slash-death-of-Adha-
     256514828
     http://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/hello-163564265
***** Malik & the Novice *****
Chapter Summary
     Malik’s doubts start to become firmed. Disturbing changes leave him
     with questions and wondering about Altaïr.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr and a thin barefooted boy in shades of green from the poor district
stepped into the doorway to the main room of the Bureau once Altaïr was sure
only Malik was there. “The mentor is dead. Here’s the boy. I need sleep. I’ll
be up in the roof hut till later.” He then left the boy there and climbed back
up for much needed sleep hidden in yet another roof hut.
The boy looked over his shoulder at Altaïr’s gruffness and whispered a thank
you to him. To Malik her spoke the common greeting, “Safety and peace, rafiq.”
Malik slammed his hand on the counter top about to yell at Altaïr, who escaped
the confrontation. He puffed out an annoyed breath and regarded the boy before
him. “Safety and peace, novice.” He looked the boy up and down. It took serious
looking, but it was indeed the novice from yesterday. The hair was roughly
chopped shorter, he was not in his usual assassin’s novice uniform, but the
face was the same. “Where is your uniform, novice?”
The boy dropped his eyes at Malik’s tone and stared at his bare wriggling toes.
“Novice, uniforms are like feathers, not easily obtained. You must take better
care of them.” Didn’t I just give this speech to Altaïr? Why must I give it
almost weekly to those who come through here? I supposed I will be giving it
daily to Altaïr now that he is here.
“I’m sorry, rafiq,” the boy mumbled with shame. “The guards were yelling my
name and chasing me... I figured I needed to look as different as I--”
"Your... name?! They knew your name?!” interrupted Malik in surprise and new
questions flew through his mind. The boy nodded and looked so much like Kadar
that moment after being called names and being pushed around to “toughen him
up” for training. The pang reminded Malik to be gentler here with this boy who
just lost his mentor. He asked the boy to lock the door and gestured for him to
follow him into the private back room. There he gave the boy some food and
retrieved a log book. “Tell me everything.” Guilt already gnawed at Malik’s
innards.
The boy nibbled quietly while thinking through the misadventure. The report he
finally gave was nothing Malik had expected.
“We went like you said. I followed Jonus cuz I didn’t really know where I was
going, but he did. It was busy in the streets. We practices hiding in the
crowds. He showed me how to jump off things into the hay. We practiced
climbing. When the sun set, we played hide and seek. There were archers in the
day, but we avoided them. There were just a few. Jonus said cities always had
archers on the roofs to protect from thieves, that they just yell at you to
leave and chase you off. So we weren’t worried during our game. They just
became part of the challenge. It was fun, especially in the dark.”
Malik watched the boy’s animated gestures and starry eyes that were so like
Kadar’s own excitement about lessons in the Order. He scribbled little notes
about the boy’s training and the mentor’s conduct. He made a personal side note
about incorporating roof guards into the training of novices. Those side notes
were for if ever he were Master of the Order. Maybe he would provide his
training ideas to Master Al Mualim. When the boy’s face fell, losing the joy,
and quieting, guilt again clamped his stomach muscles.
“I was hiding for so long I thought maybe he really lost me. So I thought I
would come catch him. I found him. He was full of arrows.” The boy’s voice now
broke a little as he tried to nibble more to prevent himself from crying, but
the tears slipped down his cheeks anyways.
Malik put down his quill and book to come gather the boy into his lap for
comfort. The boy mumbled through the rest in his broken voice, “Two others were
there waiting. I pushed one off the roof. The other almost fell too, but held
on. I took a small knife... one of Jonus’s throwing knives... And I stabbed his
hands. He fell. I jumped down after him and ... and just... stabbed and stabbed
till he stopped moving. Another guard yelled my name from the roof and I ran to
hide in the hay. Why did they know my name?”
Malik stroked through the boy’s hair like he would when Altaïr was upset as
boys. “I don’t know. I think there must be a traitor in our ranks somewhere. I
know my men can be trusted. I’ll find someone to mentor you.” Part of him was
relieved that this tragedy was not really his fault. Someone had set these two
up.
“Altaïr was real good. Can he be my mentor? He showed me how to sneak across
the roofs, and explained everything real well. Even showed me ways to remember
the buildings so I can always find my way back here.” The boy looked up at
Malik a bit hopeful to be trained under the man who found him.
This was very unlike Altaïr and helped ease some of Malik’s annoyance with him.
So, Altaïr is changing.“No, he is on a mission that you are not ready for. Part
of the tasks of an assassin are being able to find all the information you need
to take out your target swiftly. I am going to place you with someone who is
adept at this. Ready?”
The boy nodded, “Thank you, rafiq.”
Malik walked the boy out into the main room. “Go wake Altaïr and ask him to
sleep in here where it is safe.” Malik showed the boy how to climb the other
fountain and hand walk under the lattice to the opening. He stayed under him in
case the boy fell, but he didn’t. “Never touch a sleeping assassin or they
might kill you,” he advised.
Malik heard the boy call gently, “Master? Master Altaïr. Master?”
“Don’t ever call me master,” grumbled Altaïr.
“Come sleep in the Bureau please.”
The sounds of movement were followed by Altaïr lowering the boy down again into
the Bureau before dropping himself down. Malik and Altaïr stared each other in
the eyes briefly before Altaïr turned away, hood hiding his face as he mumbled
his own formal greeting. Malik sighed and rested his hand on the boy’s head to
lead him out, “Safety and peace, Altaïr. Get some sleep. I’m locking the door
on my way out.”
Chapter End Notes
     Thinking about Altaïr with a baby made me think of Malik with one and
     maybe how Malik would have been as gentle and caring to his little
     brother Kadar as Faruq was with him. This would of course translate
     down to how Malik treated other small children. Makes me want to cry
     for Malik who must be missing Kadar terribly at this moment. I might
     have to do a Kadar chapter.
***** Broken Wing *****
Chapter Summary
     What really happened to Malik’s arm? What secrets are Altaïr hiding
     about the incidents of Solomon’s Temple?
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik and Altaïr stared each other in the eyes briefly before Altaïr turned
away, hood hiding his face as he mumbled his own formal greeting. Malik sighed
and rested his hand on the boy’s head to lead him out, “Safety and peace,
Altaïr. Get some sleep. I’m locking the door on my way out.”
Altaïr watched from the shadow of his hood as Malik left the Bureau and locked
the door with a key from the outside. It was somewhat ingenious to have a key
lock embedded in a door. Altaïr thought Malik was innovative. He always did,
except when it came to the Brotherhood where Malik seemed to be so
traditionally rooted that exploring new tactics were almost a crime. It was
Altaïr’s creativity in that area that made him the best, and also made him
arrogant... enough to make a mistake that ended Kadar’s life, crushing the
trust he might have had with Malik. He winced internally. I was a fool... an
arrogant fool. But I had no choice. I tried, Malik. I tried so hard to protect
you from him.
Once he was sure Malik was gone, he set foot in the main room of the Bureau. He
strode to the supply trunk and opened it. He removed only two throwing knives
and set them in his shoulder sheaths. That would do him fine till he can
pickpocket more. I’ll collect a bunch to resupply your trunk, Malik. He then
inspected the strange lock he had never really realized was there before. You
needed the key whether you were on the inside or the outside. Clever! Remember
when we used to pretend that you were the Master of the order? I take it back,
you are brilliant, Malik. I think you are right, novices really should learn
lock-picking. Sometimes Malik could be very innovative after all, not just
Altair.
He explored around the room a bit more and stopped at the chess table. The
pieces were neatly arrange with the blacks on one side and the whites on the
other on their proper starting squares. Altaïr reached down and hesitated. A
tiny smirk flicked on his lips as he moved a white pawn from the far corner two
squares forward. It was a traditional starting move. Malik would never suspect
it was Altaïr who was anything but traditional in his moves. The slight grin
faded. It was perhaps a bit truer to his currently feelings. It was a cautious
move, a safe one. Annoyed with himself he turned from the game sharply and
explored more of the Bureau. He found the box of feathers, but it was locked.
He shook it to hear maybe two feathers within. I’ll get you more feathers too
when I climb my next eagle point. This is how I will seek your forgiveness. I
will provide for you what you need, when you need it, serve you as best I can.
I wish you were the Master.
Altaïr then found the log book. He opened it to find it written in several
languages. The first page was the Creed. He recalled having to write the Creed
out as a punishment once. He had to write it one hundred times in all six
languages and their sub-dialects. It took him almost three days and much
begging for Malik to help him at least write it properly the first time. He
flipped the pages randomly. Then he flipped to the back of the book where Malik
traditionally kept his personal side notes. As carefully as he could, Altaïr
added the note to teach novices lock-picking. Then he slid it back into the
exact position he had found it.
A few steps brought him to the fake wall, just a heavily painted curtain, into
the private back room. He lifted the edge and peered inside as he had several
nights ago. He then took a hesitant step within, letting the curtain fall
behind him. The smell of incense had lingered in the main room and permeated
into this one with the soft scent of sandalwood.
“Altaïr, why must you always tip my incense pot?” complained Malik while Kadar
stifled his snickering with his book.
“Why must you always burn that one?” Altaïr queried while watching with
amusement as Malik cleaned up the ashes.
“Altaïr, myrrh is one of the three sacred treasures that the wise kings brought
the Christ child. Myrrh is sacred.” Malik explained for what he thought was the
zillionth time to Altaïr. “If you READ your lessons in Christian philosophy,
you would know this.”
“Can’t you burn something... less heavy?” Altaïr complained.
“I have some sandalwood,” Kadar offered.
Malik had burned sandalwood ever since. Altaïr wondered if the change was
because of his request or Kadar’s offer. Likely now Malik was burning it in
memory of Kadar. It was soft and light. Altaïr frowned analyzing the scent and
he realized it was not wholly sandalwood. There was this delicate sweetness to
it. He struggled for a long while trying to recall the smell but he could not.
It was like a gap in his mind. So he abandoned the puzzling odour. He knelt by
Malik’s sleeping mat and pressed his hand to the bed.
“What are you doing?!” Altaïr yelled at the doctor. “Where is Faruq? That isn’t
so bad as to cut it off!”
“Faruq will not be back in Masyaf,” a doctor explained coolly. “Now get out and
let me work. I have my orders.”
Several people had to forcibly haul Altaïr from the healing room as people
strapped the fevered and delirious Malik down, making him drink an elixir that
made him only more delirious. A tight belt bound his bleeding arm below the
shoulder as the saw was lined up above the long gash that was angry and red,
but not infected as far as Altaïr was concerned. He did not get to see Malik
again till the next day when he nearly assassinated the caregiver in order to
gain entry. They were not caring for Malik as Altaïr felt they should. He
warned them that if they entered, he’d kill them himself. He was dead serious.
“Oh Malik. I am so sorry for my part in this.” Altaïr recalled all the times
Malik had care for him and did his vey best to return that care now. He washed
his friend, fed him broths, bandaged and rebandaged the severed nub of his arm.
Malik’s fevers and shock were terrible. He cried out often in his troubled
sleep. He also wept and wept for Kadar. Altaïr wanted to die, wished it was he
and not Kadar. He wished they had never been ordered along on this mission. He
wondered, wondered and wondered why. It made him angry with the Master, but he
did not have the courage to disobey the Master. The Master had his reasons and
they had to be just. Didn’t they?
A novice peeked in, “Altaïr?”
“Get out or die!” snarled Altaïr warningly.
The novice took a deep breath. “The Master insists on seeing you.”
It was the only reason Altaïr would leave Malik’s side. And the last time he
saw Malik before his first Jerusalem mission.
Altaïr lightly brushed his finger tips over the blanket remembering. He sank
down to his knees and leaned over to bury his face there. I did die. The Master
killed me. And by some skill, I live yet. But he holds my life in his hansd. It
ends if I do not do his bidding and take these nine lives. I’m no longer sure I
am doing the right thing, Malik. I don’t understand why I am doing these tasks.
Save me... save me from myself...
With a shaking and shuddering breath, Altaïr stood. He clenched his fists and
unclenched them. He flicked out his wrist dagger and snapped it back as he
regained his composure. Malik always seemed to unravel him in some way,
sometimes in every way. Altaïr made his way out to the carpets and cushions. He
decided he was overtired and that must be the reason for this... this...
weakness of mind. The Master would be furious with him for giving in. He
carefully removed his weaponry and armour so as to lie as comfortably as he
could. He needed real sleep to start that mission. When Malik comes back, I
will start. Sleep stole his thoughts almost immediately.
Chapter End Notes
     - Malik gets his wing cut, the art that inspired this chapter. See
     MIYOart’s picture. http://silvestervitale.deviantart.com/art/Wing-
     Cut-182018496
     - I’ve been admiring this picture from doubleleaf for a long while
     for a fanfiction option. It is one of the very first that inspired me
     with the pairing of Malik and Altaïr. http://
     doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/while-you-were-sleeping-144961142
***** Malik's Turmoil *****
Altaïrcarefully removed his weaponry and armour so as to lie as comfortably as
he could. He needed real sleep to start that mission. Sleep stole his thoughts
almost immediately.
Malik had walked the boy into the rich district of Jerusalem to an estate he
knew. The man of the estate greeted him well as Malik handed over a scroll with
a small masterfully scripted prayer on it. If ever asked why the scribe was
here, it was to deliver the scroll. The boy was then left with the man, the
elderly rafiq Malik had taken over the bureau from. This rafiq’s two sons were
some of Malik’s most trusted informants. The boy would be well trained and
raised here, protected and away from the mysterious dangers that seemed to be
leaking out of Masyaf.
Malik felt like a traitor himself by doing this secretly behind Al Mualim’s
back. He disagreed on too many levels with the training tactic and the danger
this novice was put in, even more so with whoever gave up their location and
names to the guard. He also wondered over and over, who told the guards the two
would be here training. Who told the guards their names? Why kill a low ranking
assassin and the boy he is teaching? What threat were they? How many others
were falling prey to this? Not in my city. Not ever in my care. This is MY city
and I take my job seriously. The Creed is for all, even Al Mualim. Dear
gods,Altaïr, what have you gotten into? How long have you been involved?The
most disturbing thought of all came to his mind. Was it planned for my brother
and I to die? Did you know, Altaïr?
Things were falling into place in his suspicious mind; the answers were
beginning to arise. He pressed his hand on the door of the Bureau to calm his
sudden fury. Why did you not tell me? Why did you not trust me? Did you think
yourself so above things, so elite that you would not need help? You arrogant
ass!
Seething, he unlocked the door and entered, locking it behind himself because
he did not trust his temper right now should a client enter. He was about to
storm to the lattice covered room to tear some shreds out of Altaïr when a
change in his environment made him pause. He stood frozen scanning everything
carefully for what might have changed in the previously perfectly placed items
of the room. Then he saw it. The white pawn was moved. He frowned at it. It was
just a pawn. It was a safe, restrained move. Altaïr usually moved the knight
out boldly first. This move told Malik more about Altaïr than he wanted to
know.
Malik, I am a pawn. I am afraid. I don’t know how to get out. I feel powerless.
Malik’s fury melted away and he moved a black pawn to meet the white one. I
made you a promise once. I am never far if you need me. All you need to do is
ask. Swallow your god be damned pride and ask! He sighed and looked in the sun
dappled room at the sleeping assassin. He leaned in the doorway and watched
Altaïr for a long while.
He felt some relief that Altaïr was actually sleeping, albeit somewhat
fitfully, but still. Malik placed his log book on the counter and retrieved his
quill and ink. Then he lit the incense pot and sprinkled a powder over it. The
jar was getting low, so he drew out a bowl to mix more. White sandalwood powder
made up the base and majority. Then he added some orris root powder and a hint
of vanilla. Those made a gentle sweetening he had found Altaïr seemed to like
when they were teens. He recalled the conversation that day with his brother,
Kadar, suggesting the sandalwood. A pinch of the myrrh completed this mixture.
Malik could not help but smile a little at the silliness of how Altaïr liked
such a feminine scent as orris root. Malik glanced up, but Altaïr slept on.
Sitting upon a stool, Malik began to write in the log book the news from the
boy that he had not written yet. He then added something traitorous. He
mentioned the boy’s wounds and fever and that the boy perished soon after. It
would be the first black mark on his otherwise perfect record of saving lives
in this Bureau. He then flipped to the end of the book to record other little
notes of interest about training. He frowned at the messy scribble in there
that was not his own. It was barely legible. Novissis shood lern to pik loks.
First he nodded as it was a good idea, truly. Then he slammed the book shut
angry that someone had possibly perused this secret log and dared scribble in
it. He glared in the side room at the figure tossing over on the pillows. Only
Altaïr’s writing was that bad. He smirked as he opened the book to the back
again and added his own comment next to the note. Make Altaïr keep his own
journal to help his literary skills which clearly lack and improve his truly
abysmal penmanship. Most pleased with his small venting, he went on to make the
earlier notes he had originally opened the book for.
He prepared a late lunch, or maybe more like an early supper and set some on a
tray for Altaïr. Everyone was an enemy to Altaïr, apparently even in his
dreams. It troubled Malik as he watched Altaïr tensing and rolling over with a
dagger in hand to attack an unseen dream enemy. He wanted to know more, but
Altaïr was like an iron box with no lid, hinges or key. And just when you think
you found a way in, the box transforms to a golden eagle and either attacks or
takes flight or both. Malik had had time to mostly heal from the loss of his
brother, but Altaïr was still alive and he was beginning to miss the closeness
they once shared. Altaïr had become so overbearing and reckless, like the Creed
no longer applied to him. He had pushed Malik and Kadar to a distance when he
was taking his solo missions. Then avoided them altogether as if they were too
low a rank to even bother looking at. Now Altaïr was nothing, barely fourth or
fifth rank assassin, little more than a novice despite his skills which clearly
had not diminished with his rank.
Malik put the book away and sprinkled a little more incense to burn. He pecked
through his food watching Altaïr sleep. At least till the assassin finally
rolled over facing him. Altaïr almost never showed his face to Malik. Even when
he was nude and bathing, Malik noticed how Altaïr never faced him. He wanted to
push back that hood and look him in the eye, see those golden eyes like he did
that brief moment. He wanted to demand answers. Altaïr sat up and tugged the
hood to hide his features before standing and shaking himself properly awake.
It annoyed Malik to no end being avoided like this. He figured Altaïr would
continue this path of avoidance and not bother to trust him or ask for
assistance. His annoyance grew as he also figured Altaïr didn’t really have a
reason to trust him. Why would he? Why would I want to be close to him in any
way? DAMMIT! Why DO I want to be close to him?
Malik struggled with the onslaught of old wounds of the heart. He struggled
with the ideas he has had of Altaïr’s betrayal of the Brotherhood, reminded
that Altaïr lost his rank and for very good reason. Last time he saw Altaïr
there was still that arrogance. Altaïr was fighting the treatment of others.
That fight though seemed less so now. Malik watched Altaïr approach the doorway
and stop. He took reserved... restrained and measured steps into the main room.
Altaïr kept several arm lengths warily away from the counter. Last time he was
in this room, he was practically in Malik’s face and they yelled things at one
another. With a little more thought, Ok, maybe it was just me yelling.
“I am ready to start my mission,” Altaïr stated in his low and slightly husky
voice.
Malik’s mouth totally betrayed his wish to be civil, “You have been here a
whole week already without really starting, have you forgotten who your target
is?” Seeing Altaïr tense and turn a little stabbed Malik with a hint of regret.
That regret faded the second Altaïr retorted, “Of course not!” the tone
snappish. “I am here for the Regent.” There was a long pause where Altaïr eyed
the ground in front of the counter. Malik wondered what introspection was going
on in Altaïr’s mind. “And with your help, rafiq, I will end him.”
Malik blinked several times in silence. “You... are actually asking for my
help?”
“Just tell me where to begin!” snapped Altaïr again.
Only then did Malik realize his question sounded condescending. He pulled out a
map of Jerusalem and pointed to each place he mentioned in the poor middle
district. Altaïr did not approach to look at the map. So, Malik added, “return
here after you find each piece of news... and Altaïr, be careful.”
The hood shifted enough for a brief look at Altaïr’s eyes before it tipped and
swallow the features in shadow again, “Safety and peace, rafiq.” Altaïr’s steps
were careful even upon leaving. Malik watched with a little relief as Altaïr
stuffed some of the food from the tray into his belt pouches before climbing
out the roof access.
Altaïr’s attitude had definitely been changing over the year. He seemed to
relatively be holding to the Creed and understandings of the Order. He did,
however, still kill with enough recklessness to set off the entire city alarms
when he ended the life of someone in power within the city. Malik hoped this
would not be the case, but resigned himself to the fact that it likely would
be. Altaïr always accomplished his task, even if he abandoned discretion and
any sense of self-preservation. That last thought left Malik’s stomach in
knots. He had better report in after each thing he finds.
***** Altair's Mistake *****
Chapter Summary
     This chapter was inspired by some Deviant Art works called Leap of
     Faith featuring Alrair.
Chapter Notes
     French-English Translations
     Chalice = chalice
     “Voleur maudit! Je te trancherais ta gorge! ” = “Foul Thief! I’ll cut
     your throat!”
     “Dégage!” = “Get lost!”
     “Sacré -” = “Holy -”
     “Les flammes de l'enfer te dévoront.” = “The flames of Hell will
     devour you.”
     “Je t’áttendais, assassin. Ça me donerais plaisir,” = “I have waited
     for you, assassin. This will give me pleasure.”
     ~Parle moins, Tempier.~ = Talk less, Templar.
The hood shifted enough for Altaïr to briefly look at Malik’s eyes before it
tipped and swallowed his features in shadow again, “Safety and peace, rafiq.”
Altaïr’s steps were careful even upon leaving. Malik watched as Altaïr stuffed
some of the food from the tray into his belt pouches before climbing out the
roof access.
It twisted in his gut like a dull blade to stand and be so disdainfully spoken
to by Malik. Altaïr endured it, though, like so many other wounds. However,
this one he felt he more than deserves. If my penance is to serve you and to
take your sting as I do, so be it. I am not asking for forgiveness. My sins are
too great. But... maybe...
Altaïr shook his head. There was no maybe. The Master made it clear. There were
only these nine lives for his own, and these lessons of the Creed he was to
relearn by being stripped down to novice status. Yet, these lessons were
confusing with what he was learning from his targets. They blurred the edges of
his black-and-white world into hazy shades of grey. Even up on the highest
wall, the world looked no clearer. The line between right and wrong was not so
obvious.
He climbed the lookout tower and almost tossed the guard over the side without
a thought, but the guard cringed. He begged mercy. Altaïr hesitated. Then he
wondered why he hesitated. The guard pleaded again. Altaïr’s wrist dagger
snapped back into its sheath as he turned from the terrified bowman. He climbed
to where and eagle screeched at him a moment before it took flight. He lifted
his head to the late afternoon sun, spread his arms like wings and closed his
eyes. He waited. He was such an easy target for that bowman. But no arrow
pierced him. He then dropped his arms almost disappointed, wondering what
divine power was out there and if it had a plan for him.
“There is no God. There are just those that came before.”
Adha’s darker amber eyes gazed at Altaïr through thick dark lashes. “But there
is a God. You need only have faith. Those who came before, those great and
gifted beings of God helped shape mankind, helped teach and guide and even
protect mankind. We are special like that Altaïr. We are of them. Assassin, you
may call me Adha, Adha Chalice. We are all of God for God is in all things from
the foulest smelling dirt to the glory of the sun in the sky.”
“Blasphemy!”
“Not blasphemy, Altaïr,” she replied softly.
“Nothing is true,” he parroted Master Al Mualim’s words.
Her fingers lightly touched the scar on his lips, “Take a leap of faith for me,
Altaïr.”
Altaïr spread his arms again and leapt. The bowman yelped in shock at the
suicide leap and lunged to try to save this crazy man in white, but missed the
hem of the robes. The feel of the air rushing through his robes in this brief
flight made him forget everything but the feel of feathered flight. A dip and
roll and he dived, turning neatly over till he fell trustingly. It helped clear
his mind and stir his blood. The eagle soared above where he watched as he
fell. Feathers scattered from startled pigeons. The bowman watched the fall in
disbelief.
[http://thehotmageaeris.deviantart.com/art/Leap-of-Faith-69925866]   [http://
silentseraphim.deviantart.com/art/Leap-of-Faith-144921809]
The only drawback to landing, other than the risk of going splat from missing
the soft hay was occasionally “PTUI!” having to spit out hay.
“Voleur maudit! Je te trancherais ta gorge!” yelled a guard at a woman that he
and two others picked on.
Altaïr brushed the hay from his clothes distracted, ignoring the scene of
harassment as everyone else was. His eyes on the hay he picked from his sleeve,
he bumped into one of those guards. “Dégage!” the guard gestured rudely. “Sacré
-” Then gurgled in death from the wrist dagger Altaïr was pulling from his gut.
A flutter and swirl of robes, a spin and whistle of steel, Altaïr’s sword
revealed itself to embed into the second guard. The third charged him daringly,
only to be dispatch as quickly as the rest. Altaïr melted into the stunned
crowd as the woman thanked him for his aid.
An approaching guard yelled alert. Golden eyes took in the surroundings for an
escape. Altaïr dashed off and darted around a corner. He crashed into the metal
plate armour of a templar. I should have gone left and not right. Dammit. More
yells rang through the narrow alley and echoed off the walls. Altaïr fumbled
out his sword barely in time to deflect the templar’s. Blades arced. Blades
clanged. More guards yelled. The thunder of many feet hit the cobblestones.
Altaïr dodged a slice. It still managed to bite across his thigh sharply. He
staggered. His sword pommel crushed the nose of a guard who came close enough.
But it glanced off the helm of another. The guards were better armoured. The
Templar’s sword bit a chink out of Altaïr’s right arm guard. Pain bloomed there
and was immediately abandoned.
Altaïr’s world narrowed to this alley, this fight, these lives, and any opening
for an escape as his strength was being worn down. The ground was slick and
slippery with the blood of the fallen. He jumped for some crates but was thrown
down on the other side. Steel jabbed his shoulder, he felt the shove but not
the pain. Numbness was consuming it. Parry, dodge, stab were all that echoed in
his thoughts. A master swordsman fought against men of better armour. The
templar’s metal-clad fist blinded Altaïr for a moment. Awareness came back as
he lay on the floor, awareness of pain, awareness of the Templar over him. The
scene shimmered like heat off hot stones.
“Les flammes de l'enfer te dévoront.” The templar raised his sword to deal a
final blow. “Je t’áttendais, assassin. Ça me donerais plaisir,” gloated the
Templar as his sword arced down upon Altaïr.
Parle moins, Templier. Altair stilled, measuring each painful breath, and
waited.
CLASH!
***** Malik's Promise *****
Chapter Notes
     Heehee... more Tibah! You asked for a little more Kadar. It is tiny,
     but it is here... so is a little yaoi subtlety between Malik and
     Altaïr!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Les flammes de l'enfer vont te dévorer.” The Templar raised his sword to deal
a final blow. “J’étais t’áttendre, assassin. Ça me donnerais plaisir,” gloated
the Templar as his sword arced down upon Altaïr.
Altaïr stilled, measuring each painful breath and waited. Parlez moins,
Templar.
*CLASH!*
Altaïr’s attitude had definitely been changing over the year. He seemed to
relatively be holding to the Creed and understanding the rules of the Order. He
did, however, still kill with enough recklessness to set off all the city
alarms when he ended the life of someone in power within the city. Malik hoped
this would not be the case, but resigned himself to the fact that it likely
would be. Altaïr always accomplished his task, even if he abandoned discretion
and any sense of self-preservation. That last thought left Malik’s stomach in
knots. He had better report in after each thing he finds.
*CRASH!*
Malik stared down over the counter where his ink pot fell and shatter on the
stone floor messily. At least the Acre map was not ruined. He chastised himself
quietly for being distracted with worry for a man who vexed him as much as
Altaïr did. The red spill of ink on the floor seemed ominous and his stomach
clenched. I’ll kill him myself if he does not return.
Walking around the counter through the gate, he dropped a cloth on the spill to
soak up the ink. He fetched a pail for the mess and knelt to clean it up. The
door opened while he was there. “Rafiq?” Tibah’s delicate question interrupted
his worrying. He dumped the remains of his bottle and ink into pail and greeted
her. She smiled pleasantly, “Let me help you, rafiq.” She came and finished the
cleanup before he could refuse. Her brother entered and left several times,
depositing boxes. “I brought supplies as promised.” Her brother frowned at her
forwardness again, but said nothing.
“Thank you, Miss Tibah. We should discuss the ... ...” he could not finish his
statement as he perused the supplies. The boxes contained more bandages than he
could ever buy in one venture and of extreme quality, bottles of disinfectant
quality alcohol, spools of waxed thread, salves and lubricants, herbal
medicines and teas. “In the name of...”
“Rafiq, one should not risk taking the Lord’s name in vain,” she gently
reminded.
“It would not been in vain but a true prayer of thanks,” he breathed. “I can
never... Miss Tibah...” There were even supplies of the most refined surgical
blades. “Where did you? How did you?”
She smiled at how he could not complete a single sentence or question. She
rinsed the rags with fountain water and returned to dry her hands on her
layered skirt. “Do they please you?”
Malik had no idea what to answer. This was the best set of medical supplies he
could have ever wished for. Not even the Bureau supplied him this well. These
supplies in totality could cost someone the price of a smaller estate property.
He wondered where she obtained this money. For a girl of only fifteen, she was
already darned amazing... and maybe dangerous for that. “They... they please me
greatly, but I cannot compensate you.”
“I think you can. Remember, I ask only for your trust.” She tucked her head
scarf more neatly.
“Yes, trust... and something else,” he mentioned warily.
Tibah smiled softly, a veiled smile. “I will ask it of you later, but it is not
anything impossible, I assure you. Will you be visiting the stall this week?
Should I plan to have anything in particular for you? Maybe... red ink?” she
deftly changed the subject and it reeled him. She peeked on the counter at the
map.
Malik caught himself and came over. “The map for your father will be ready by
the end of the week. And yes, I suppose I will need more red ink. I’ll come by
tomorrow.”
She dipped a tiny curtsy before leaving.
Malik stood feeling a bit dumb, a lot invaded, and totally entrapped. These
supplies were needed. The best doctors alone had these wares. He wondered if
his brothers and God had a hand in this provisioning. The map forgotten for the
day, he spent it moving the boxes and supplies into his back room or up into
the storage room, lining the shelves with the jars and bottles. He inspected
the small scalpels in amazement. The strange thread spool of a substance he did
not recognize confused him, as did some curved needles. Excited with the new
finds, he delved into the medical books he had for clues as to their uses. He
found no references and concluded he needed new books.
Trust...
Malik wondered about that. Who could be trusted? There were the few informants
he maintained and a select few new ones he established on his own here. There
was the ex-Bureau rafiq. His trust in the rest of the brotherhood and in Master
Al Mualim was shaking though. A glimpse through a window told him that it was
already close to midnight. He double checked locks, cleaned the souk and set
out extra pillows. In a vague hope that Altaïr might return this night, he set
out some food with a basket over it to prevent the pigeons from attacking it.
He wondered if that spilled ink was really an omen. The sinking feeling in his
gut kept reminding him. Was it a coincidence that all the medical supplies he
could need arrived today because they were going to be needed? He looked up
through the lattice roof. The breeze proved quite chill so he set out an extra
blanket.
Trust...
He wondered when the last time he and Altaïr really trusted one another. It was
a few years ago when Al Mualim had given Altaïr a series of solo missions.
Altaïr had been in private discussion with Al Mualim for hours, but would tell
Malik nothing of the missions. Malik had tried to not be jealous. He had just
earned his own full ranked assassin whites as Kadar had received his greys.
Altaïr was a master assassin with the neat black stitching on his robes to
indicate it. His arrogance proved the rank change too. But that last night
together, Altaïr had been anything but arrogant.
The three ran out to the farthest stack of hay to stare at the stars together.
Kadar was as excited for his brother as he was for Altaïr. The teen’s
idolization of Altaïr also bugged Malik and made him a bit jealous. Tonight was
a night to abandon all things. They would be separated by noon the next day.
Malik wanted to know why. Partners were a common practice that Al Mualim was
changing this year. He let it slide so as not to start a fight, not to part
company in argument. Kadar was already asleep and cuddling against Malik’s
back. He rolled his eyes facing Altaïr in the hay. There would be nothing
private this night... or likely any other after this. Altaïr reached out and
gripped Malik’s hand. Malik ran his other fingers through Altaïr’s hair. He
always loved how incredibly feather soft Altaïr’s hair was.
“Remember our promise to each other, Altaïr?” Malik asked.
“Yes... and don’t you forget it,” the arrogance slid into Altaïr’s voice and
then vanished in wariness, “... no matter what, even if... just... no matter
what happens between us.”
There was always this slight lack of trust and yet total trust. Something
Altaïr was always hiding and yet the almost desperate trust in his golden eyes
would make Malik just nod. “No matter what, I will be here for you. You will
never be alone. You can always... and I mean always... trust me.”
Trust...
                              [Sleep in the Hay]
They slept together in that hay trusting in their safety, relaxed with the
peace between them all. Safety and peace. Kadar nestled behind his brother,
softly snoring. Altaïr slept with his arms tucked under his head facing Malik,
tensing in phantom dreams that always plagued him. Malik stayed awake to watch
him as long as he could. This... the last day they truly shared trust.
Even as Malik curled on the carpet of the souk, he wondered if trust would ever
be regained between them. He drifted off to sleep there unintentionally.
Chapter End Notes
     Art by http://the-evil-legacy.deviantart.com/art/Sleep-in-the-hay-
     149961454
***** Alrair Solace of Night *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr stilled, measuring each painful breath and waited. Parlez moins,
Templier.
*CLASH!*
Altaïr’s wrist blade trapped the Templar’s sword as his own sword thrust
through the lacings of the plate armor, broke ribs and pierced the Templar’s
chest. The world blackened for Altaïr then.
Even as Malik curled on the carpet of the souk, he wondered if trust would ever
be regained between them. Malik drifted off to sleep there unintentionally,
totally unaware of Altaïr’s situation.
It was many hours, or had to have been since there were stars in the sky, when
Altaïr opened his eyes and looked up. He could hardly breath, crushed by a
weight upon him. The tang of blood lingered in the air. As his wits gathered,
he realized the Templar lay half on him in his heavy plate armor, thus the
weight hindering Altaïr’s breathing. He shoved the body off and sat up. The
blood had not seeped in his direction and thankfully had not stained his
clothes. He didn’t want to have to listen to Malik yelling at him about robes
again.
He stood to take stock of his situation. Everyone was dead in the alley. He
barely remembered the details of the fight, they were such a blur. In the
morning, more guards would come to check the dead with people to dispose of
them. He needed to be scarce. He needed to find some shelter and check his own
wounds. He hauled himself up onto the roof and rolled into a roof souk.
His right arm throbbed under his arm guard and at his shoulder. He twisted to
see if his shoulder was stabbed, but could not see blood. It just ached. His
right hand was not swelling, so there was no break in the bones under the arm
guard. The pains then in his right arm could be ignored and promptly were. He
snapped his wrist blade out and in and out and in to make sure it was not
damaged by the sword. The leather glove was ruined though. He pulled it off to
see blood. The bandages Malik had placed there were soaked and torn. A new cut
added to the old one. Altaïr discarded the ruined glove and pulled off the
ruined bandages. This needed attention. He emptied one of his small water
bottles over it to clean it. It actually wasn’t so bad. The cut was not deep.
He debated a moment then dug out of a belt pouch a thick roll of bandaging
material. He crudely wrapped his hand and tied it off with his teeth.
The other wound he knew required attention, needed some delicacy. He peered
through the curtains of the souk and spotted an archer walking along the roof
of another building. He’d have to be very very quiet for this. Altaïr peeked
through the cut in his pants at the wound on his thigh. Grumbling in his head
at the total annoyance of this, he resigned himself and removed his belts at
his waist and his abdominal armour. Then he took off the red sash and opened
his robes. He peeked through the curtains again to keep note of the archer’s
location and make sure that location was no closer. Lying on his back a moment,
he pushed his pants down to his knees. This cut on his thigh was not good. He
sat and inspected it a bit longer, through gritting teeth, to make sure there
was nothing actually in the cut. He emptied his second water bottle over this
wound to wash it. Taking some of the bandaging and folding it into the pad, he
pressed it onto the gash. The rest of the bandaging he used to wrap his thigh
tightly. This will do. It had to. He was used to this kind of rough self-
healing. He has had a few years of it now.
Feeling very exposed, he pulled his pants back up and restrapped all his gear
back into place. Another peek proved that the archer was still pacing the roof
of the other building. In white, Altaïr was a very visible moving target at
night. So he chose to sit there a while longer till he could totally ignore all
his pains. While he sat, he reviewed his actions and reflected upon his errors.
He replayed the words spoken, translating them in his head.
"J'étais t'áttendre, assassin. Ça me donnerais plaisir," gloated the Templar.
It was then that Altaïr tensed with realization. They were waiting for him. Or
at least that Templar was. They were waiting either him or another assassin. It
was more proof of a leak within the Order. Malik needed to know. Altaïr peeked
at the archer again, though this time watched and calculated the archer’s
pacing. The archer turned his back. Altaïr slipped out of the souk and dropped
between the buildings out of sight.
He made his way back to the bureau carefully. His feet dextrously walked over
the lattice of the Bureau’s indoor souk. He dropped down, catching the lattice
in his fingers, his feet dangling gracelessly as he struggled suddenly to
recover and pull himself up. If his reflexes were poorer, he might have landed
right on top of Malik. He peered through the lattice glaringly at Malik asleep
on the carpets. You have your OWN bed... in the back... safe... Stupid
stupid... I could have hurt you. Huffing he walked along the wall edge and
climbed down over the fountain instead.
Silently he walked around Malik’s sleeping form to the basket on the floor,
shooing the curious pigeons from his dinner. He sat on the floor, lifting the
basket and eating his fill off the tray. He watched Malik as he ate. This is
the closest he had gotten to Malik in a long while. Now and then he saw Malik
frown in his sleep and wondered if he was chastising a dream Altaïr over the
death of Kadar or the loss of his arm. Wincing at that possibility, he could
watch no longer. He walked instead into the main room and planned to move his
white pawn a square. Malik’s black pawn blocked his path. So you block me...
will you wall me out? Or will you kill me? He moved the next pawn forward two
places into a square where Malik’s pawn could take it. We are nothing but
pawns... can I trust you? Will you catch me when I fall?
He abandoned the board and looked over the map of Acre on the counter that
Malik was working on. He noted the red stain on the floor and felt a chill
creep through him. His golden eyes snapped to Malik wondering if he was hurt,
if this blood was his. He knelt to see how old it was; maybe it belonged to
another assassin. It had been so well wiped, he almost missed it. There was no
way to tell how fresh the stain was. His sharp eyes studied Malik from where he
knelt. Malik slept with slow even breaths. Altaïr sighed in relief.
He eased the wood gate open and moved behind the counter. A quick peek into the
back room told him no one was there healing. Then why is he in MY bed?
“Malik! Why are you in my bed?” declared Altaïr after the brief celebration of
his fourteenth birthday.
“Because I find you in mine all the time,” Malik countered, eyes teasing.
Altaïr shook his head of the memory, one long gone now. He dared not go into
this private area. Not again. Instead he invaded Malik’s privacy in other ways.
He set a handful of feathers, from an eagle point he had collected on the way,
on top of the box where Malik kept them. Then he removed the log book
carefully, glancing up often to make sure Malik was not waking. He opened it to
the back entries. Altaïr could not help the small smirk as he read the note of
what Malik intended for him. He searched for a scrap of paper and some means to
write. On this scrap he wrote a note. It had lots of scratching out and
retrying. Writing was not easy for Altaïr. It took more concentration than he
ever wanted. When he was finally done and the ink dried, he folded it and
slipped it in between the pages to mark where Malik left off in the back of the
log book. His pulse raced a little nervously at this note he left. He replaced
the book perfectly.
He wiped some sweat from his brow annoyed that he should stress so much over
something so small. His footfalls remained silent as he returned to the souk
where he stood over Malik wondering what to do next. Malik hugged a large
pillow. Altaïr could imagine both Malik’s arms tucked under it comfortably, but
there was just the one. He carefully stepped over the sleeping form and knelt
down. His eyes noted every line and edge, ever hair, the play of moonlight on
Malik’s cheek. Very carefully he rested his hand on Malik’s back. There was a
soft murmur but no more. Since Malik did not stir, he ventured to touch through
Malik’s hair with his other hand. The thick dark hair poked between his
fingers. He smiled as he played through Malik’s hair a while. Malik was always
the deeper sleeper between them. “Safety and Peace, Malik,” he whispered as he
drew away. He climbed back up the fountain and out of the Bureau to find a roof
souk to sleep in.
“... Mmmm? Altaïr?”
Chapter End Notes
     There was art for this called Solace of Night by Myoart. However, I
     am not able to find it.
***** Malik's Chasm *****
Chapter Summary
     This is all about touch and go. The bad blood between Malik and
     Altaïr make it hard to overcome and reconnect. Malik is temperamental
     for many more reasons than just what Altaïr has been held responsible
     for. I may reveal some of that later in another chapter. Altaïr
     carries the weight of that responsibility, constantly reminded of his
     failures... no longer the Great Eagle of Masyaf, not in his own eyes
     anyways. Two broken men, will they ever heal?
“Safety and Peace, Malik,” Altaïr whispered as he drew away. He climbed back up
the fountain and out of the Bureau to find a roof souk to sleep in.
“... Mmmm? Altaïr?”
Malik thought he heard Altaïr’s voice. He opened his sleep blurred eyes to the
moonlit sight of white and grey fluttering wings by the edge of the roof access
to the Bureau. He almost concluded it was just pigeons, but his back was still
warm where Altaïr’s hand had rested against it. A lump choked Malik’s throat a
moment and he had to swallow several times for composure. As he scrubbed his
eyes to clear away the sleep, he noted that the food had been eaten from the
tray, and the basket left off. He tiredly cleaned up, sort of. He abandoned the
tray on his counter as he passed to his rear private room where he slept,
figuring Altaïr was not coming this night.
Malik woke early, worry gnawing his gut still. Another assassin arrived in the
Bureau to exchange news and guidance for his next mission. His bald head beaded
slightly with sweat from the heat of the day. His target was a specific Templar
coordinating inspection efforts. When he left for his mission, Malik wondered
why in all of God’s glory Altaïr could not so easily follow respectful protocol
like this man.
He had his large log book on the counter to record the mission and who was on
it and the news from Masyaf. Belatedly, he regretted not asking about why
trainees were being sent to Jerusalem with their mentors. He promised himself
he would ask when the assassin returned with his information, when he came to
get the feather for his kill.
He never saw the slip of paper marking the back of the book as he thumped it
back under the counter on a shelf. He did however note the collection of eagle
feathers. How could he not? As his book thumped, the feathers puffed off the
shelf to scatter all over the floor. There was a moment of confusion on his
face till he concluded that Altaïr was indeed here. He snatched up each feather
as if he could strangle them in Altaïr’s place. Where the hell are you? What
part of show up every day and give me news did you NOT understand!? You never
listen and follow the rules! He grumbled through most of his day.
Altaïr did drop in around lunch. He stopped at the door. Malik looked up. The
silence grew uncomfortable between them until Altaïr took several slow steps
into the room. Malik glared at Altaïr and returned his attention to the map. He
tried to banish his anger for being made to worry, though he covertly watched
Altaïr. The assassin really was reserved and restrained about coming in here.
Then why touch him while sleeping? It really muddled Malik’s emotions, and he
hated feeling out of sorts.
“Safety and peace, rafiq.”
Malik lifted his head repeating the greeting. Only then did he actually note
the missing left glove. “Altaïr, where is your glove?” as if he spoke to a
petulant child. He could see the bandaging around the hand and the fresher
spots of blood from climbing with a wounded hand.
“I discarded it,” was Altaïr’s simple husky excuse.
Malik was immediately vexed by Altaïr’s disregard. “You can’t just go throwing
these things away! Altaïr, it could have been salvaged.”
“No, it was ruined. It could not.” Altaïr’s voice rose a little with
indignation.
“Altaïr everything can be salvaged!” Malik found himself snapping loudly enough
to be considered almost yelling. He expected Altaïr to yell back.
And he did, “I cannot be salvaged!”
They both froze.
Altaïr’s hands fisted tightly and shook slightly. If the silence earlier was
uncomfortable, this was definitely more so. Malik didn’t expect those words, of
any words, to come from Altaïr. He wanted to contradict Altaïr but could not
find his voice. Altaïr was already turning away.
Malik retrieved a small box of bandages and salve. He wanted to get Altaïr to
stay still long enough to properly treat all those wounds he had seen when
Altaïr had bathed. Instead he insisted on seeing the hand. Altaïr was
mysteriously always a fast healer, almost unnaturally. But his wounds did still
take some time. If infected, or worse healed over and infected, they could be
the death of him. That anxious thought turned his next request into a harsh
demand unintentionally. “Remove the bandages, wash it and come back for me to
see it.”
Altaïr’s wary step away reminded Malik yet again how poorly chosen his tone
was. Altaïr’s shoulders were sagged enough that Malik noticed. He also noticed
how Altaïr complied with this demand with no complaint, but for how long?
Likely only long enough till he could take flight again like a wary wounded
eagle. Altaïr retreated cautiously into the souk and filled a basin with water
from the fountain to wash. Malik hmphed in surprise that Altaïr remembered to
not dirty the drinking fountain.
While Altaïr washed his hand, Malik located a replacement glove from the supply
trunk. The chessboard caught his eye with the sacrificial white pawn. In light
of what flew from Altaïr’s lips, a sacrificial pawn made depressing sense.
Malik moved a pawn forward to be diagonal to Altaïr’s second pawn, offering his
own sacrifice or giving Altaïr’s pawn room to pass between his two black ones.
We are equals Altaïr.
Altaïr returned to the room by the time Malik was behind the counter again. The
Acre map was rolled to protect it. Without a word, Altaïr held out his hand.
Malik took it remarkably gently in his own and looked at it. There was a second
cut added to the first one he had bandaged, but it was not too terrible. He
rubbed the healing salve into it and rebandaged it while Altaïr held very
still. Malik inspected the wrist blade to make sure it was not damaged and
considered Altaïr lucky his wrist was not sliced.
The quiet was so powerful that Malik felt he could not disturb it much. He
asked in a hushed voice, “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He looked into Altaïr’s
face, but the hood shadowed most of it. The urge to push it back and see
Altaïr’s eyes was strong, but he knew he could not reach that far with the
counter between them. Maybe Altaïr planned that. Maybe Malik did unconsciously
out of habit of being angry and distrustful of Altaïr. It was too late to
change that now.
Altaïr turned his head and Malik thought he would leave. His posture was of
slight guilt, he had seen it before. It was both admittance that yes he was
wounded elsewhere and refusal. “It is just a graze,” his deep voice was almost
a whisper.
“Let me see it?” Malik asked, hoping his gentler tone would encourage Altaïr to
trust him at least to heal him.
Malik was disappointed though as Altaïr turned him down. “I will be fine. You
are busy... and I have yet to find news of my target.”
Malik burst out of frustration, “I have seen you wounded before. I have seen
the marks on you from your other missions. The Dai of the Bureaus are all
skilled in mending these. Have you not let them either?!”
“They aren’t... not...” Altaïr changed topic most annoyingly, “The rafiq of
Acre’s hand is old and shakes.”
“Clearly so does yours with how badly those other wounds healed. At least he
had salves!” Malik could not understand why his anger was overpowering him.
Altaïr seemed to drive it out of him. “What about in Damscus? Did you not
bother there either?”
After some silence Altaïr retreated to the door of the souk. Over his shoulder
he shot back, “He refused,” and fled out the roof access.
Refused?!
Healing was one of the crucial responsibilities of a rafique or a Dai in the
Bureau. Each rafiq was trained in simple mending, enough to save a life or hold
it till a trusted physician could be found. Malik was more than shocked to hear
the rafiq in Damascus refused to heal Altaïr. It added to the other worrisome
things he had heard over the year. While he healed some from the loss of his
brother and his arm, and didn’t exactly hold Altaïr at fault for either
anymore, others still did. He understood how Altaïr was not responsible, yet Al
Mualim made a spectacle of Altaïr and thus branded him a traitor in the minds
of all other brothers.
The chasm was so wide between Malik and Altaïr. They had been forced apart by
their duties as assassins on solo missions, driven apart by some unknown plan.
The catastrophe of Solomon’s Temple split an unbreachable gorge in their
hearts. The chasm was only further widened by blood and hurt emotions, and new
roles and positions within the Order. They were two eagles, who had flown as
one for so long, that now flew solo and alone. Both bore the hardship of broken
wings in different ways. Both lost their mate in that one catastrophe. The
questions that hung in the air like stray feathers was... how to bridge the
gap. Can the gap be bridged?
Malik recalled the warmth on his back from what he was sure now was Altaïr’s
hand there when he had woken last night. Altaïr wanted to be close, to trust
and be trusted. So did Malik. They just could not figure out how.
***** Altair Hurting *****
Chapter Summary
     Some things cannot be left on their own... neither can some people.
Chapter Notes
     The grumpy kid memory. Thanks to Deviant Art and the discovery of
     tapkala's sketch that inspired the memory.
     http://tapkala.deviantart.com/art/childhood-152657169
Malik recalled the warmth on his back from what he was sure now was Altaïr's
hand there when he had woke last night. Altaïr wanted to be close, to trust and
be trusted. So did Malik. They just could not figure out how.
Already in flight, Altaïr found he could not stop his feet and hands from doing
what they knew by instinct. Run. Climb. Jump. Hide. He finally had to stop just
to catch his breath. He looked around to see where he had ended up. A wall? The
wall. He was at the edge of Jerusalem. Many upset pigeons flapped in his face
their protest to his invasion. Their fear-filled wing beats echoed his heart
beats. He sat on the edge of the building and leaned against the wall. Below
his dangling feet was a hay stack, but it did not beg to be scattered by his
drop.
Altaïr stared down at the new glove, now dusty and slightly worn from his
flight. He wished Malik were not always so angry with him. It was not like he
invited this scrap with Templars and guards. It was not like it was his fault
that the Dai of Damascus bureau refused to heal him. Ok, maybe it was. It was
his fault that he broke the tenants of the Creed. It was his fault that he
instigated a scene that in the end got Kadar killed, it was his fault for not
insisting on getting healing. He just... didn't trust them anymore than they
trusted him.
It was no different than when he was in repeated scraps as a child in Masyaf.
He was always so different. Looking different didn't help. Blond hair in a sea
of brown and black. His skills that matched those older than he, didn't help.
His strange ability to heal faster than normal and do some things people
thought impossible, made him ... different. He strove so hard to be like them,
to be the best and earn their respect. Everyone seemed jealous of him, back
then, even Malik.
"Another fight, Altaïr." Malik's barely cracking pre-teen voice chided.
Altaïr crossed his arms. "I didn't start it! It's not my fault!"
Malik turned his back on the twelve year old blond boy and adjusted his book
under his arm. "Maybe if you settled down and studied with me sometimes, you
would be in trouble less."
The stood defiantly back to back for a long while. Finally Malik gave in, "Are
you hurt? Let's go back to our room and get you cleaned up."
"I'm fine. It doesn't hurt..." However, Malik ignored little Altaïr and tugged
him by the sleeve back to their room.
Altaïr wanted Malik to do that again. To just know he needed help and reach out
to tug him into the safety of his room and heal him. They were grown men now.
They were busy with very different duties. Too busy. And every time Altaïr
tried to get close, to say something, it ended in another fight. The fights
were harsher earlier in the year. Now there were moments, just moments, where
Malik seemed gentler. Altaïr desperately wanted to trust him. He left a note...
but either Malik didn't yet see it or Malik didn't care.
Below were two men discussing the Regent. Altaïr banished his thoughts of Malik
and focused back to his mission. These men served in the prison and one had a
map to help him find his way so he could clean it. They murmured about the
horrors and tortures done to some of the prisoners: beatings with blunt
objects; strange metal contraptions imported from England, France and Germany;
how the interrogator broke men by raping them first; and how the Regent
watched.
As they walked away back to their families, both feeling better for having had
a moment to get the shock of what they witnessed out of them in at least this
supposedly private nook between buildings and the city wall, Altaïr dropped to
the ground. Fire bloomed under his skin where his leg was cut and he hissed
himself into silence. Pain was nothing. It could be ignored. So he ignored it
and continued on after the man with the map. Like a pale shadow, Altaïr trailed
after him. Feather light fingers caught the map from the back of the man's
pouch. Altaïr stood still as the man continued walking. The map slipped from
the pouch and remained trapped in Altaïr's claws. Altaïr turned with an
irresistible smirk, tucking the map into his robe's inside pocket. Behind him
he heard the man curse and fret about the loss of the map. He took slow steps
away becoming invisible in the crowd.
Perhaps it was God or Allah that guided his flight to here where he would
finally find information. He walked through the crowds listening to bits of
stray conversations; however there seemed to be nothing more useful here. He
meandered his way into the middle district to the church Malik had suggested
the other day. He sat upon a bench to just relax and listen to the talk of this
area. He could see one of the informants in a corner of shade by a tree. A bald
assassin manifested from a group of monks to speak to the informant. Altaïr
nodded with approval and let his eyes drop back to the stones at his feet.
He felt hot, the sweat making his under tunic itch. The afternoon sun seemed to
bake him even through his white robes which were intended to ease such heats.
He mopped his face with a hand. His ears finally picked up the Regent's name in
hissed and stressed tones. A father was fretting about his son's capture and
immanent punishment, unjustly. He was trying to get a friend to conspire with
him to free his son. "It would be a perfect time. They will hang my son in the
mason's square. The Regent will do as he usually does and make grand speeches,
gloating about his power. I will do it then." The friend had more sense and
told the father he was a fool for thinking it. "But he's my only son! He did
nothing wrong! I am not going to let this tyrant continue." He stormed off from
the friend resolved in his decision. Altaïr shook his head. People like that
need to hire people like me.
He lost track of the conversations around him a bit and only realized it when
the sun was setting. He stood feeling nauseous. Maybe it was from stupidly
sitting in the sun all afternoon. Oh, or maybe from missing both breakfast and
lunch. He paid for some food from a stall so no one thought he was anything
more than another citizen. He nibbled it not really interested in it, his
thoughts straying back to Malik.
His mind busy wrapping around the conflicted thoughts and feelings about Malik,
he never really noticed the people around him. He wove around them. They wove
around him in a seemingly natural flow. He climbed a convenient ladder. Armed
with some news at last, Altaïr hopped from roof to roof till he tiptoed across
the wood planks that would get him from the building he was on to the Bureau.
As he dropped into the Bureau's souk with the bubbling fountain, he honestly
thought it would be cooler. It wasn't. It was just as stiflingly hot.
Cautiously he entered the Bureau, but did not see Malik. He poked around the
various rooms and still no Malik to yell at him or force him to sit and be
healed. He touched over the bandaged gash in his thigh which was especially
burning now. In the souk, he removed weapons and armour, resolved to wash the
wound again and maybe cool the annoying burning feeling. He stripped his
clothes off in the safety of the souk and left them in a bacheloresque pile on
the carpets.
He sucked through his teeth as he peeled the sweaty and sticky bandage from his
thigh, recalling Malik's words about his poor skills in healing. As if on cue,
he heard Malik unlock the door and enter the Bureau. Altaïr glanced over his
shoulder at his pile of clothing. There would be no way to be dressed swiftly
enough. So, he continued washing the wound with a cloth and basin of water.
Malik was yet unaware Altaïr was even there, so Altaïr listened and spied
through the window that seemed to house the pigeons. Malik was in an especially
foul mood. He slammed an almost broken basket on the floor by the counter,
pulled off his torn black robe and cursed about being under cover and useless.
Altaïr realized Malik must have had to pretend to be a helpless cripple in the
market and get picked on for it. It was like rubbing salt into a wound... the
wound of the lost arm. Altaïr winced for Malik. He needs an apprentice here. He
needs some kind of help. I thought all Bureau's had some help. Why leave him
without? It bothered Altaïr that someone would dare touch Malik. He wanted to
kill the bully. His nudity at the moment kept him from rushing in to demand who
was responsible. He vowed to try to run some errands for Malik, to save him
that embarrassment. I have to lurk and find information anyways. This will help
me look like I belong in the area doing so. He drew his arm across his brow
which was still sweating and gritted his teeth as he wiped the ugly red and
swollen gash. It will make yet another ugly scar on his body to add to the
growing collection.
As Malik donned a clean black robe he saw the pile of clothing and leathers and
weapons on the carpets through the door to the souk. Recognizing the embroidery
that was on Altaïr's tabard and Altaïr's alone, he near stomped into the souk
ready to yell at him for... who knew what. He stopped in the doorway and stared
instead. Altaïr glanced over his shoulder and away again, guilty maybe. He shot
a hand to the wall to steady himself as his world tilted unnaturally. The
bloody cloth dropped to the floor. He frowned deeply trying to breathe through
this discomforting sense of disorientation.
***** Malik's Breakthrough *****
Chapter Summary
     OUCH!
As Malik donned a clean black robe he saw the pile of clothing and leathers and
weapons on the carpets through the door to the souk. Recognizing the embroidery
that was on Altaïr’s tabard and Altaïr’s alone, he near stomped into the souk
ready to yell at him for... who knew what. He stopped in the doorway and stared
instead. Altaïr glanced over his shoulder and away again, guilty maybe. Malik
watched as Altaïr shot a hand to the wall to steady himself as his world tilted
unnaturally. The bloody cloth dropped to the floor. A frown creased Altaïr’s
brow deeply as he tried to breathe through this discomforting sense of
disorientation.
Malik felt dirty and scruffy from being shoved around, but light scrapes could
wash easily away. Altaïr was exhibiting something that would not just wash
away. Malik wondered what had happened the other night because THAT was not
just a graze. Or at least it certainly isn’t now. Aggravated and infected as it
was, Malik knew this needed attention. When Altaïr nearly toppled for no
reason, he instinctively rushed to catch him. Altaïr’s skin was hot and
fevered.
Despite his repeated mumbles that he was fine, Malik managed to get him seated
on the carpets with cushions to support his back. There were so many things
Malik desperately wanted to say to Altaïr in very loud admonishing tones, but
he dared not in case Altaïr fled again. Although, a fleeing naked Altaïr
brought a slight smirk to his face. With salves, a knife, fresh bandages, a
liquid caustic cleanser, and an elixir, Malik set to work.
Now and then he had to stop and shove Altaïr back down, “Be still!” He scrubbed
and scraped at the gash, cutting here and there to open it and push out the
infection. He washed it thoroughly and deeply. His eyes darting up to Altaïr’s
face which was as pale as the assassin robes. His normally light brown hair was
darkened and clinging to his face with sweat. However, Altaïr never made a
sound. It was like when Malik’s brother stitched his face. “Easy brother,”
Malik tried to reassure him. The fast breathing gave away that he was not well.
He poured the caustic fluid over the wound and could not tell the hiss of the
liquid in the wound from the hiss Altaïr made fighting making a sound from the
pain.
Malik dipped his hand in the cool fountain water then pressed it onto Altaïr’s
neck. The coolness brought out a sigh and Altaïr opened his golden eyes. “I am
going to stitch it. Can you be still?” Altaïr simply nodded. Malik listened to
the forced control in Altaïr’s breathing as he began to stitch and tug one
handed at the wound. Altaïr’s muscles twitched with each tug. A fist rose and
thudded into the carpet. Malik was sure that it was going to thud into his
face. He did not pause till he was done stitching. Again he poured the
antiseptic fluid over the wound. Again Altaïr hissed.
Malik stepped away for a clean basin of water and a cup. He filled one then the
other. Altaïr accepted the cup of water silently. Malik gently washed the wound
and dried it. “This will heal faster and better for my care.” He tried to keep
the annoyance out of his voice. He opened the jar of salve and set it down. He
could not apply it and hold it at the same time. He delicately dabbed the gash
with the salve. His focus there he did not see the strained look on Altaïr’s
face till the assassin’s throat constricted and his breathing became staggered.
Malik sat back to let Altaïr recompose. He must feel like no one cares for this
small bit of care to choke him so much. But then… care has been refused him.He
already sent a pigeon to Al Mualim and to the Dai of Damascus to give them both
a piece of his mind over that.
He took advantage of the fact that Altaïr was staying still and started to dab
salve on other neglected wounds. “So, what news have you found so far? Anything
worthy of note?” using this to help bring Altaïr’s focus back.
After clearing his throat, Altaïr replied shakier than expected, “I… acquired a
map of the prison. And… and I learned of the tortures and cruelties that go on
within.” Malik heard the confidence thankfully creep back into Altaïr’s voice
as the assassin continued. “The jailor is a vile man who tortures the prisoners
with metal contraptions imported from overseas, breaking them by raping them
and much more. The Regent likes to watch.”
He flinched and watched Malik apply salve to a slow healing wound along his
ribs, “Hugging swords in battle is not healthy.” It was a joke Faruq used to
say when a novice got caught in the ribs with a sword slice. “Go on,” prompted
Malik.
“Some man’s supposedly innocent son has been taken prisoner and will be hanged
as an example in the mason’s square. I don’t yet know when. Apparently the
Regent likes to take time to regale people at length before a hanging. The man
is planning to foolishly try to kill the Regent himself then.” Both Malik and
Altaïr shook their heads knowing how that will end.
Malik salved the small shoulder wound that Altaïr had completely ignored and
even forgot he had till the sting of the salve made him aware. Malik paused to
make sure Altaïr didn’t make to hit him. When the blow never came, he
continued. This was too rare an opportunity. For good measure, Malik even
dabbed some salve on the slightly split bruise on Altaïr’s temple and the
scrape on Altaïr’s chin.
Malik’s hand lingered there rebelliously. His dark eyes stole the chance to
look into Altaïr’s. They searched each other’s eyes longer than necessary
before they both looked away.
“Altaïr, come see me when you need healing. I won’t ever turn you away.” Malik
meant more in his last words, but didn’t think Altaïr would understand. He drew
back and bandaged the leg now that it had time to calm from the stitching.
Malik headed off to get some food as Altaïr clothed himself again. When Malik
returned, he insisted Altaïr swallow a spoonful of a foul elixir. That struggle
nearly came to blows. “Just swallow the damned stuff! You fevered obnoxious
ass!” He gave Altaïr little choice. The second Altaïr opened his mouth to yell
back, in went the spoon. He retreated from the angry eagle swiftly to avoid
being harmed. He knew he already pushed the limits of Altaïr’s tolerance.
To diffuse the anger he asked, “So you have a map? Show me?”
Altaïr pulled out the map he had pick-pocketed and set it on the counter where
they could both look at it. Malik found the counter between them again and
Altaïr securely hidden beneath his hood again. I will break through your
armour. I need to… for us both. He recognized that he came close this evening.
They nibbled off the same tray absently as they analyzed the map together.
***** Altair Drugged *****
Chapter Summary
     Necessarily short.
Altaïr pulled out the map he had pick-pocketed and set it on the counter where
they could both look at it. The counter provided the familiar security of that
chasm between them again and Altaïr safely hid beneath his hood. He recognized
that he came close this evening to breaking under Malik’s administrations. They
nibbled off the same tray absently as they analyzed the map together.
Hidden in the shadow of the hood, he listened to Malik describe the puzzling
items of the map, magically understanding the squiggly codes. Altaïr envied him
this gift of being able to decipher anything in writing. This was emotionally
safer than having Malik touch and heal him. There was a terrifying moment back
then when Altaïr thought he was going to either sob in front of someone who
really didn’t care (“Go cry in the corner or do whatever it is you do before a
mission, only do it quietly!”) or he was going to blurt out so much blasphemous
things about the order or what he has been experiencing when he makes his kills
that killing him would really be a kindness, like the Hospitalier maybe?
Altaïr shook his head to banish the stray distracting thoughts. He heard Malik
pause, having noticed the hood shake. “Don’t tell me you actually want to try
to get on the inside of this abomination they call a prison in order to make
your kill, Altaïr. I agree with that father who wants to free his son. Your
target will be more vulnerable at the hanging where he thinks that all his
guards could protect him from an assassin of your skill.”
Rolling with the misunderstanding, Altaïr nodded agreement. “I need more
information. And need to know the layout of this mason’s square.” He waited for
a retort from Malik about how he was maybe learning after all. It didn’t come.
Altaïr realized he was actually learning from this humiliating and humbling
experience, but he didn’t need his nosed rubbed in it. “Did you get my note?”
The question came out unbidden and Altaïr wished he could swallow the words
back.
“Note?” Malik’s confusion clearly confirmed Altaïr’s assumptions. “No. You
actually wrote something?” It was a tease, but Altaïr did not interpret it as
such.
He turned away with a snarl. Grabbed something off the plate and stormed into
the souk to flop on the carpets, back to Malik. He heard Malik curse under his
breath and roll up the map. He could not actually eat the piece of bread he had
snatched. The first bite was hard to swallow around the lump of frustration in
his throat. Nothing is true… everything is permitted.
He felt very alone that moment. He discarded the bread for the pigeons to peck
at. Malik was back to slamming things around in his frustration with Altaïr.
Things only got quiet when he finally did find the note. Altaïr pretended to
sleep. The sound of a quill scratching paper filled the next couple hours.
Altaïr was almost curious to see what, but figured Malik was just doing what
Malik does… taking notes, being a Dai. Malik was always busy when Altaïr came
to the Bureau. He often felt like he was intruding. Sleep crept up on him. He
fought it as hard as he could, especially when he realized he had been drugged.
It was a losing battle. Malik had won this. And in doing so, lost a little more
of Altaïr’s trust.
***** Malik and the Note *****
Chapter Notes
     A scene in here was inspired by doubleleaf’s art on DA, but I will
     save the art for when I do another scene and elaborate on it so it is
     worthy of the shmexy art piece.
Malik was back to slamming things around in his frustration with Altaïr. Things
only got quiet when he finally found the note.
                                     Malik
                        I’ll practiss if you want me to
                          Find me a book to right in
                         Hide my insanity from others
                 ~~Nothing is true… everything is permitted~~
                    Master tot me this superseeds the Creed
                      The fog comes again with each kill
                      I don’t know what is right or wrong
                I am trying… really trying to live by the Creed
                                 Pleez help me
                                  I need you
                          I need someone I can trust
                       Someone new an assassin was here.
                 I tried to save a citizen from French guards.
                                     Trap.
                      Templar waiting…. for an assassin.
                                    Altaïr
 
Malik resisted the urge to correct grammar and spelling. He was amazed by how
much Altaïr had written, truth be told. He read the note many times just
because Altaïr had written it. Altaïr wasn’t much for speaking either. This was
more words that Malik had heard from Altaïr in several months put together,
maybe even in the whole year. It was almost poetic to look at, once you could
decipher the chaos of the scribbling, of course. Reading Altaïr’s writing was
one of his excuses to people as to why he could read anything.
In the back of his log book, Malik added to officially get Altaïr a journal.
The assassin had agreed to do something Malik wanted. He had at first wondered
why, but the rest of the note made that plain. Things were going on inside
Altaïr’s head that he was too afraid to express and thought he was going mad
from them. Maybe he was. Or maybe he will if he gets no safe outlet for them.
It was blasphemy to claim something superseded the Creed. Only Allah did or God
or whatever divine you held to when you went to meet it. And this is what
Altaïr had been taught by Master Al Mualim? No wonder Altaïr arrogantly thought
he could do whatever he had pleased. Whatever was the means to complete the
mission did not matter. Nothing was true and everything is permitted. This is
what Altaïr had said at Solomon’s Temple. It made sense now. Horrible gut
wrenching sense. It also implicated Al Mualim as a traitor to the order.
The fog…
When Altaïr was a novice, he was plagued by dreams and often saw odd things
that came to pass. Most of that faded save for one talent. When Altaïr took a
life, Altaïr had once told him that time stopped and fog came. Said that the
dead and dying spoke to him there in the fog. It sounded crazy. Malik had
believed him though. He had researched some of the things Altaïr learned from
the dead. When they were split up and sent on solo missions, Altaïr stopped
mentioning it. On their way to Solomon’s Temple, Altaïr did say something. It
had been disregarded and Malik wished deeply that he had listened then instead
of being jealous and angry at Altaïr. “I wish you didn’t come. I don’t want to
meet either of you in the fog.” Malik wondered what Altaïr was finding in the
fog with each of his missions this year. Whatever it was, it was making Altaïr
question… question everything.
He had to concede that Altaïr was trying to live by the Creed. He really did
improve with each mission. Someone should tell him so. Malik decided he would
when Altaïr completed this mission. So much of what Altaïr had learned and
lived by was anything but the Creed apparently. The note showed him begging for
Malik’s help. He wondered if Altaïr felt as alone as he himself did. At least
he had the trust of others. Everyone else seemed to hate Altaïr, sometimes even
openly. To refuse him healing!!! He made a mental note to kill that Dai on
Altaïr’s behalf later.
Altaïr wanted to trust Malik. Needed to. Malik looked over at the sleeping
assassin on the carpets. Offer trust and trust will be returned. It was a
lesson from Faruq. He missed his brother. Faruq went missing sometime during
the mission of Solomon’s Temple. So Malik had lost both brothers that day.
Thinking of Faruq reminded him of another lesson, forgiveness can help bridge
the largest chasms of the soul. Malik wasn’t ready yet to really forgive
Altaïr, not out loud. Not yet. Maybe soon though. Maybe when Altaïr says he’s
sorry first.
He looked over the note again. There was yet more evidence that Altaïr was
improving and taking the lives of other people into consideration. He tried to
save a citizen. He frowned though. Someone tipped off the Templars about an
assassin in the city. They were laying traps for them, knowing somehow that
they might try to save citizens. That would explain Altaïr’s recent injuries.
An act of kindness caught him in a trap. It could have been any assassin
though. Malik immediately scribbled in his book to recall all the assassins as
they drop through the Bureau and place them in safe houses or order them out of
the city. Someone was leaking information from Masyaf. It was again more proof.
He wrote much in his log book on these things as he worried about the novice on
his first mission here and the bald assassin he sent off to dig up information
on his target.
The sound of a quill scratching paper filled the next couple hours. Malik was
sure Altaïr was asleep. Sometimes this medicine did that, but it was hard to
say if it would from person to person. He put away his books and worked on the
map of Acre a little longer realizing he was out of red ink. That was what he
had forgotten to pick up at the market.
Rolling up the map he put it away too and proceeded with doing some knife
training in the main room. He was developing moves and techniques to suit
someone with one arm. One day, he might need to fight. That day seemed to inch
ever closer. He wondered who he would have to fight. The thought of sparring
maybe with Altaïr thrilled him. He logged that as he stripped down to just his
pants and sliced and jabbed at nothing during his private practice.
He bathed after and rubbed salve into the scrapes and bruises as he watched
Altaïr’s breathing shift from deeper sleep to fitful sleep and back. He sat
down beside him and made sure all weapons were out of reach. “Altaïr?” he
whispered a few times, but the usually light sleeper did not wake. He rested
his hand on Altaïr’s brow, pushing the hood back a little. The fever was still
there but much much less. Malik sighed with relief. It meant the medicine was
working to fight the infection. He would worry less about Altaïr tomorrow now.
“Altaïr, I am sorry for not trusting you…” If only Altaïr were awake to hear
him. He stayed a long while trying to ease the fitful moments of Altaïr’s
fevered sleep, wondering what Altaïr dreamed that would make him toss about and
almost yell aloud. When the fever finally passed, Malik took to his own bed.
 
***** Altair Teen Kiss *****
Chapter Summary
     I must thank all of you for reviewing this in progress work. I blame
     the artists of Deviant Art for inspiring me to buy a video game (the
     first I have ever bought in the 38 years of being alive), play it
     just to find out who these two boys are, and then to write fanfic. My
     husband still laments about the pairing. At least it is not cross-
     generational incest!
     I also must thank some of you readers for pointing me to information
     about the other games so I can bring in those bits of info, like
     Adha… and maybe later Maria. That will be an interesting complication
     I am sure.
     You have asked for more Tibah, more young novice, more back story to
     our boys. It can’t happen in one chapter. Let’s start with the last.
     So here it is: TEEN BOYS KISSING!!!!!!!!!
“Altaïr, I am sorry for not trusting you…” If only Altaïr were awake to hear
him. Malik stayed a long while trying to ease the fitful moments of Altaïr’s
fevered sleep, wondering what Altaïr dreamed that would make him toss about and
almost yell aloud. When the fever finally passed, Malik took to his own bed.
Altaïr woke midmorning to a very very quiet Bureau. “Malik?” His last fading
dreams were of Malik standing surrounded by fog. He sat bolt up, heart
pounding, “MALIK!” It took several minutes to register where he was. Malik
didn’t come. He splashed water on his face from the fountain. It was just a
dream. He felt more awake and hurt a good deal less. The stitches felt
annoying, but it was better than his makeshift attempt at healing. If he had
been angry at Malik before, that too faded while he slept. Except… except maybe
the being drugged part. In hind sight, he understood it was likely an elixir
against his infection. Most of those caused drowsiness.
He meandered about the Bureau. It became habit now to explore while Malik was
away. Malik had to be away or he would surely have come running to tell Altaïr
to not yell. He poked all the little pawns on the chess table. Just poked them.
Then named them after assassins from the Order. He stopped that when he got
half way through and realized how ridiculous that was. He studied the position
of the pawns Malik had moved. Fingering his sacrificial white pawn he thought
about his next move. He swapped the kings, putting the black king in place of
his white one and the white one on Malik’s side of the board. Then he knocked
over with a flick of his finger the white bishops and knights. He plucked a
black bishop and tucked it into the inside pocket of his robes. Malik was the
educated bishop to Altaïr and he wanted to keep a little of that close to him.
After strapping on his armour and weapons he found the breakfast of eggs and
cheese and sliced melons and bananas. Altaïr ate everything but the bananas.
They had this weird mushy texture that just revolted him. Mix them in with
gruel, fine… but sliced plain like this? Altaïr wrinkled his nose and fed them
to the pigeons. “You are rats with wings, useful rats with wings but still…
just rats with wings.”
He wondered where Malik had gone. Maybe to the market? Then every muscle
stiffened. Last night Malik had come home after having received a beating.
Fiery anger sharpened Altaïr’s golden eyes. He was on the roof before he knew
it and … stopped. Which market? Where would Malik go? Should he stalk him and
make sure he was safe? Would that just anger him? Likely. Could it blow his
cover as a helpless one-armed map maker? Malik would probably reprimand him for
not collecting the remainder of his information and planning his kill.
Armed with what he assumed would be Malik’s response to following him, he
headed to the middle district. Malik was not in the market there. He’d kill me
if I thought he could not protect himself. But … what if…NO… he’d kill me.
Altaïr moved on to his informants, recognizing them immediately. This one was
glad to see him. That was a relief. He was tired of the snide comments from
spies, fellow assassins and informants who thought they were assassins.
Providing a little help to this one by eliminating the two guards roaming
around searching for him, Altaïr earned useful information. The informant told
him of workers building something in the mason’s district on a deadline for the
Regent.
Altaïr pick-pocketed extra throwing knives and scaled a wall to a roof. He took
his time today. Easy exploration was safer for his leg. Then he took a ladder
down to street level from another building to avoid an archer. He wanted badly
to climb to where he saw an eagle circling. He stood still and watched it,
trying to imagine he had the same freedom and knowing he didn’t. The sudden
shove from behind reminded him of reality. Altaïr reacted without thought. He
spun on his heel. His wrist blade thrust in the chest of the attacker. The
drunkard sagged to the ground. People screamed around him. A guard let out a
cry of surprise. Altaïr bolted from the scene. In a cool dark alley he leaned
against a wall thudding the back of his head against it. He killed an innocent.
Guilt ate at him for a couple hours as he stayed hidden, waiting for the panic
to die down. In that time he managed to justify his action no less than
nineteen different ways.
Later, from the relative safety of a roof, he picked off aggressors who
harassed citizens. He was not going to fall for that trap a second time. He was
also not going to just let a woman or monk be shoved around for nothing. The
monks found him later as he stepped smoothly in among them. They whispered
their gratitude and that he could count on them to always hide him among their
brothers. As he slipped from their midst it was with an exchange of blessings
and prayers.
Altaïr had almost all the information he needed, just not the actual day of the
hanging. That would be resolved by lurking about the construction site, which
would serve the secondary purpose of gaining him familiarity with his kill
territory. He walked all around the perimeter of the quarry. Mentally mapped
the escape routes or near lack thereof. He measured with his eyes the
distances. Then he boldly dropped onto the platform and walked its length a few
times. This would not have been possible if people were here. No one was. That
would necessitate returning another day when it was not some holy day where the
citizens were busy in their holy buildings.
He ducked out of sight of a roof archer on his way back to the Bureau. Noting
that there was an unusual amount at the moment, he crept into a roof souk and
relaxed in the shade waiting for them to go away. There he cat-napped a bit
too, reviewing what transpired between him and Malik the day before.
Altaïr could not banish the thought of Malik’s hands on him once the thought
popped up in his mind. The darkly tanned hand contrasted against the pale
almost white chest. Malik’s eyes had not changed either, they were deep brown,
like coffee without milk. Altaïr swallowed and squirmed uncomfortably in the
souk for a better position to sit. The heat was rising, certainly, even in this
shaded place.
 They used to have a good relationship when they were younger.
In the dark and secret of their room, Malik would explore Altaïr’s body as he
compared anatomy to what was in the opened book beside him. “Be still Altaïr.”
It was hard to be still. Some touches caused him to struggle not to giggle like
a child. At twelve and fourteen, they liked to believe they were no longer
children. Malik had already moved past the awkward stage that Altaïr had just
begun.
A small squeak escaped Altaïr as he face turned red. “What did you do? What did
you do to me? Why is it doing THAT!? It never did that before!”
Malik only chuckled, “Stop squirming. It is supposed to do that. It means you
are no longer a baby and almost a man. Unless you want to be a baby, you can go
cry in the corner and it will go away.”
Altaïr glared back. But only for a moment as his curiosity was too strong.
Malik had already moved on to legs and feet comparing as Altaïr looked down at
his friend kneeling on the floor. “What are you supposed to do when it does
this then?”
Malik sighed and got up to lock the door. “I’ll show you, but don’t you tell
anyone. This is between just you and me. Can I trust you?”
Curiosity and excitement totally piqued now, Altaïr nodded eagerly.
Several nights here and there were like this. Malik and Altaïr exploring their
own and sometimes each other’s anatomy. They did things like measure and
compare their parts. They ‘sword duelled’ with them. Sometimes late night
squabbles turned into late night wrestling, that then turned into late night
exhausting their urges. Sometimes they snuck out to watch the goats mating and
talk about what it might be like to take a woman. They had never in their early
teens engaged in anything one would call intercourse, but it came darned close
sometimes.
One night when Malik was healing scrapes Altaïr earned from a fight to just
‘prove he was better,’ he touched Altaïr’s face and their eyes met for a long
while. Their exploring had lasted almost two years by then and emotions were
starting to get mixed up in it. Altaïr had been moody and distant for a few
months. Malik had worried and wanted to know what bothered him and made him
fight so much. They could say nothing in the growing silence as they searched
for meaning and understanding in each other’s eyes. “I trust you,” Altaïr
whispered and closed his eyes. It was as close as one might come to saying love
for Altaïr. Malik at sixteen knew somehow this was wrong, this wanting, but how
could Allah forbid this much affection and forsake this much trust? Altaïr felt
warm lips press against his.
The memory made Altaïr jump awake and touch his lips with his fingers, heat
burning his cheeks and sinking into his groin. He shook the ruffled awkwardness
from his body and almost took flight as an archer’s footfalls were heard
approaching. Altaïr’s eyes grew wide wondering if he had made noises in his
sleep to draw attention. He debated making a kill, but there were too many
archers close by. He’d never get away without becoming a pin cushion for a
quiver worth of arrows. With swift fingers he removed his chest straps that
helped the obvious knife to his back and shoved the whole harness under a
pillow. The archer was only a few steps away. He flopped face down on the
pillows, hood well covering his head and face. The archer was inches away.
Altaïr rutted noisily into the pillows making loud embarrassing sexual noises.
The archer’s footsteps hesitated, almost stumbled. The tip of the bow lifted
the souk’s curtain and dropped instantly again. Fast steps away from the souk
told Altaïr that the archer was suitably shocked, along with hearing the archer
tell another about the poor monk thrusting into pillows secretly in the souk
and how Christians are crazy to deny men a woman. Altaïr might even have
continued his thrusting just to please himself if he was not nearly overcome by
laughter that he smothered with a pillow. He could picture the archer’s eyes
bugging out and regretted not looking to see that expression.
***** Malik: A Boy's Mission *****
Chapter Summary
     You have asked for more Tibah and more young novice, so enjoy! I
     honestly was not going to include the little tyke... but since you
     all adore him so much... he’s in here.
He could picture to archer’s eyes bugging out and regretted not looking to see
that expression. Altaïr’s day was going better after all. Malik’s too for that
matter.
Malik always tried to make the most of his outings. He walked invisibly among
the crowds of people in the early morning. His first stop was the mosque for
dawn prayers. While he was not really a religious man, he did have an image to
uphold here as a citizen and as a scholar. He walked to the synagogue after to
speak with the rabbi about concerned citizens. Maybe there could be news from
him to help fill in the gaps. Nothing had come to the rabbi’s attention, but he
would speak with his people and ensure they are well. A trip then to the local
church on his way to the market of the rich district revealed the celebration
of some saint or other. He noted which one and watched some of the service.
Christians were so extravagant sometimes. Malik preferred the Jews who tended
to celebrate around a feast instead.
His casual morning walk brought him at last to the busy market. He looked
around warily to see if the usual thugs were about. He needed to replenish the
supplies of throwing knives in the supply box. He grinned as he managed to slip
them from a few thugs even one handed. You only need one hand to swipe a little
knife. Or to swipe a bit of information from someone’s pocket. He practiced
that as well when the opportunity arose with information he could pass to the
bald assassin for that one’s mission. There was a little thrill in these
accomplishments that reminded him he had not lost his touch.
It was with good humour that he approached the apothecary stall. Tibah was not
there, but her father and one of her other sisters. That was in a way a relief.
He exchanged greetings with the man and asked how his family was, how the wife
was handling her pregnancy. That news was a little distressing. She was having
a difficult pregnancy. Tibah arrived soon with breakfast for her family at the
stall. Her brother trailed after her trying to look menacing. To the average
citizen, the young man probably did. To Malik, well, Malik almost had the urge
to correct things and teach him other places to look and who to be more wary
of.
“Hello rafiq!” her cheery voice did not hold the plotting he always sensed when
she had visited the Bureau. “We are ready to prepare the ink you require.” She
offered him some sliced mango which he accepted before realizing the message
that immediately popped into Tibah’s father’s eyes. She smiled prettily as she
too nibbled. After wiping her hands clean she got to work on making the red
ink.
Malik felt like the noon sun had risen to bake him in his black robes. It was
barely mid-morning. He cleared his throat awkwardly. This girl was nice,
pretty, for someone only fifteen. But Malik was not at all interested in a
wife. Is that what she is planning? Will she ask that in exchange for her
gifts? How foolish of me!
He paid for his ink and melted into the crowd as quickly as he could. Would a
wife be such a bad idea?He thought how much easier it would be to manage some
things with an extra pair of hands. How it would not be so lonely. He wondered
if he should petition Al Mualim for it. Then he remembered the doubts he had of
Al Mualim. And the way Al Mualim sometimes forcibly arranged marriages.
Altaïr had been forced to take Adha. But she was stolen away before they could
be wed. And about 10 maybe 12 months ago, Altaïr was put with another woman who
ran away. She was a smart one and as venomous as he himself could be. He felt
she was suitable for Altaïr and would humble him since he could not be there to
do so. Altaïr had no luck with women. They never stayed. It was just as well.
Malik didn’t want Al Mualim planning how to breed him like he was with Altaïr.
We are not livestock to stud and breed for the best. And really... is Altaïr
the best? It was mocking. Altaïr was the best. Malik alone could defeat him in
a sword duel. One on one, Altaïr was a force to be wary of. Malik’s mind was
plagued by thoughts of Altaïr all the way to the Bureau.
As he reached the Bureau and walked through the little outside garden to his
door, someone had lingered on the bench waiting. The small boy swung his legs
scissor-like while seated. His grey green eyes sparkled when he saw Malik. “I
found you! All on my own! Safety and peace rafiq.”
It was good to see that boy that Altaïr had saved looking so well. He was
dressed in grey and tan clothing, the trainee clothes of the Order. Although,
he sported the same green scarf as before. Kadar was much the same. When Kadar
had gotten lost in the kingdom from his horse riding trainer and his horse, an
assassin found him hiding from a Templar in old laundry, under a woollen
blanket. After the Templar was dispatched and Kadar brought safely back home,
Kadar kept the blanket he hid under in his bed for several years. This boy will
likely do the same with the green scarf. “What brings you here, novice?”
As they entered, the boy answered, “I am on a mission!”
“Are you now? Come inside then and tell me of your mission.” Malik unlocked and
opened the door inviting the boy within.
The boy could hardly stop bouncing with his glee and success thus far. “The
first part of my mission was to find you, on my own. I have a map... My mentor
said you made it!” He dug it crumpled from his pocket to show it off. “I was
not allowed to be on any roofs, not even to peak if I got lost.”
“And? Did you? How would we know if you did or did not?” Malik tested the boy
as he put his ink on the counter and retrieved his map of Acre to work on.
“No! No way, rafiq. I did not! I would never break the rules. How could I ever
be trusted if I don’t do as I am told for my missions? I was told to stay off
the roofs, maybe they are full of archers and it was to protect me. I would
never lie to any of the Brothers of the Order.” He stood on his toes to see the
map. “Ooooo... what map is that?”
Malik could not help but smile, this boy was infectiously joyful to have. “This
is the city of Acre. It is west of here. Novice? Your mission?”he prodded.
“Oh right! My mission. I was told that I was not permitted to leave here till I
met with you and earned an eagle feather for my mission.” He looked hopefully
at him with such large eyes and Malik was sure this boy knew how to charm
people to get what he needed and wanted.
“Do you know what you are asking for? The eagle feathers are hard to come by
and need to be earned with tasks. They are given only to an assassin who has
learned everything he can about his mark and is ready for his kill.” He was
surprised by the boy’s request, and yet took it very seriously.
The boy was serious too. “I know. I am on an assassination mission for my
mentor. There is a dog in the area destroying his garden. It belongs to
someone. We are certain. My mission is to assassinate the dog.” He rocked back
onto his heels. “It is a menace.”
“What do you know of your target? Who is its owner? What is its route? Where is
the best place to take out your target?” These were all the same questions he
would ask any novice on a first assassination mission, whether it be for just a
dog or a human menace.
The boy’s head dropped and his shoulders sagged. “I don’t know,” he confessed
dejectedly.
“Then, young novice, I cannot grant you permission to make your kill. You must
return to me with the answers, know everything you can of your target. Only
then will you earn the feather.” The boy looked up at him pleadingly. “This is
the way of the Creed. You must be absolutely sure of your target so you do not
accidentally kill the wrong one, or endanger others... or lead them back to the
Brotherhood. Live by the Creed. Understand?”
The nodded sadly. “So, I have to go back and tell my mentor this?”
“Yes. Return to him with what I have told you. He will understand,” he
reassured the boy. This was the process. The boy was likely so enamoured with
Altaïr that the mentor had to cave in and give the boy something of an
assassin’s training and not just that of an informant. He gave the boy some
lunch and explained the role of the Bureau and the responsibility of the Dai
and the rafiqs. Then he explained about the informants and where the boy can
find one in his area to help him gain information. The boy was sent off wiser.
Malik expected he would see him again soon. He logged the assassination
assignment in the book with all the others and slid in a very fine eagle
feather. He will show the boy how serious he took this, enough to log it. That
will boost him. Only then did he have a very good laugh over it all.
***** Altair: Thrown Out *****
Chapter Summary
     Sometimes old wounds are very very sensitive.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik logged the assassination assignment in the book with all the others and
slid in a very fine eagle feather. He will show the boy how serious he took
this, enough to log it. That will boost him. Only then did he have a very good
laugh over it all.
Altaïr found he, the poor sexually frustrated Christian monk, was given a way
to a ladder around the archers for discretion. He was grateful for their
misguided consideration. They get to live today. The sky told him it was later
than he had expected. Feather light touches to shoulders guided women out of
his way and saved him being doused with the water in jugs on their heads. From
a more secluded area, he dashed across rooftops. An arrow zinged by his ear
with a warning yell. He turned and flicked out a throwing knife. It struck true
and the archers crumpled onto the roof. Altaïr then dropped down to a wall that
divided the mason’s square from the rest of the middle district. His toes
gripped the edge of the wall through his soft split-toe boots.
Still no one in sight here. Altaïr huffed. The church bells started to toll for
the end of the saint day activities. They also marked the end of the day,
sunset. Altaïr weighed his odds to stay and see if there were night workers or
return to the Bureau and sate is ever louder growling stomach. He waited an
hour longer before giving up for the day. Hopping from shadow to shadow, he
returned to the Bureau.
Silent feet landed on soft carpet. The Bureau was still quiet. Altaïr leaned
around the door to look in the main room. Malik was not there. He stepped in
slowly and proceeded with his definitely now habitual exploring. He quietly
lifted the lid of the supply trunk and placed in all but one of his throwing
knives. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he turned to look
around. However, he missed Malik spying through the back room curtain.
He pushed back his hood, letting it fall loosely over his back. His golden eyes
slowly swept over the chess board. He fingered some pieces again, but noticed
nothing had changed from this morning. Removing the black bishop from his
pocket, he rolled it in his fingers debating. Then tucked it safely back in his
pocket. His fingers trailed along the edges of the table, then the counter. He
delicately traced his index finger along the roads of the incomplete map of
Acre. His stomach growled again, but no food had been left out. He was
disappointed.
The curtain opened and Malik stepped out. Altaïr snapped his hand from the map.
Without the shadows of his hood, his expressions showed more plainly. His eyes
dropped away from Malik, avoiding both gaze and scolding. Shame knit his brows.
He had been caught snooping. He backed up a pace or two. “Safety… and peace,
rafiq,” he managed to fumble out.
“Have you news then of your target’s schedule?” Malik asked disregarding Altaïr
and focusing on his map.
He is always too busy….
“No. No one was at the site.” Altaïr amended quickly, “I will try again
tomorrow.”
“The Christians were feasting for St. Basil the Great today. If you …” Malik
closed his mouth on whatever was going to come out. “If you go back tomorrow, I
am sure the people will be working that quarry again.”
Altaïr fidgeted uncomfortably a moment longer before raising his hood and
relaxing a tiny measure in its shadow. He could not understand why he could be
totally naked and bathing and yet not stand here with his hood down.
“I need more rice to make some supper.” Malik pointed absently up to the wooden
ledges higher and close to the ceiling. “I’ll get some in a moment…”
Altaïr leapt deftly to hang a moment from the ledge before pulling himself up.
He stifled a sneeze at the layers of dust. He figured things up here have been
here since Malik took over this Bureau. He walked crouched over trying to avoid
hitting his head on the cross beams as he searched for rice. There were dusty
bags of all sorts of things up here.
“I could have gotten it myself,” Malik spat a little testily.
Altaïr landed with a heavy thud on the floor, a bag of rise on his shoulder. “I
thought… It- it was…”
“I am NOT a cripple!” The very potential implication infuriated Malik.
Altaïr snapped his mouth shut a moment, but the urge to snap back overtook him.
“Then don’t assume that is what everyone thinks unless it is what you yourself
believe!”
Malik’s hand slammed on the table so hard the incense pot jumped and toppled.
“Get out, Altaïr. Get the hell out!”
Altaïr flinched wishing he had just kept his mouth shut. “Malik…”
“I SAID GET OUT!!!”
Altaïr fled as fast as his feet and hands could get him out the roof access. He
paced the roof waiting for his heart to slow before skipping out across a few
more roofs to get some distance where his kicked over crates, bloodily
slaughtered a couple roof archers, beat his fists into the siding of an upper
level of some building.
Once exhausted, Altaïr let his hooded brow thud dejectedly against the stone
wall. He pressed his hands flat on the wall and sank slowly down to his knees.
“Altaïr, I will never turn you away.”
“You just did…”
Altaïr curled up in one of the small covered resting areas found on many of the
roofs to sleep fitfully till sometime in the morning.
Chapter End Notes
     According to http://ancienthistory.about.com/cs/earlychurch/p/
     stbasilthegreat.htm
     St. Basil the Great is one of the three Cappadocian Fathers (with
     Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory of Nazianzus), and one of the Three Holy
     Hierarchs (with Gregory of Nazianzus and John Chrysostom). Basil's
     Rules and Shorter Rules provide the guidelines for all monastic
     orders in the East. St. Basil the Great was one of the 8 great
     Doctors of the Church (Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine, Gregory the Great,
     Athanasius, John Chrysostom, Basil the Great, and Gregory of
     Nazianzus). Basil wrote "Longer Rules" and "Shorter Rules" for
     monastic life. Basil sold his family's holdings to buy food for the
     poor. Basil became Bishop of Caesarea in 370, at a time when an Arian
     emperor was ruling.
     I thought this would be a saint Malik would likely visit a church
     for. A doctor, a scholar, someone who cared for the poor. Seemed
     appropriate, and historically accurate.
***** Malik Searches *****
Malik’s hand slammed on the table so hard the incense pot jumped and toppled.
“Get out, Altaïr. Get the hell out!”
Altaïr flinched. “Malik…”
“I SAID GET OUT!!!” Malik was so angry and hurt and frustrated. His state was
all Altaïr’s fault. He swept his hand furiously across the counter. The incense
pot scattered its contents to the floor.
Altaïr had fled as bade, the bag of rice forgotten on the table. Malik paced
trying to calm himself wiping his face with his hand now and then. The day had
gone so well till then. Even covertly watching Altaïr poke around the main room
reminded him of when Altaïr was a quiet and curious child. He dusted off the
bag of rice hardly noticing it. Altaïr was hungry, his stomach growled loud
enough for Malik to notice. Now he would go hungry tonight. Malik thudded his
hand on the bag of rice.
He closed his eyes and rethought through this short evening. Altaïr resupplied
the throwing knives and poked at the chess board. He wondered why Altaïr kept
the black bishop piece. His anger now faded; it had come so swiftly. He thought
he was done being moody about what others thought of him and his lost arm. He
walked over to the chess board and puzzled at the things Altaïr had done to it.
There must be so much in Altaïr’s mind that he can barely understand it enough
to express it, or dares not for fear of the repercussion.
Repercussions.
The loss of his arm was not Altaïr’s fault really. Not exactly. Malik sighed
and threw his arm in the air as if to beg of Allah. He sighed again. Altaïr had
dropped his hood to look at these chess pieces. Malik thought maybe Altaïr had
started to feel comfortable enough to relax and do so. And what did I just do?
I flipped into fury for something he may not have meant at all. He sighed more
loudly.
“Why is it that I feel like I have to be the one apologizing?! Why can’t he
apologize... for once... for Kadar’s sake... for mine...” Malik gave up and
took the rice into the back room, shoving the bookshelf aside to reveal the
extra room, which had a fountain of its own, a waste area, kitchen, some
storage and the stairs to the next floor. He set some rice to cook in case
Altaïr returned.
Altaïr did not return that night. Malik spent the majority of it doing the
cleaning of the mess he himself made, the washing of uniforms, mending them and
sharpening the various blades around. He worked out with one sword, switched to
the long knife, then the short knife. Still no Altaïr.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and stepped out onto the roof. It was
too dark to really see. He could make out the covered resting area across on
the other building. But in the Dark, he was not certain anymore if he had the
balance to walk the planks to the other side. Gritting his teeth and removing
his black Dai robes, decision made. He folded them and left them on the crates
on his roof.
He slowly stepped out onto the planks. His arms flung out for balance, well,
the one arm did and he almost overbalanced. The sweat dampened his chest and
the small of his back. Steadying his breath, he focused on the covered resting
area he could see in the moonlight across the way. It’s curtains swayed
slightly in the light evening breeze. He lowered his center of balance and
inched out a little further. At about half way, he worked up the courage and
bolted across. He felt a little stupid for being nervous. He was once a ranked
assassin, almost as good as Altaïr. He lifted the veil on the resting area, but
no Altaïr. He cursed a series of colourful things in the first three languages
he could drum up.
His eyes swept across the buildings to no avail. No Altaïr. Malik lowered his
head shamefully, “Allah, keep him safe for me.” Resigned, he inched his way
back to the Bureau and draped his black robes over his shoulder.
He hardly slept that night himself. The sound of a crying baby now and then
kept waking him. He finally got up to check. By the time he unlocked the door
and stepped out into the covered garden, all was quiet. He remembered Tibah and
then the women somewhat arranged to be with Altaïr. Adha... Altaïr had seemed
to actually like her. He remembered feeling jealous. Then the Templars had
stolen her away across the sea and Altaïr was almost insufferable. Arrogant and
wilful and secretive. More so than usual. People were still looking for Adha.
Altaïr had given up.
Then there was Nina. Nina was pretty and just as fiery as Altaïr. Malik was
sure she was pregnant before she ran away. Altaïr managed to be away most of
the time, and likely never noticed. Maybe that is partly why she ran. Her
baby... Altaïr’s baby would be what? Three months old now? Malik did some math
in his head as he locked up again. She ran away when she was nearly three
months in. She’s been missing for almost ten months, no... Malik shook his head
and recalculated. He remembered wrong. She disappeared before the mission to
Solomon’s Temple. And that was a practically a year ago. That would mean the
baby might be nearly six months old. People were still looking for Nina and her
baby, too. Altaïr never discussed her and Malik was sure he had given up on
her, too.
Malik remembered laying in the grass in Masyaf with Altaïr when they were
younger men. Altaïr wanted a baby, wanted a son. He had met the baker’s baby on
an errand and was completely taken by it. Malik thought it was the cutest thing
to see Altaïr all mushy over a baby. Other things complicated the notion of
having a baby, namely their relationship. Malik had mentioned adoption and they
discussed that a while. Altaïr had hardened since. Or, maybe not. Malik
recalled how Altaïr was with the boy novice and how hard he worked at saving
him. Maybe he should have made Altaïr his mentor. No, Al Mualim has Altaïr on
missions too dangerous for one as untrained as that boy.
He did a final check of the Bureau, fluffed the pillows and prayed again for
Altaïr’s return. By morning, Malik was tired, grumpy and angry again at Altaïr
for making him worry all night. It would be just like a novice to run away and
childishly sulk somewhere out in the unknown.
***** Altair Drunk *****
Malik did a final check of the Bureau, fluffed the pillows and prayed again for
Altaïr’s return. By morning, he was tired, grumpy and angry again at Altaïr for
making him worry all night. It would be just like a novice to run away and
childishly sulk somewhere out in the unknown.
Altaïr slept fitfully in one of the roof resting areas he found till sometime
in the morning. Morning came too soon, much too soon. Altaïr dragged himself
out into the sun. His morning was spent lurking about the markets for food,
listening to see if the workers were at the quarry, and venting the last of his
frustrations on guards who harasses citizens. He left quite the bloody trail in
his wake with their bodies. It necessitated laying low for the rest of the day.
He leaned carefully around a corner from a roof, but there were still too many
guards and now even Templars. Altaïr bit back a curse. Lunch was well gone with
the sun, as was dinner when the sun set over an hour ago. Breakfast of three
plums was also long gone from him. Hunger gnawed inside his belly for a while
till even that was gone. He sat trapped in this tiny crumbling nook on a roof.
Why did I run? I should not have run. He misunderstood. I was not clear. I
should have been clear. Why? Why can I not speak to him?
After another hour, Altaïr concluded it was because he deserved Malik’s hatred.
Nine lives for my own. Is that worth it? Is my life worth it? Nothing is
true... everything is permitted... It is not a code. It is a fact of life.
There is no one true way of things. Everything is possible. It is a guide.
The epiphany roused him to look around the corner again at the Templars in the
quarry and the guards still searching. There must be another way... He looked
down at his filthy robes while sitting in this dusty dirty nook. Everything is
permitted. He remembered the novice boy and how he discarded his clothes,
boldly ran naked through the street and convinced a woman to take pity on him.
As a grown man, running naked through the street was not an option. But...
Altaïr rubbed as much of the filth and dirt as he could upon himself. Now he
was darker and blended in with the rest of the dirty dusty surroundings. He
crept from shadow to shadow and down the wall to where a fountain burbled into
the sewage system. This alley was a dead end. The other end had too many
Templars to deal with now that he was out of throwing knives. The night was too
quiet. A single sound would alert them and bring down more, likely roof
archers. They were more dangerous in the night than Templars.
He tugged at the grill to the sewer already wrinkling his nose at what he was
about to do. It did not budge. Gritting his teeth, he tugged again. The
drunkard on the bench across from him woke. That kill was swift to avoid
alerting the guards. Everything is permitted... He was tired and almost clumsy
with his kill. At least it was quiet if not clean. He donned the drunkard’s
clothes and cloak over his own. He had to retie his sash to hold the clothes in
place, fat drunkard.
Altaïr picked up the gourd full of ... what in Allah’s name was that vile
brew!? He almost choked when he took the first swig to get the scent of it on
his breath. He spilled some upon himself and gagged at how the smell of it
mixed with the vile stench of the drunkards clothes. The fat drunkard must have
vomited upon and urinated in these clothes before sleeping.
Disguised, Altaïr staggered drunkenly from the alley. The Templars, offended at
the conduct and the smell gave him a wide berth. Like this, he meandered slowly
through the city. Occasionally taking a sip of the brew when trouble watched
him too closely. Several streets from the Bureau, Altaïr could stand it no
longer. His vision was blurring and his stomach lurched from the alcohol in the
empty void. He fought for control realizing he might actually be drunk. He
leaned on a wall struggling as a guard came by. Unintentionally, Altaïr vomited
at the man’s boots. The guard cursed at him and shoved him to the ground. He
vomited again. This was worse than being drunk. Altaïr was sure he had been
poisoned. Not that he would know. He had never been drunk before either.
It was only as he stood did he realize the guard had actually stabbed him. He
turned so fast he toppled over again in the street. The guard was many
buildings away and ignoring him. The blood was warm and soaking the right side
of his robes from the waist down. He dropped the gourd in favour of clutching
his stomach. He vomited yet again, this time blood. This disguise... was a bad
idea! He dragged himself upright again. Lurching he managed to get into an
alley. He was not far now. He tried not to lean on the bloody side. No good if
he leaves a blood trail. Malik... Malik... I need you...
***** Malik Finds Altair *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr dragged himself upright again. Lurching he managed to get into an alley.
He was not far now. He tried not to lean on the bloody side. No good if he
leaves a blood trail. Malik... Malik... I need you...
There was officially no news from Altaïr all day. Malik paced, distracted. He
was barely civil when customers came in to purchase some scribed scrolls from
him. By late afternoon, he hung a damp scarf to dry in the outdoor garden. It
took only an hour for one of his informants to recognize the call and to come
visiting. He left with a small prayer written on parchment that he tucked in a
pocket.
He unfortunately had no grand news either, other than spotting Altaïr on a roof
near the quarry. That was exactly the news Malik wanted though. It reassured
him the Altaïr did not do something stupid or juvenile while sulking. Altaïr
was apparently doing exactly what he should, gathering information to make a
good kill later.
Malik had hoped that things between him and Altaïr had calmed by then and
Altaïr would come in that night to share what he had found. Malik even made
sure there was spiced rice and fried strips of meat the way Altaïr liked them.
Though, he had known Altaïr to eat just about anything put in front of him,
except maybe bananas. Malik wasn’t quite sure why he catered at the moment to
Altaïr’s preferences. It wasn’t like Altaïr was going to stay or anything. With
a small grumble, he wiped that old dream aside as totally false fiction long
since destroyed.
He would have been finished the map of Acre if he were not constantly thinking
about Altaïr. “And even when you are NOT here, you vex me!!! Where the hell are
you?” He checked his map again, made a few more touches to it, and then moved
another black pawn on the chessboard. Midnight slipped by silently. Malik dozed
on and off till he gave up with a stomach full of knots, and not just for
Altaïr. None of the assassins had checked in for now several days, Altaïr being
the last (unless you counted the ten year old novice). He double checked his
log book to confirm who was out and on what missions.
This would be another night out on the roof. The sun rose to see him sitting on
the edge of the rooftop. He fiddled with a white fluffy feather he was thinking
of using as a quill, just to give his idle hand something to do other than pick
at threads on his robe. He watched the rooftops for any sign of movement. The
sky paled into hues of pinks and mauve as the sun peaked over the horizon. The
cool breeze was welcome, even if it stole his feather and made his empty sleeve
flutter.
He had a map to deliver, two scripted building deeds to drop off with a noble,
and a journal yet to find for Altaïr. He gave up waiting and watching for the
moment. Altaïr was a grown man, not a child to be worrying over like the little
novice. Malik berated himself for behaving like a mother hen. Inside he made
and swiftly swallowed some black Persian coffee to kick start the day that was
already exhausting.
He delivered a smaller map to someone, and then informed the merchant that his
Acre map would take another day. He passed the noble’s house and delivered his
deeds. His last stop that morning was the market to find a journal for Altaïr.
It had to be something not very thick, no larger than five inches by seven
inches, which he could easily hide if necessary. Also, it had to fit in Malik’s
pocket now to carry back to the Bureau. He found a light tanned, almost white
camel skin covered book. It was very soft to the touch having been well cured
and brushed to a near silky velvety feel. Malik stroked it thinking how Altaïr
would like to do the same and thus would be more likely to use it. The front
was very plain, but Malik was sure he was skilled enough to carefully stain it
with the crest of the Assassins. He already pictured a quill of an eagle
feather that he wanted to slip between the pages.
If only Altaïr would show up. He had to at some point to get the feather for
his mission.
On his way back to the Bureau, movement in a dark and shadowy alley fluttered
at the corner of his eye. He thought it was wings, huge feathered wings, one
white and one charcoal black. He turned his head to double take the sight, but
it was just a trick of the eyes. Nothing was there. Nothing but a drunkard on
the ground in the corner by a ladder. Nothing but a crumpled waste of human
life, whose gourde of alcohol was already leaking into the cobblestones.
Nothing but a drunkard... missing the third finger on an outstretched hand.
Malik’s spine snapped rigid.
By Allah, who the hell of OUR assassins would be so stupid as to get drunk on
mission.
Malik strode over, ready to give the assassin quite the piece of his temper. He
leaned down and ripped the tattered smelly brown cloak off. “Altaïr!!??” It
could be no other by the markings on the robe. But the back harness was gone,
as was the sword and all belt pouches, even the wrist dagger.
As Malik was opening his mouth to snarl acidic things, Altaïr turned his head
and pushed himself up clumsily, drunkardly. “Malik?” The deep stain of red down
the robes and on the ground and the prompt vomit of blood that escaped Altaïr
as he tried to get up made Malik swallow anything he was about to snap out.
Altaïr had called his name, almost pleadingly. He was bleeding, inside, maybe
for a long while. The stench of alcohol off him, off his breath as Malik hauled
him to his feet told him of how drunk Altaïr actually was, how thin his blood
must be.
He cursed under his breath. Altaïr clutched the front of Malik’s robes with his
other hand to try to stay on his feet and not be dragged. The world kept
lurching, kept blurring. Malik could tell by how Altaïr moved. He pushed the
assassin up against a wall so he could look around the corner. There were
guards approaching. He resumed the position of hauling Altaïr and turned down
another road with him. All the way to the covered garden outside the Bureau,
Malik chastised him.
“Stupid novice! What in Allah were you thinking?! To do such a novice dumb
thing!”
It was a relentless string of curses along those lines till Altaïr croaked out
Malik’s name almost pleadingly. Malik paused before turning the corner into the
covered garden. “We are almost there, Brother. Just a few more feet.”
He pulled Altaïr back onto his shoulder and rounded the corner to dump Altaïr
onto the bench, but it was occupied. Malik froze a moment till it fully
registered. Tan and grey uniform, green scarf, bright smile. The novice’s eyes
grew saucer wide at the sight. Malik thanked whatever was out there for this
small blessing of extra hands. He ordered the boy to take his key from his
pocket and unlock the door immediately.
The boy hopped off the bench and stuffed his small hands into Malik’s pockets
seeking the key. Then discovering he could not reach the lock, stood on the
bench and leaned. That worked. He pushed the door open and Malik half dragged
Altaïr inside. The boy closed the door and tried to push the supply trunk over
so he could lock it again from the inside. It was too heavy. He tipped the
chessboard table to dump the pieces to the floor and dragged it to the door to
stand on. Once locked, he darted around Malik and opening the wooden gate, then
the curtain into the back.
Malik nearly dropped Altaïr once inside the safety of the private room. “You
are as heavy as English Oak,” complained Malik. He laid Altaïr on a blanket and
checked his erratic pulse. “Altaïr,” he called. “Altaïr... stay with me.
Altaïr...”
Chapter End Notes
     ART:
     Malik dragging wounded Altaïr by Mospineq (remove the spaces)
     http://mospineq.deviantart.com/art/AC-
     145571035?q=gallery%3AMospineq%2F20319283&qo=14
***** Altair's Delerium *****
Chapter Summary
     Delerium reveals deep dark truths. But nothing is true... and
     everything is permitted. Do you believe the delirium? Or not?
Malik nearly dropped Altaïr once inside the safety of the private room. “You
are as heavy as English Oak,” complained Malik. He laid Altaïr on a blanket and
checked his erratic pulse. “Altaïr,” he called. “Altaïr... stay with me.
Altaïr...”
“NNnnnhhnnn...” Altaïr groaned softly. His eyes fluttered open and he began to
pant. It was hot, so very hot. His stomach burned like he swallowed hot coals.
His hands fumbled to try to get his hood off. Shadows moved around him,
speaking in garbled languages. He could taste blood, and whatever he drank the
night before. His stomach heaved at the memory.
Something potently mint touched his tongue and the heaving eased, but the pain
shot through his gut. He gritted his teeth against it. Then he shoved the pain
aside as he had learned. His fingers could not manage to obey him. They were
shaking of their own accord. He cursed.
“What did that mean, rafiq?” asked a small voice that was high and young and
sharp.
Malik’s liquid accent rolled into Altaïr’s awareness. “It was German for a
sexual demand of obedience out of his fingers.” Trust Malik to be frank and
translate almost directly what a small boy should not yet know, but then, the
boy was going to be an assassin and lived in a world with Templars and soldiers
from all over the world. He’d likely hear worse. Altaïr wished his vision were
not so blurry to see the confusion that must be (and was) clearly painted on
the boy’s face. “Novice, get all the basins filled with water and bring them in
here.”
Altaïr’s teeth started to chatter and his body shake. He stuttered out Malik’s
name. “Altaïr, stay down, you’ve been stabbed. I’ll mend it, but you must be
still. Relax as much as you can.” Malik had said more but the words faded as
the darkness grew.
He vaguely heard Malik yell for the novice to return. In short order they were
stripping Altaïr down. The room snapped sharply into focus, though fuzzy on the
edges as instinctual survival kicked in. His arms were pinned above his head
and ye yelled and struggled. Malik threw his whole body down onto Altaïr to
hold him down till he calmed and realized that it was not Templars that had
him. Except for the chilling terror of the words, “MASTER! NO! No!!! PLEASE
NOOOOoo!  ... .. ... no... no... please.... I’ll be quiet... I’ll be still...”
And he was.
Any noises after that were kept behind Altaïr’s clenched teeth. Sweat soaked
his body mixing with the blood and vomit and alcohol.
Small hands started washing his body with a cloth under soft words of
direction. Malik laid out the medical supplies he was now completely relieved
to have from Tibah, and completely and shamefully indebted to her for.
Altaïr felt fabric in his hands and clutched it. His eyes glued to the ceiling.
Blankets were wrapped around his legs and feet, warming them. He hissed now and
then as Malik cleaned the wound. He fainted briefly when Malik pushed his
fingers into the hole to feel around.
He endured in silence as Malik stitched with the boy’s aid. The boy was having
an impromptu lesson in healing. Altaïr recognized the tone. It was the same
tone Faruq used when that man was teaching Malik while healing Altaïr from one
wound or other. He flinched when the stitches were tugged together and grunted.
He found himself panting again as the room flew from ice to fire. This will
pass. Pain passes. There is just the soul... and the fog...
“Malik? Malik? Why... why are you in... in... the fog?” Altaïr’s words were
clumsy and stumbling.
“It is not fog, Altaïr. I put too much incense in my pot. That is all.” It was
a lie, Altaïr frowned at the slight shift in Malik’s tone.
Take a leap for me Altaïr...
The leap of faith is your trust in God or Allah or by whatever name you wish to
call those that came before.
Altaïr ... great eagle in flight ... son of none... spread your wings and
fly...
The room rushed back into Altaïr’s vision with Malik yelling his name. With the
sight of the private room came to hardness of the stone under the blankets, the
uncomfortable wetness from the bathing water that soaked into those blankets,
and the burning sting just under his left ribs. Nausea swelled in him again. He
was rolled to vomit into a basin.
He was hauled to his stumbling feet and moved into a soft thick bed. There he
lay with his head turned, squinting his eyes to try to make things stay in
focus. Malik and a small boy cleaned up the bloody wet blankets and medical
supplies. Frequently Malik knelt in Altaïr’s full vision and presses a hand to
his face. There was no strength left in Altaïr to move or even speak. Malik
helped him sip some minty water. It helped his nausea.
When he opened his eyes again, the room was dark. The light scent of orris
permeated in the room. Malik was sitting alone, propped by cushions and
reading. The boy was nowhere to be seen. That awareness lasted but a few second
and was gone again.
***** Malik Begins to See *****
Chapter Summary
     Those epiphanies you hoped to start seeing Malik have... they are
     here... little by little... the puzzle is taking form and Malik does
     not like what he sees.
Malik napped with his book on his lap. He could not sleep well, though. Altaïr
would yell in his sleep and try to attack imagined enemies. Malik did manage a
good few hours that helped revive him. He moved near Altaïr so as to frequently
check on him more easily. It was both a long day and now will be a long night.
He still had no idea what happened to Altaïr, why he was drunk or how he
managed to get stabbed.
Other questions boiled in him, too. Old questions from old secrets that Altaïr
had kept. Questions that made Malik doubt Master Al Mualim more. Doubts that
only strengthened his resolve about hiding the boy novice. He was grateful for
the boy’s extra hands and inwardly lamented about not having an apprentice or
novice of his own here as the other Dai did. The Dai had other rafiqs and
novices to assist him. When he took the position, he was so stubborn to prove
he could still function; he refused any. He started out a rafiq and though he
is now a Dai, he is still called rafiq. He has managed so well that now none
would be sent and he could not swallow his pride enough to ask for one. So his
title of rafiq and Dai remain ambiguous and interchangeable.
It had taken the remainder of the morning and part of the afternoon to get
Altaïr undressed, bathed, stitched and medicated. The rest of the afternoon and
early evening was watching Altaïr for fever and other problems. That stab had
nicked his stomach causing internal bleeding. There were a couple moments where
he nearly panicked. As miraculous a healer as Altaïr can be, this was too
close. Way too close. The alcohol in his system thinned his blood. He nearly
bled to death before Malik even found him.
Then there was the moment Altaïr spoke of the fog. That scared Malik more than
when Altaïr stopped breathing a moment. When Altaïr squirmed from a rebelling
stomach, Malik put a drop of peppermint oil on his finger and stuffed his
finger into Altaïr’s mouth. He tried over and over to sooth the delirious
terrors in Altaïr’s sleep.
Now it was quiet. Had been quiet for several hours. He dozed. When the oil lamp
was almost out of fuel he got up and added more. He sat and read his book a
while. Altaïr turned his head and looked over. Malik’s heart jumped with
excitement to see him awake, but it had not lasted. He tried to get Altaïr to
drink a little. He was so weak.
In the morning, Altaïr managed to mumble about what happened. How he had been
trapped by guards, archers, and Templars. How he used the novice’s idea of
disguise and stole what he could from a dead drunkard. How he vomited all over
a guard who obviously took offence. Malik had to laugh at that. He saw a
flicker of a grin on Altaïr’s lips that vanished again as though he were not
permitted the mirth. The early morning alertness was gone an hour later.
Malik stepped into the doctor role of a Dai, one he was better suited for than
most Dai considering his mentorship under his brother Faruq. He recleaned the
wound and checked it carefully. He dealt with any bodily wastes. He kept Altaïr
warm when he was cold and cool when he fevered. Like a mother with a baby,
Malik chewed food into a mush and watered it down into a soup so Altaïr could
get nourishment one small spoonful at a time. He fingered through Altaïr’s soft
hair dampened by sweat. It was always a way to soothe him. “Stupid novice,” he
whispered in a far more affectionate tone.
He had listened to the novice earlier before he sent the boy home. The novice
was thrilled to see his mission in the log and watched as the details were
written in as he gave them. He went home with his eagle feather and was
informed that he helped save the life of the man who provides those eagle
feathers. The boy asked if Altaïr was going to become the next Master of the
Order. Malik chuckled a moment at the arrogance he could see in Altaïr at that,
then struck the boy firm across the cheek. “Remember never to voice that
thought ever again... or we will all be killed for it,” he told the boy
seriously. He hugged the boy almost immediately after to reassure him he was
not angry, he just wanted to really drive home the importance of his words. The
boy left both humbled and proud of the trust he had been given this day.
Thinking back on it, he wished Altaïr had been more aware of what was happening
around him, to see this incredible small boy with an indomitable spirit.
Two days and Altaïr had yet to really rouse. He would barely long enough to be
taken to relieve himself, but that was about it. Malik knew that Altaïr’s body
was taking up most of his energy healing. Already the cuts in his hand were
healed. And the lingering older wounds were healed into fine scars. The cut in
the leg he had stitched a few days ago looked like the stitches could be taken
out maybe in another few days. Malik wondered if anyone other than himself and
his older brother knew of Altaïr’s ability to heal like this.
Pondering this and many other things, Malik worked on finishing the map of Acre
for Tibah’s father. As he blew on the last marks to dry them and then tested
them with a finger it hit him. Testing... THAT is exactly what Al Mualim has
been doing to Altaïr. Testing him. Seeing how much he can take before he
breaks. Except Altaïr never broke. Not really. It was always shy of killing
him, but maybe that kind of testing began after Altaïr and Malik were
separated. Malik remembered another novice from a few months ago mentioning how
the Master had demoted Altaïr as a traitor in public and then stabbed him to
death. And, by the magic of the golden ball, brought him back to life to live
out his punishment.
Malik bolted back into the private room and searched the sleeping body for
another stab, a heart stab. It had to have left a scar. His fingers smoothed
over Altaïr’s chest naming the types of wounds that could cause the scars he
found. Then he paused over Altaïr’s heart. There it was. But not quite a true
hit. The scar was so close to the heart that you would think it was a fatal
blow. With swift proper care, Altaïr would have healed in a couple weeks just
as he will heal from his stomach stab. With swift and proper care. Al Mualim
could grant that in secret, and then hold a lie over everyone.
Malik jumped out of his skin when Altaïr’s hand suddenly gripped his wrist.
“Easy, Brother. You are safe,” Malik reassured. Altaïr released his hold and
drifted back into slumber.
***** Altair: Wounded Eagles Bite *****
Chapter Summary
     A little more cute novice for you all... and some grumpiness and
     realizations.
Malik jumped out of his skin when Altaïr’s hand suddenly gripped his wrist.
“Easy Brother. You are safe.” Altaïr released his hold and drifted back into
slumber.
He had been wounded before, gashed, stabbed. Altaïr was sure this was no
different. In some ways, it wasn’t. He was sluggish in thought, unable to stay
awake or coherent, wounds burned intermittently as they healed. What made this
time different was that he did not smell of soiled clothing or hay. His belly
was filled. His environment sometimes changed as he emptied himself. Something
cool eased his fevers. Something warm eased the chills. Someone gentle eased
the horrors. The smells were a mix of soup, medicines, and incense, but also of
books and sometimes cooking.
It made no sense. Sometimes Malik was there rebandaging him. More often than
not, Altaïr woke to no one. Malik was a busy man. Altaïr found himself in
Malik’s bed, invading yet more of the man’s privacy with the inconvenience of
his wounds. He could already hear in his mind the caustic retorts.
“Safety and peace, Novice,” Altaïr heard Malik’s voice in the background. “How
fared your mission?”
The high voice of the small boy replied cheerily, “With great success, rafiq!”
Altaïr heard the usual thud of the log book and wondered what vexed Malik about
the success of the boy’s mission. The incongruity of Malik’s light tone made
him question his interpretation of the thudding of the book. Pages flipped to a
point that must be blank. “Tell me the details and let me see the feather.”
Malik sounded pleased at the sight of the bloodied feather. Altaïr wondered who
the boy killed... so young. And realized that maybe the thudding of the book
was not the sound of vexation, but simply the lack of grace with one hand
holding a very large and heavy book.
The usual sound of waxed rice paper wrapping the feather could be heard. The
boy bounced in place as he recited the details. “I followed the dog from its
owner’s home. He lets it roam free and cares nothing of what it does. I watched
it dig holes in three people’s gardens, chase a cat and turn over the kitchen
trash of our neighbour. It almost bit a little girl who came out to add more
trash. I did say it was a menace! I hid around a corner with a piece of steak,
fresh cut. When it came around the corner, it was way bigger a dog than I
thought!! But I was not afraid. I had a mission. If I didn’t finish then maybe
he would bite the girl next door instead of just tear up the gardens. So I
stood still. It was a good place on his route. No one was nearby. No one would
see. When it jumped and bit the steak, I stabbed it. It was messier than I
thought it would be. I had to stab him several times to quiet him.” The boy
scuffed a toe on the ground. “It wasn’t a glorious kill. But I did complete my
mission.”
Malik’s quill scratched all the details into the log. Altaïr half smiled at the
boy’s first kill, a dog. His own first kill was a goat. Altaïr then heard
Malik’s reassurance, “You did very well, Novice. It takes practice to make the
kills swift and clean. Practice and skill. Here is a book on anatomy so you
know where best to strike for a fast clean kill. I have noted the places. Study
it and bring it back to me in two weeks.”
Altaïr needed to move. He pulled himself up to sitting, then to standing.
Nature bade him be empty and he refused to do that in Malik’s bed. The room
spun as he recalled the feeling of blood loss and steadied himself with a hand
on the wall. He could see the doorway through the opened shelf. Somehow, though
he couldn’t recall how, he knew he could go through there to relieve himself.
His feet dragged as he forced himself to have some private dignity. To his
amazement there was a whole room there. A small fountain that backed the broken
one in the Bureau’s other room. Now he understood why it was broken, the piping
was shifted to this side. There was a kitchen area too. He had always wondered
how Malik managed to store and cook food in the Bureau. Once relieved he rinsed
his hand and sipped some water. I need to get out of his way... I need to
finish my mission...
His knees buckled as he entered the sleeping room again and found himself
caught in Malik’s arm, “You stupid drunken novice! I am but one room away. I
would have heard you whisper my name.” Malik guided Altaïr back into the bed.
Altaïr muttered almost with slurred words, “You were busy. I... I need to go.”
“Go?! Have you lost your mind? Did that crass half-poison of alcohol pickle
it?! You can’t even stand!” Malik’s words were sharp and cut like little
daggers into Altaïr’s pride.
Altaïr protested, “I have a mission. I can’t stay or I will miss my mark.”
“I have to care for you. That stab was bad.”
Altaïr knew it was Malik’s duty. Just duty. “I’ll be fine. I’m in your way and
you don’t want me here anyways!”
There was silence.
Altaïr tried to get back up, but Malik’s hand on his chest kept him down. He
lacked the strength to sit up so he rolled over instead, face to the wall and
back to Malik. “I don’t deserve your care.”
He felt Malik’s hand touch his shoulder and he flinched, untrusting. He heard
Malik rise and leave, grumbling, “stupid novice... stupid blind novice...”
***** Malik Remembers the Push *****
Chapter Summary
     Oh Malik.......
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik’s hand touched his shoulder and he flinched, untrusting. Malik rose and
left, grumbling, “stupid novice... stupid blind novice...”
Malik’s words were out of hurt. He was shocked and hurt by Altaïr’s biting
comments. Malik had to step out. Altaïr shut him out. It hurt. It hurt to be
shut out yet again by Altaïr, to be in the position of not being trusted. It
had been in all of Altaïr’s reactions from the first time he arrived in
Jerusalem three missions ago. The arrogance was less and the wariness was
greater.
I suppose I have not helped that...
He realized only now how his words had been taken so literally by Altaïr. When
they were younger, this was never the case. Malik might have gotten angry and
verbally lashed out, but Altaïr knew back then never to take it to heart... and
arrogantly never did. Altaïr had this knack of patting Malik’s cheek with a wry
little grin and totally diffusing the anger. Now... now Altaïr practically
flinched and shied or outright fled. What have I done? What have I become while
here in Jerusalem? He is practically acting around me as he... dear Allah...
like he behaves around Al Mualim. Is that what I have become? What cruelties
has Al Mualim done to instil this in Altaïr? How long has it been going on? He
then remembered how Altaïr had gotten his scar on his lip. Long... it has been
going on long...
Malik paced the main room of the Bureau, his hand on his head in stunned
realization. But why?! Altaïr had so many secrets, has been lying all this time
to Malik about Al Mualim. Then again, if roles were reversed, Malik realized he
would likely do the same. A memory flashed in his head and he had wished he had
always remembered it.
Malik and Altaïr had a spat that morning. Jealousy ate away at Malik. Al Mualim
was going to be personally helping Altaïr in the wall climbing training. It was
a public reminder who mentored Altaïr, the favourite of the Grand Master
Assassin of the Order. Many were jealous. Altaïr strutted and fought them all
off often to prove he was the best. It sometimes strained their friendship. But
then Altaïr would pat his cheek and grin, “See you at the top. Time me... I’ll
time you after and we’ll see who can do it faster.” Altaïr took nothing
seriously. Malik wished he would. This was a dangerous test. There was no hay
to soften the fall off the wall this time.
Malik only half listened to his brother Faruq’s advice and instruction as he
watched Altaïr climb. “Are you listening Malik? This is important. Stop
worrying about them, Master Al Mualim will watch over him just I will watch
over you.”
Malik gasped when he looked over and breathed in shock, “He pushed him! Al
Mualim pushed him off!”
Faruq turned his head in disbelief only to see Al Mualim clutching Altaïr wrist
and pulling him up, effectively saving his live from a bad fall from the wall.
Altaïr’s sword clattered to the ground. His feet dangled and scrambled for
purchase. Al Mualim pulled him to safety and congratulated him. “See? He just
slipped. Al Mualim would never push someone off the wall, Malik. Especially not
Altaïr.”
Now remembering, he had. Malik was sure of it. Testing Altaïr again and again,
pushing Altaïr’s limits. He peaked in on Altaïr to see the assassin had put on
some clothes and curled up facing the wall once more. In this sense also
showing how little he trusted Malik. Malik wanted to be angry. Malik was angry,
but he was not sure who he was more angry at. He gave Altaïr space for now.
While he did so, Malik set the new journal on the counter and looked long at
it. Then selected some inks and feathers with different tips and carried it all
over to the work table. He spent the next couple hours focused on the journal.
With the utmost care, he dyed the emblem of the Brotherhood into the pale
cover. Then inside, in his neatest script, he wrote the Creed.
                Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent.
          The goal of the assassins is to ensure peace in all things.
                        Always be discreet. Be unseen.
                       Never compromise the Brotherhood.
               The actions of one must never bring harm to all.
On the first page he had planned to write something commemorative, but found he
could not invade the pages meant for Altaïr’s thoughts. On the inside back
cover, since he wrote the Creed inside the front cover, he wrote:
                            Some things are true...
                        how I feel, our friendship...
                  and some things should not be permitted...
                     It is always a choice, a moral one.
            Let me help you when you no longer know what is right.
                                   ~ Malik.
 He heard some noise in the back room and closed the book. When he stepped
inside the room, it was empty. The journal slipped from his hand to the floor.
Altaïr was gone. He wasn’t well enough to be gone. Malik took the stairs a few
at a time hoping to beat Altaïr to the second floor, but clearly he was not.
The hatch clicked shut. In his distress, Malik’s hand was clumsy. The seconds
were too many. He skidded out onto the roof of the Bureau. Altaïr was gone.
He rushed back in and grabbed a small dagger. He pondered stabbing Altaïr
himself for this childish act.... this arrogant better than the world act. He
slammed the front door and locked it then dashed around the whole building
hoping to find a stupid staggering Altaïr, but to no avail. He searched street
by street till the sun set. His furious snarl at a thug actually made the thug
back off. He returned to the Bureau practically pulling his hair out. “I should
have drugged him!” He yelled his impotent frustration at the walls and kicked
the chessboard that was recently reset for a new game. Pieces went flying...
all the pieces save for the black bishop of course.
Altaïr was now out there somewhere, barely well enough to be standing.
Chapter End Notes
     Memory inspired by Doubleleaf's art from Deviant Art
     https://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/training-novice-145648812
***** Altair: Guilty *****
Altaïr was now out there somewhere, barely well enough to be standing.
He had taken dressing and armoring in small stages while Malik was doing
whatever he was doing in the main room of the Bureau. When he had relieved
himself in the hidden room, he noted the stairs and planned to leave. That
would be his way out without having to confront Malik again. Altaïr understood
that he was on a deadline. The hanging might be very soon, or worse today. In
his flight, he had to stop and drink. He turned down an alley to the basket
where he stuffed his weaponry in case he got picked up by the guards. He didn’t
want to lead them in any way to the Brotherhood.
With his weapons in place, he sat on a bench to rest. He pick-pocketed some
coin and bought some food to slowly nibble on his way to the quarry. What he
overheard along the way reassured him that he was not too late. That was fine.
He really was not up for a fight or a successful assassination. It bothered him
more than he expected to be impaired like this. It was humbling in how
humiliating it was. No wonder Malik was so bitter all the time. Altaïr just
wished Malik would stop being bitter with him... just a little. He also wished
he knew Malik’s thoughts on that note he wrote him. He knew Malik read it, but
Malik said nothing of it as if it meant absolutely nothing. Maybe that is how
it is. I am nothing. I am nothing but the Eagle of Masyaf. The assassin pawn of
my Master. What will happen when I have taken these nine lives? Will mine be my
own? He doubted it.
He found a bench just outside the quarry to sit upon. One of Malik’s informants
passed him without noticing. Altaïr stood and silently followed him. The
informant sensed he was being followed. Altaïr wasn’t trying to be discreet,
not that he really could have at this point but the informant didn’t have to
know. “What news have you of the hanging?” Altaïr asked bluntly when the
informant turned around.
“Altaïr. I...” he frowned, his eyes following Altaïr’s arm to the hand that
clutched at the painful stab wound. The informant changed his choice of words,
abandoning the request he was going to ask. “The hanging is in five days. They
captured a new prisoner they want to use as an example and warning, but I do
not yet know who.”
“Thank you. I will find out who.” Altaïr turned and blended in among some monks
that walked by. The sunset made it now impossible to track him among the group
of monks.
Altaïr meandered slowly through the district till he found a ladder and
climbed. He found a resting area on a roof to sleep in. It took him another
couple days to get to the prison. He relaxed every chance he got and ate and
drank often. He even dozed on a bench till he got kicked from it like a
drunkard by the guards. This is how he handled any bad wounds on the road. Eat,
drink, rest, and keep moving. To lie too long is to give up and die. He was a
survivor if nothing else. When he reached the prison, the worst of the pain was
gone from his stomach. He was far from healed and would need to be careful, but
he’d manage better. Now he could ignore any twinges. Now he could climb and
fight. He’d pay for it later for sure, but at least he was well enough to be
capable. Altaïr was sure Malik would disagree and likely would have drugged him
with a sedative deceitfully.
Altaïr spat on the ground to get the taste of that thought of betrayal out of
him mouth. He could do this mission. It was HIS mission. He was the very BEST
of Masyaf, or the Master would have assigned someone else for sure. That was
sobering. Maybe there is no one good enough. These were by far the most
dangerous missions he had ever done or even heard of. Altaïr locked that
thought away to add to the many he wanted to address with the Master. But what
if the Master was right?Or what if Altaïr was not strong enough to stand his
ground against him? It was a terrible feeling to be alone. Altaïr wondered for
a moment how Malik felt, if Malik felt alone. Not likely, he had the whole
Brotherhood to rely on and many who pass through his Bureau. Malik was never
alone. Or so Altaïr thought.
Sitting on a bench near some gossiping guards thinking how their superior would
kill them for nattering like women at laundry, Altaïr listened. If he was their
superior, he would kill them.
“We dragged one in a few days ago. They say he’s an assassin.”
“If he was an assassin, then his captors would be dead and he would be free.”
“They laid a trap. Like they did before. We missed him the first time, but not
this time.”
“So it was Templars then that brought him in?”
“Yes, he was wearing whites and greys like the monks and scholars.”
“Tseh! Who’s to say he isn’t one and they made a mistake?”
“No mistake. He was protecting the younger one with the grey hood that was used
as bait. That one died, but this one, is ours. He took down two Templars and
five guards before the Templars overtook him. Like a bald slave fighting in the
Greek games for his life, what are they called?”
“I don’t know; who cares. We have him and he’ll hang with the rest. The Regent
will be pleased.”
Altaïr stayed still on the bench while his mind ran circles. The trap was for
him. They think they have him. And the poor assassin will hang for him. And the
poor novice died for him. Altaïr wanted to vomit again. He got up and moved
away swiftly to avoid being seen when he did. He had three days to get to the
Bureau, get a feather and end the Regent and save the Brotherhood member. Guilt
gnawed painfully within him.
He had to rest on the way, catch some sleep. But the very next day, his feet
walked across the emblem beautifully inlaid in the roof of the Bureau. He
rubbed his side; it was tolerable. It would still be days till it was actually
healed, but he didn’t have days. The hanging was tomorrow. Resolved, he dropped
lightly onto the carpets within and walked to the door. His feet always halted
him there, digging in for the barrage of dagger-like words from Malik. It
didn’t come.... Altaïr was sure it would though.
***** Malik: Leap of Faith *****
Chapter Summary
     An almost Yaoi warning...
Altaïr’s feet always halted him in the doorway, digging in for the barrage of
dagger-like words from Malik. It didn’t come.... Altaïr was sure it would
though.
Malik heard from one of his informants that Altaïr was alive and mostly well
looking. The informant had seen Altaïr scouting the quarry and that he would
find out who the new prisoner spectacle was to be. Malik was relieved he was
not dead, bleeding, or caught. It didn’t mean Malik was not completely and
utterly furious with him, however.
Malik lifted his head from the maps of the poor and middle districts where he
noted locations and logged them in the large log book. Altaïr stood hesitantly
in the doorway. “Don’t just stand there; tell me what you found out.” It took
all his effort to hold a half civil tongue when he saw Altaïr.
“One of our novices is dead. Used as bait to try to capture an assassin.”
Altaïr’s voice was tense and heavy, making it sound deeper and rougher than
usual.
Malik whispered a prayer and flipped a page to make a note of the death.
“Anything else?”
Altaïr walked in slowly to just a couple feet from the counter, almost braced
for Malik’s anger. “Another of our assassins was caught in that trap with the
bait. A bald one.... He fought hard and well, they thought he was me.” Malik
knew now that heaviness in the voice to be guilt. “The hanging is tomorrow.”
Malik was madly scribbling down details and notes for later.
“I know what I have to do. I’ll claim his life while he gloats to the crowd.”
The arrogance slid into Altaïr’s voice.
“Do you have a plan? Know the area? Found an escape?” Malik just wanted to be
sure. Altaïr was still not hurt, he wanted to know for sure if this was going
to work.
“I am a master assassin,” snapped Altaïr. “Not a novice. I said I know what I
am doing!”
“You are a novice to me. You don’t have a plan, clearly. You never really do.
This is why you will ALWAYS be a novice in my eyes, Altaïr!” Malik’s anger was
slipping... slipped. “You are still wounded!”
“There is no one else and it is MY mission and MY fault!” They had reached the
point now of shouting at each other. Altaïr had taken a couple steps forward as
he yelled. “I am a killer! Give me the damned feather and let me do what I was
made to do!”
They glared at each other across the counter for several long seconds.
Malik reached under the counter and lifted a feather from the box. He watched
Altaïr follow the feather’s movement. Malik slammed it onto the table with a
snarl and retracted his hand. Altaïr slammed his hand upon the feather,
crushing the edges in a fist. Malik’s hand shot out and trapped Altaïr’s to the
counter.
They glared hellfire and daggers at each other across that counter. Malik
wished he had a second hand to push Altaïr’s hood back to see the fire in his
eyes and not just the shadows.
Altaïr must have been calculating the distances and pressures to throw Malik
back without harming him. That kind of thinking through anger made thinking
slower for Altaïr.
Malik was used to thinking fast while angry. He was calculating the speed and
distance to move his hand into Altaïr’s hood to hook it behind his neck,
ideally before Altaïr could pull away.
The seconds were no more than a few furious heartbeats.
Malik took a leap of faith and moved.
He leaned a little, hand darting into Altaïr’s hood and behind his neck pulling
him forwards over the counter a bit. The hood fell back to reveal golden eyes
filled with anger, frustration, betrayal, confusion. The confusion was growing
to outweigh the other emotions though. Malik silently revelled in his little
victory. He leaned further forward till his brow touched Altaïr’s. Tense hot
breaths passed between them. Malik was momentarily not sure why he did this and
what he was going to do next.
He closed his eyes, still holding Altaïr in a fierce grip. “I know you are the
only one who can, who must do this. I know you will abandon the Creed if you
have to. I beg you to please try not to. I know you have been trying, but this
will be ugly and public. There is neither hiding nor being invisible. You will
likely end up revealing yourself and thus our Brotherhood. Just try to stay
your blade from innocents. Just that, forget the rest. Forget even those who
will be hanged.”
“No... no...”
“Yes. Forget them, Altaïr. I will arrange for people to free them after the
Regent is dead. Just be sure to kill him before they are hung.” Malik relaxed
his grip as he had felt Altaïr was not struggling to escape it. Malik opened
his eyes to see that Altaïr had closed his. He curled his fingers in Altaïr’s
hair at the nape of his neck. “May your blade be swift. And... Altaïr...
Please.... Be careful. Come back to me.” He whispered this just barely.
“With a bloody feather,” Altaïr replied at a whisper to match Malik’s. Malik
released Altaïr who stepped back from the counter, tucking the feather into a
belt pouch. “I’ll try to be careful.” When he reached the doorway of the
fountain room, he looked back at Malik over his shoulder. Malik could swear he
saw the hint of a grin on his lips. “I promise nothing about city alarm bells
though.” The hood was tugged up and Altaïr took flight out the lattice roof
before Malik could yell at him again.
***** Altair Prepares *****
The hood was tugged up and Altaïr took flight out the lattice roof before Malik
could yell at him again.
Altaïr found a roof spot near the quarry by evening and hid in a covered rest
area. There he nibbled food he pilfered and did some stretching to help his
muscles remember how to behave despite his injury, also to test the limits of
that injury.
At dawn, he watched through the curtain as people set up for the hanging. He
counted the guards; he noted the commoners. There were few of both. He almost
cheered seeing a group of priests there to give the prisoners last rites. That
was his way in. Maybe he could slip right up behind the Regent in front of
everyone without notice after all! He watched the archers start to take
position on the roofs. They will have to go. He piled his extra throwing knives
under a cushion in this little cushioned hiding place to collect on his way
back here and rolled out to creep over and start eliminating archers. He took
his time and used his wrist dagger as often as he could or threw a knife only
when he was sure the archer would not fall off the roof. He had to retrieve the
extra throwing knives and continue. By lunch, he made his way to each dead
archer and propped him up creatively so onlookers from the streets below would
never think they were dead.
He grinned at his brilliance and wished Malik were here to see this. A fleeting
look below at the growing crowds showed him no Malik. He hoped Malik was fast
enough to get people in place to free the prisoners, because the number of
guards below grew swiftly. Altaïr would have his hands full.
He tried very hard not to think too much about what transpired between him and
Malik last. It was wonderful and confusing and ... Altaïr shook his head to
clear it. He did NOT need this distraction. Not now. It wasn’t trust between
them, not friendship, but something. The feel of Malik’s fingers in his hair at
his neck sent another tingle down his spike and he quickly swallowed down some
water to ease the heat of the noon sun.
The guards came with the Regent and their prisoners in tow. By the number,
Altaïr had figured correctly. This was meant as a trap for him. One of his was
now bait to lure him in. There really were too many of them. This was almost
suicide. The only way this could be worse is if there were Templars... or even
worse... this was happening in the middle of a dock full of boats. Altaïr
shuddered and glanced around by instinct to be sure there was no water… and no
Templars. It was foolish, but weren’t all phobias?
There. There was a low climbable wall. Without the heavy armor of the guards,
Altaïr could climb it for his escape and at least gain some distance. The
guards would have to squeeze through the one opening in the wall. He laid flat
on his belly with a small wince and peered over the edge of the building to get
a good look at the routes and the crowds outside the wall. Then he spotted that
father who was intent on killing the Regent himself. Suicide. Altaïr shook his
head. He had to commend the man for his bravery, but there would be no way he
would live.
Altaïr slunk down to the ground and wove through the crowd till he was through
the walls and almost in place. The Regent began preaching his glories of the
Law to the people.
***** Malik Prepares *****
Altaïr slunk down to the ground and wove through the crowd till he was through
the walls and almost in place. The Regent began preaching his glories of the
Law to the people.
Malik recited the Creed several times just to remind himself since he had just
told Altaïr to practically abandon it. He wanted to yell back at Altaïr when
the assassin left, but found he just could not. He had taken a leap of faith
and it worked out. Altaïr was now off to prepare for his kill. Malik needed to
be off to prepare on his end. If people were not in place as he promised, then
the bald assassin will likely die. Altaïr would likely die.
He ran through the streets with maps and scrolls under his arm to a small house
and pounded on the door. This was the home of an informant who was supposed to
be off duty for the week. He winced trying to juggle the stuff under his arm
and knocking on the door. He failed both miserably as the armload scattered and
unrolled all across the ground. He looked like a fumbling scholar now
scrambling after his scrolls.
The door opened and his informant looked surprised. “Rafiq?” The informant
helped gather everything and invited him in. It was RARE, as in NEVER, that
Malik had come to the house like this. The man’s wife greeted him and offered
to prepare some tea and breakfast. Once seated on cushions in the coolest part
of the house, Malik and the informant poured over the map. Malik apologized a
few times to the man, but this was urgent.
A little girl no more than four or five tiptoed in and without invitation sat
in Malik’s lap. There was startlement from the informant and his wife and
Malik, then light chuckles all around. The informant apologized to Malik, who
said he honestly did not mind. Though with a lap full of child, Malik was
somewhat trapped, much to the informant’s amusement.
“You stay here and relax, rafiq. I will see that this mission is done.” He did
a last scan of the map and hurried out, kissing his wife as he left.
The little girl innocently explored Malik’s empty sleeve. “Why don’t you have
an arm?”
“Because God took it from me,” Malik replied gently.
She frowned a tiny frown of confusion. “But why would God do that? Doesn’t he
know you need two arms?”
“Sometimes God takes something important away so you can realize something much
more important is there for you instead.” It was the best he could come up with
and ... it made him think suddenly of Altaïr. Something must have changed in
his expression as the wife came to claim her daughter, handing her a cup full
of grain. She apologized to Malik for her daughter’s rudeness; he brushed it
off.
The little girl ran with her cup of grain up to where she was told she could
feed the pigeons in the coup. Her tiny feet thudded on the stairs in her
excitement, squealing all the way up till the door opened and slammed shut
startling the birds. The sound of terrified pigeons and of squealing and
giggling girl emanated down the stairs as Malik prepared to leave.
“This... was an emergency, was it not? Will we have to return to Masyaf?” the
concerned wife asked.
“No no,” Malik reassured. “And I promise another full week off for his
trouble.”
“Good. We are very busy trying to accomplish God’s work.”
Malik blushed at having interfered in... uh... their task of God’s work. “I
wish you the very best of luck with your efforts. Your husband will be back in
a few days.”
He hurried back to the Bureau to prepare now for the onslaught of trouble. He
kept the door locked with a sign out that he was indisposed for the week. He
cleaned the whole Bureau anticipating having to heal many people. And set out
what he would need for that. He updated his log book and paced the Bureau MANY
times. All he could do now was wait. This was the part he hated most. The
waiting.
***** Altair: Killer *****
Chapter Summary
     We all played it; we all did it; I had to write it for the sake of
     smooth continuity.
All Malik could do now was wait. This was the part he hated most. The waiting.
Altaïr waited, too. He listened to the Regent expounding at length about Law
and Order, about Obedience and the Folly of Chaos. Altaïr wondered if the
Regent was a Christian priest once considering the long-winded preaching. As he
took a careful few steps through the crowd to the group of priests, he heard
the shout of protest from that father demanding the release of his innocent
son.
Altaïr turned his head long enough to see the man skewered by the nearest
guard. The Regent used this as a perfect example of the chaos of when people
abandoned the Law. Altaïr whispered prayers of thanks as he joined the white
robed priests, and joined his voice to their prayers of lament in Latin. They
faltered a little not expecting him to be so educated. He stifled the smirk
that wanted to claim his usually stoic expression.
The group of priests moved through the crowd, being given space to pass. The
Regent was still preaching and boasting loudly. Altaïr wondered how the man
accomplished anything between his speeches. He side glanced the line of guards
he passed on his way to the stairs onto the platform to pray last rites for
those to be hung. He was half way there. The maddened gurgled snarl of insanity
was heard too late. A crazy person shoved him and another monk roughly into the
guards and wandered to babble gibberish then snarl and shove someone else.
The guard Altaïr toppled into became all too aware of Altaïr and the weapons he
wore. He let out a cry that was cut short by Altaïr’s wrist blade. The fight
was NOW! Altaïr killed as many guards as he could and ran through the screaming
frantic crowd with the Regent close at his heels. Plan B... lead the target to
a secluded area and then kill him. He managed to escape the compound hacking
and slashing almost randomly with a small apology to Malik when his blade
caught a bystander in an effort to get them out of the way. Altaïr was amazed
the Regent wanted him so badly as to chase him. Was he insane? Was his
bloodlust so strong? He has left his guards behind! Altaïr skidded around a
corner readying to turn and face the Regent for a final blow.
Fifty guards drew their swords. He nearly impaled himself on them. Altaïr
sucked in a sharp and momentarily painful breath. There was no time for pain
and shoved it instantly aside. Now was the time for survival and taking down
the target. Even survival became secondary. He wheeled to face the Regent who
was joined by his fifty guards from the quarry. Altaïr locked the image of the
man’s face in his mind. He would reach him, kill him, if it was the last thing
he did with his last breath.
The now empty quarry left the informants who had snuck in with a very easy duty
of freeing the prisoners without any trouble. They were immeasurably grateful
for how Altaïr handled this to keep them safe by luring the danger away as he
did. The off-duty informant stood on a roof with the bald assassin overlooking
the scene farther off.
All around Altaïr the colors shimmered. The few running innocent people shone
white. Those who would aid him shone blue. Outnumbering them, a hundred or
more, shone bodies of red. Altaïr saw red... only red. Then a bright yellow
flickered through the red, his target.
Altaïr was a blur of white and red and silvery steel in the center of a sea of
guards, soldiers and even Templars. The Regent fell to Altaïr’s blade and the
informant and bald assassin let up a cheer that thankfully was not heard over
the dim of the fight. There was a pregnant pause in the battle as the Regent
went down and the city alarm bells tolled.
As his blade felled the Regent, Altaïr sensed it, time stopped. Each heartbeat
slowed to nothing and the fog came to separate him and his target from the
world. He had hoped it would not come. The dying always had cryptic words that
made him re-evaluate and doubt what he was doing. This seemed like it would be
no different. Altaïr tried to bring what peace he could to the dying man, “Your
work here is done.”
But the Regent, Madj Addin, Was not willing to go so peacefully. “No. NO! It
had only just begun!”
“Tell me, what’s your part in all this? Do you intend to defend yourself as
others have and explain away your evil deeds?” Altaïr felt compelled to demand
answers.
“The Brotherhood wanted the city. I wanted power. There was... an opportunity.”
The Regent shrugged nonchalantly.
Altaïr was halted in his thoughts a moment, the Brotherhood does not want to
own the city. They have Masyaf. He decided the Regent must be wrong in that.
“An opportunity to murder innocents.”
Quick and abrupt, the Regent replied fervently, “Not so innocent... dissident
voices cut deep as steel. They disrupt order. In this, I do agree with the
Brotherhood.”
“You’d kill people simply for believing differently than you?” Altaïr found
this incredulous.
The Regent grinned at him through the fog, a chilling cold grin. “Of course
not! I killed them because I could... because it was fun! Do you know what it
feels like to determine another man’s fate? And did you see the way the people
cheered... the way they feared me? I was like a God! You’d have done the same
if you could. Such... power!”
Altaïr did not agree, did not think he would in the Regent’s place, not now.
“Once perhaps, but then I learned what becomes of those who lift themselves
above others.” Guilt made him swallow hard for Malik’s losses, then set his jaw
tightly. This man was truly mad, insane with power. Absolute power corrupts
absolutely.
“And what is that?” asked the Regent venomously.
Cold and serious came Altaïr’s answer, “Here... let me show you”. He then
stabbed Majd Addin in the neck. This target... this one was worthy of the
assassination. He forsake humanity and in doing so forsake his life. Altaïr had
no remorse. Not that he ever really did. The fog faded and the colors of the
world flooded back with blood.
Then there was a rush like an uproar. Altaïr was swarmed. A shout went up with
a guard pointing at the roof watchers who fled immediately, unable to stay to
see the outcome but expecting it would end soon.
Altaïr no longer felt the pain at all from a hit, no longer even bothered to
dodge them. His world narrowed to the random faces and the blood and the need
to kill. Some of the soldiers ran for fear of him, screaming “DEMON!” Every
stamp of a foot in near inch deep blood splashed with it. Altaïr cut a path.
Then he ran till the hazy blurriness cleared and he had to turn again to fight.
It was endless through the night.
***** Malik: No Altair *****
Then there was a rush like an uproar. Altaïr was swarmed. A shout went up with
a guard pointing at the roof watchers who fled immediately, unable to stay to
see the outcome but expecting it would end soon.
DING DING DING DING.....
The city alarm rang out incessantly. Malik rolled his eyes and murmured
Altaïr’s name. Of course they bells would toll, Altaïr was hunting... probably
messily. Malik prepared soft foods knowing Altaïr really shouldn’t be eating
anything solid and if the others returned wounded, soft is just easier. He even
made mint chilled tea, and sliced fruit. He filled the basins with water for
washing wounds and dragged the large bathing tub from the private back room
into the front. The many large rolls of maps in it got tossed into a corner. He
looked up through the roof access as he filled basin after basin to fill the
tub. He won’t likely get Altaïr into the tub, but the others may want or need a
bath, especially the assassin who was about to be hung. Who knew what his state
was. That necessitated a double check of medicines and bandages. Maybe a triple
check, because he had little else to do and the dinging and waiting were
agitating him.
By evening, two informants and the bald assassin dropped in. One informant with
an arrow in his leg was lowered down by the other informant. Thankfully the
bald assassin was not bad off and could help. All took turns bathing and being
checked by Malik. He stitched, salved and bandaged. He made the bald assassin
swallow medicine to counter whatever gross illnesses and infections he might
have contracted from the prison he was in.
“I used my feather to kill the head of the prison guards. I watched him torture
someone and when he came to take me... he got a nasty surprise,” announced the
assassin. Malik logged it and tied those notes back to the notes he took from
Altaïr’s information about the man, and then tied that in turn to a note to
hire an assassin to deal with it. It was a little bit of data fudging, but in
the end it worked out. The feather was accepted for the kill and the kill was
logged with the details. “I’ll need another feather for my other target. Do you
have news of him?”
Malik denied him the feather. “I’m sorry brother, he has departed for Damascus.
I’ll send word to the Dai there to expect you.”
As food was shared out Malik asked about Altaïr cautiously. None of the
informants seemed to bear ill to him and the bald assassin really could not
care one way or the other. Though they all agreed that what Altaïr did earlier
today was godlike and suicidal. “We saw him kill the Regent. But, I doubt he
made it out of that mess alive. There were near one hundred guards and soldiers
and Templars and more around other corners on their way and archers on the
roofs replacing the ones he had killed,” explained one informant.
The other informant spoke in awe, “He drifted in with the priests. If the
insane man had not pushed them into the platform guards, I think he would have
made a clean kill and get-away. Having been exposed, though, he lured the
entire and I really mean the ENTIRE guard from the platform.”
The visitors to the Bureau murmured prayers of lament. Malik snapped at them to
not wish Altaïr dead. “He is NOT dead yet. The bells are still ringing. That
means they are still searching for him.” He was well into the irritable Malik
they were used to, maybe a little more irritable than they were used to.
All the guests slept over in the Bureau till morning. The informants left one
at a time cautiously, one out the roof access, and one out the second floor
hatch. The bald assassin was too conspicuous, especially with the alarm still
going. Malik prayed he would hear it ring till Altaïr returned. The bald
assassin chose to make his way out of the city that next night when the bells
stopped ringing. Malik convinced him to sleep first. He was easier to advise
than Altaïr. He actually listened. He stayed just till dawn and slipped out
while Guards and everyone else were too tired.
Malik’s heart sank and he wished that maybe other things had exchanged between
he and Altaïr before the mission. Malik started the slow process of cleaning
up. He found the journal he wanted to give to Altaïr and stroked it struggling
with the lump in his throat... and failing. He sank onto the stool at the work
table and wept as he had for Kadar. After several hours, he turned the pages of
the black journal and started to add little drawings to every fifth or so page
of the places he and Altaïr had enjoyed, just tiny drawings in one corner or
another. He wrote Altaïr’s name on the first page and decorated the letters.
Then he closed the book and set it on the counter as a reminder, set it next to
the incense pot that Kadar had bought him. His two reminders. Then retired to
bed feeling even less of a man than before.
***** Altair: The Cat Came Back... *****
Chapter Summary
     Do you know the song?
     "That cat came back the very next day, we thought he was a gonner,
     but the cat came back, he just couldn't stay away."
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik wrote Altaïr’s name on the first page and decorated the letters. Then he
closed the book and set it on the counter as a reminder, set it next to the
incense pot that Kadar had bought him. His two reminders. Then retired to bed
feeling even less of a man than before.
Altaïr roused dizzily in a resting place on a roof. He had no idea where he was
or how he got there. His robes were brown from the dried blood and stiff. He
was dreaming, maybe remembering, a time when he was younger and Malik was
healing him. How old were they? Young, very young, Altaïr was ten and had been
there only a few months. The sky was a faded pink of morning. Altaïr had been
scraped up from late night training with his mentor. Malik had told him he knew
magic and kissed each scrape before rubbing in salve, saying it will heal
faster this way. It helped young Altaïr accept his unusually quick healing
ability as he attributed it entirely to Malik, and sometimes still does.
So, if that was a dream or memory, and he was in a roof rest area, why was
everything dawn pink? Was it dawn? Altaïr blinked more to try to clear his
vision. Still pink. The pink moved and he felt very stupid when he realized the
veils that shaded this place were all shades of pink.
He lurched out and fell on the roof panting. The bells were all quiet. He
wondered how many days he had been running in survival mode. He wondered how
many people got killed. He tried not to think about if any were innocents
simply in his way or holding food or... did he even eat? Nothing hurt and yet
everything hurt. It was that dull pain shoved deep into the back of his mind to
not be let go of till it was safe to. It was never safe to. It was a numbing
experience. He was aware that everything should hurt. Everything, but his
tongue. He was smart enough to keep that behind his closed teeth and not
accidentally between them in the fighting. The numbness made him clumsy at
first till he forced coordination into his limbs.
Like the cat that should be dead after being run over by the cart and then
drags itself home, Altaïr slowly inched toward the Bureau. Somewhere in his
subconscious or instinctual memory he just knew which way. He looked back a
couple times to see if he was leaving a blood trail. If anyone chose to follow
one, it was directionless all over the middle district and the poor district.
Now the blood was mostly dry and he aimed for the rich district. It took him a
couple days. He ate some food out of a roof garden. He threw it up later. Very
little stayed in him. He just kept moving.
Late in the night, he dragged his feet across the roof of the Bureau. He sat on
the cooling stones in the middle of the Brotherhood emblem and caught his
breath. Almost there...Slowly and carefully he inched down over the fountain to
the floor. The soft pillows and carpets beckoned him, but he needed to see
Malik first. He needed to give over his bloody feather. The moonlight cast a
pale hue into the main room, just barely. The incense pot held a soft glow from
the coal, but the incense had been long burned away.
Altaïr’s lip twitched into a weak half grin thinking about tipping it like he
used to. He wasn’t sure how well received that would be and he did not want to
be yelled at, not now. He fumbled the spoon of ground incense into the pot to
burn on the coal. Bits of powder fell about the counter. Then he notices the
book. It was both stunning and simple. It held his eye a long time as he wanted
to touch it. It looked soft. He liked soft things. He wondered what secrets
Malik had inside. His hand hovered over it as he saw how stained with blood and
dirt it was. He chose not to touch it; not to soil it. Feather. He had to get
his feather to Malik.
He sweated mentally ordering his feet to take a few more steps, through the
gate and then through the curtain. He leaned against the wall in Malik’s
private back room. Malik was asleep. The sounds Altaïr made coming in only
cause Malik to grumble and stuff his hand under his pillow under his head for
better comfort.
Bit by slow bit, Altaïr removed his armour and weapons. He didn’t want to wake
Malik, not just yet. It felt like hours to do this simple task. Focus faded in
and out a few times. He dropped a piece by accident. The throwing knife
vibrated by his head in the wooden shelf beside him. Malik was reaching for
another. “Malik... Malik... I can’t... get my boots... off...” Thankfully Malik
registered the husky deep voice and decided it was not a phantom.
Within moments Malik was at Altaïr’s side. He was only wearing his loose
sleeping pants and Altaïr could not help but stare at the stump on Malik’s left
side. Ripping his vision away he drew out his feather. “It is done.” Malik took
the feather and just set it on the shelf ignoring everything else. He was
helping Altaïr out of his hood and tunic, then shirt. The boots could be after
Altaïr was lying down. Or maybe now. His knees buckled and confusion and
misunderstanding danced in Altaïr expression. Then nothing but falling into
Malik’s embrace.
I came back.
Chapter End Notes
     Deviant Artist KotoriRod inspired me for the innocent healing kiss.
     https://kotorirod.deviantart.com/art/Kiss-Thy-Wound-MalAlt-Fluff-
     135001566
***** Malik & the Journal *****
Malik thought it was in intruder for no one would dare invade the back room
without his invitation, if they even knew it was there. After the first warning
dirk was thrown and the second in his hand, he heard a familiar voice and the
ghost of Altaïr was leaning against the wall. At first Malik thought it had to
be a ghost for it was not the usual white robes Altaïr wore and the expression
was chillingly blank. He hurried over once he realized how cut up Altaïr was
and that this must be a bad state of shock. He abandoned the other dirk under
his pillow and disregarded the feather Altaïr handed him on the shelf. That he
took it from Altaïr seemed to reassure the assassin that his mission was over.
Color and discomfort made Malik tighten his jaw as he noted Altaïr staring at
the almost bare stump of his left arm, but even that was forgotten when he
managed to help Altaïr out of the hood, tunic and shirt. Where armor had been
Altaïr was purple and black with bruises. Where it had not been was cut,
gashed, stabbed, and who knew what else. It was hard to tell. He was about to
guide Altaïr to the bed to help him out of his boots and pants when the
assassin’s knees buckled. Malik was glad his stump still could function to help
hold or brace someone. He caught Altaïr, holding him close. The assassin seemed
confused as to why his legs were not obeying him. It was looking at Kadar and
having his emotions ripped up all over again after going through it a couple
days ago, save for the reality of a body that should be dead, and yet now clung
to him like looked like a near corpse.
Struggling, Malik managed to half drag Altaïr to the bed and lay him down. He
stripped the rest of the assassin’s clothes off and tried not to gasp. He was
glad he had not brought all the supplies and extra bed mats upstairs, yet.  His
own was about to be thoroughly ruined. He filled a basin of water and carefully
washed Altaïr upon it. Altaïr was conscious, if opened eyes could be considered
that, but he reacted to nothing. Not the deep cleaning of his wounds, not the
stinging disinfecting, not the occasional reopening or digging hay and dirt and
fabric bits out, not the poking in to check deeper, not the prying free of an
arrowhead, and not the cauterizing, and not even stitching after. Occasionally
Altaïr’s hands would talon-grip the sheet, but that was all.
It was a return to the routine of healing for Malik. This time he hoped Altaïr
would not flee. The fevers were especially bad and frequent this time. In the
morning, Malik sent a pigeon off to Masyaf with both the confirmation of
Altaïr’s completed task and the statement that Altaïr would be in recovery for
at least a fortnight. Twenty days off would be good for Altaïr, maybe good for
them both to have a chance to sit and… talk? He did not put that in his brief
note.
In the later afternoon of the third day, Malik panicked to not find Altaïr in
the clean bed he had moved him to. He found Altaïr staggering in the kitchen
area. “Snooping again?” Malik asked as he saw Altaïr pick up some fruit and
then lose both fruit and footing. Malik helped him back to bed and brought him
some mashed fruit, which he spoon fed him in small amounts. “I would have
thought you had snooped into everything of mine by now and have no need to
continue.”
“Not the book,” Malik nearly cheered to hear Altaïr speak. “My hands were
dirty. It… looked soft.”
Malik wondered a moment which book, but at the word soft he knew. Altaïr was
not fighting him for now, though he had fought him a lot during his fevers.
Healing Altaïr was a dangerous affair that only Malik likely would be willing
to do without complaint or reservation. At the moment, Altaïr was safely half
drugged. Malik was not taking chances this time. He stood silently and
disappeared into the main room of the Bureau to return with the journal. “This
one?” He held it out for Altaïr to take.
Anxiety roiled in Malik’s belly as he watched. He had never gotten Altaïr a
gift before. He felt odd having done so now and worried what Altaïr would
think. He had no idea why these jitters invaded him. Altaïr had asked for a
journal after all, so why did this feel like such an intimate gift? Altaïr
weakly took the book and almost dropped it upon his chest, his fingers still
clumsy. Malik caught it and balanced it as Altaïr explored the front cover with
his fingers. As rough as Altaïr can be, brutal in his kills and his fights,
this was delicate and curious. Malik felt like he was spying on a forbidden
side of Altaïr, one he had been part of only in their late teens and never
after. Altaïr traced the Brotherhood emblem and stroked the soft cover. Malik
turned it over so Altaïr can see and touch the back side. Altaïr’s fingers were
as gentle there too. “Do you like this book?” Malik dared ask trying to keep
the bizarre excited nervousness from his voice.
Altaïr nodded, “It’s soft… and pretty… and simple…” His drugged heavy eyelids
drooped and he drifted to sleep again. Altaïr was drugged just enough to not be
able to really lie. His answer was honest and was everything Malik had hoped.
Malik chewed the inside of his cheek debating, and then he decided to leave the
book there with Altaïr to hold in his slumber. He hadn’t told Altaïr that this
was the journal for him to write his “insanity” into. He was enjoying too much
the way Altaïr fondled it delicately and almost hugged it in his sleep. Malik
was glad he had guessed right that Altaïr still secretly loved to touch soft
things.
***** Altair: Caged *****
Chapter Summary
     Malik and Altaïr have had an... interesting forbidden youth and
     currently have a complicated tense relationship where they don’t
     really know where they stand with each other. Trials and
     tribulations....
Altaïr felt sluggish. Thinking was sluggish. Moving was sluggish. Malik was
around sometimes feeding him or washing him, or checking the many wounds, or
helping him stumble off to relieve himself. It was embarrassing. He wanted to
protest. Malik had other things to do. Altaïr had other things to do. He knew
the feeling of being drugged and hated it. But it was better than the agony he
had felt when they wore off.
He found himself cradled in Malik’s arms. Didn’t Malik have just one now? Held
comfortingly against the terrors that plagued him in the night. Malik would
never do that, would he? Altaïr wondered if he was dreaming or if this was
real. He had no idea even what time of day it was or what day this was. He
tried not to speak as it came out slurred, at least to his ears and he could
not control what he might say.
Silence.
Sometimes that felt tense. Sometimes, it was bliss. Like when he and Malik used
to lay in the grass in a hidden place near the water in Masyaf. Their two
secret quiet places were a hidden hay stack that sometime Kadar joined them at
and the other was this difficult to get to place that challenged Altaïr’s fears
of water. To get there required creeping across long planks or tree trunks
felled across a giant chasm with water rushing below. That is probably the best
way to describe what it was like walking into the Bureau of Jerusalem with
Malik as Dai. The anxiety of mistepping or making a mistake, the certainty of a
terrible fate if you did.
The grass was soft. Malik was on his belly with a journal writing or sketching
with a bit of charcoal. He was always doing things with his hands. And if they
were not busy in that book, they were busy on Altaïr’s body counting muscles
and identifying parts of the body that Altaïr could not fathom existed inside
him. He liked the feel of Malik’s hands gliding over his body, had more and
more for nearly four of five years and more so since that one odd kiss. Not
that either did not like women. They explained to themselves and each other
that they were just practicing for when they did eventually have one. They
tried to save this kind of intimacy for this grassy secret place or their
bedroom. The hay, that was a risk. Kadar might sneak up on them and discover
their forbidden actions. But was kissing so wrong? Was exploring each other so
wrong? Nothing is true and everything is permitted. So... no... it was not
wrong, dammit. But it wasn’t anyone’s business.
It was lonely. He felt alone even with Malik nearby. They had not touched or
kissed for years. He had tried not to think of Malik when he was with Adha and
Nina. But there was something of the sweet memory of Malik’s skin under the
blankets when he was with those women. Nina somehow figured it out. Had she not
been afraid of what the Master might do to her, Altaïr was certain she would
have stabbed him in his sleep. In many ways, he was glad she left. She was like
sleeping with a cobra. He missed sleeping with Malik. But so much, so many
terrible things happened between them. He didn’t deserve the amount of care
Malik was giving him now.
Altaïr rolled over to see that book on the floor beside the bed mat. He
wondered where Malik was sleeping. He had tried to sleep in the other room on
the big pillows or on some cushions in this room, but found himself waking in
Malik’s bed every time. It smelled like Malik. The book sat tempting him. He
closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of Malik again then studied the cover of
the small book. Pale, soft, he wasn’t sure why it was here. Did Malik want him
to read it? He fingered the red emblem. Turning the book over, he recalled it
had no design on the back. He liked this simplicity greatly, but it did not
seem like Malik. Malik liked his journals of dark stiff leather embossed all
over with designs. Altaïr flicked looks to the doorway curtain, wondering if
Malik was going to step in and chastise him for looking. He lifted the back
cover to peak a tiny bit.
                            Some things are true...
                        how I feel, our friendship...
                  and some things should not be permitted...
                      It’s always a choice, a moral one.
            Let me help you when you no longer know what is right.
                                    ~Malik.
Movement at the door caused Altaïr to drop the back cover closed. No, I was not
snooping. You left it there. Next time, hide it. He rolled over gritting his
teeth. The drugs that dulled both the pain and his thinking were wearing off.
Malik set down clean bandages and a jar of salve. Altaïr tried to ignore the
sounds behind him and stared at the wall willing full sensation through his
whole body, failingly.
He heard Malik bring in a basin of water and drop the towel, before sitting
patiently behind Altaïr. “You are healing better today than the previous days.
I’m going to take out some of the stitches.” There was no reprimand to opening
the book. Altaïr did not understand why. “I sent word of your successful
mission to Al Mualim. You did well, Brother.”
Was that... approval? Praise? From Malik? Altaïr turned his head to see Malik
motion him to sit up. “You drugged me again.” Altaïr’s voice came out rough as
if he had not spoken in a week. Had it been that long?
“You needed to be still to heal. You needed rest.” Malik explained. There was
no bite in his tone. It was very matter of fact.
“I am in your way. You have ... things to do, better things to do. And... I
should get back...”
Malik now snapped, “Do you never listen to me?! You needed... still need to be
still.”
Malik just didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand. Who was he to command him
like the Master. He was not the Master. Altaïr pursed his lips and ignored the
forthcoming pains as he stood and snatched his clothing. He dressed as swiftly
as he could while Malik protested at him, commanding him to just sit his ass
down and stop being such a novice, “You do not have to prove anything, Altaïr!”
Altaïr ignored him till he was dressed save his armour. He could get more in
Masyaf if he had to. Malik was pushing the barrier with Altaïr and about to pay
dearly. Altaïr needed to get out before he lost control and took it out on
Malik. Malik just did not understand how it felt to be trapped and confined
like this!
***** Malik Pins Altair *****
Chapter Summary
     We wanted a locked room and to see them have it out a bit... well...
     here we go... ROUND 1 !! I am sure there will be more in the
     future... Also... This might be um... kinda... Yaoi... hmm... get a
     tissue. I think you might need it.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik could not believe it. Altaïr was going to leave. He REALLY was in no fit
state to. Or did Malik miscalculate? It didn’t matter, Malik had no intention
of letting Altaïr try to find his way to Masyaf yet. He was not going to let
him just run away from this... from him...
He stepped in to block Altaïr from either exit. He even tried to shove him back
to the bed. “You need to stay. Altaïr!” He too was losing his temper with this
stubborn assassin.
Altaïr snarled suddenly and grabbed Malik, ramming him up against the wall.
Malik swiftly calculated the places he could hit Altaïr now without really
worsening his wounds. Though, the impact against the wall jarred him, as did
the actual furious, feral contact. Looking into Altaïr’s eyes was like looking
into a very mad eagle. Fine... if Altaïr really wanted to fight him, he was
going to get one hell of a fight.
Malik stepped one foot in between Altaïr’s and threw in his weight. The fight
began! Malik earned a few very decent bruises and was glad Altaïr did not have
a knife, or those might have been very fatal hits. Altaïr earned new bruises to
add to the many he had. Fists flew. Legs tangled. Two men tumbled and struggled
for dominance and control.
Finally, Malik seemed to have Altaïr pinned. He straddled the assassin with the
white tunic gripped in his fist which pushed hard to keep Altaïr on the floor,
but deftly avoided the broken ribs. Altaïr struggled on the floor under Malik.
He grabbed the sleeve and wrist with one hand and dug talons into Malik’s
pants. He simply lacked enough strength to really throw the other man off.
Malik’s black hair was plastered to his face with sweat which also made the
little goatee stand out stark on his chin. He dark eyes glared angrily at
Altaïr. Altaïr bared teeth and glared back with fiery golden eyes. They were
locked and not moving, unable to, not daring to.
“I said stay put! You are not well enough to go. If you would... Dammit Altaïr!
You asked to trust ME! Why don’t you?! I am here and all I am trying to do is
help you! STOP FIGHTING ME! I am NOT the enemy!! You want to trust me? You want
to be trusted?! PROVE IT! Prove I can trust you! Prove I can trust that you are
not going to abandon me! Stay so I do not have to worry about you! I will not
let you leave me to die like Kadar! I am NOT letting you leave me again!!” His
cheeks felt too wet as the drops wriggled down to his jaw and dripped onto the
fabric of their clothes.
Malik felt Altaïr’s grip loosen on his leg and wrist. He had to blink several
times to see through the blur in his eyes. Altaïr’s breathing was ragged, his
own cheeks wet despite his scrunched eyes. Malik relaxed his hold on Altaïr’s
tunic and just rested his hand on Altaïr’s chest, ignoring that his weight was
full on Altaïr while he straddled him.
“Altaïr... Can I... will you let me... trust you? Will you please... trust me
just a little?” It was hard asking around the lump in his throat. The ache in
his heart panged painfully when Altaïr turned his head away. Malik didn’t
realize he had held his breath till Altaïr nodded. Malik sighed with relief.
“May I resume what I was going to do earlier?” Again Altaïr just silently
nodded.
He lifted his hand from Altaïr’s chest and slid it under the hem of the hood
and pushed it up till it was nearly off Altaïr’s head. Altaïr lifted his head
to let it come off. Malik wanted to know what was going on inside Altaïr’s
thoughts. He threaded his fingers through Altaïr’s hair briefly. It made
Altaïr’s eyes snap open and at him. He carefully tugged the tunic up with the
shirt. Altaïr raised his shoulder a little, then the next one, then his head
allowing Malik to remove it. The fight was gone from him. Malik wasn’t sure if
that was good or bad, but it was welcome.
Some stitches had been torn in the fight, but it was not terrible, they didn’t
need to be restitched. Malik leaned way over and pulled the towel with the
medical supplied over. He didn’t need to remain straddling Altaïr, but he chose
to. In a way not ready to trust that Altaïr would not just get up and go, and
in a way he liked this position very much. It was easier to treat Altaïr, or so
he told himself. After inspecting all the wounds, old and new, he concluded
that in another week, all but the broken ribs will be mostly healed. “I sent
word to Al Mualim not to expect you for a while, that you needed a fortnight to
heal.” He wished Altaïr would say something... the silence was unnerving. “I’d
like you to stay that time. You are not invading. You are not disrupting. I
want you here. I am not that busy either. I just do things so I can do things.”
Malik shifted slightly to straddle Altaïr’s thighs and motioned for him to sit
up. “I want to rebandage your ribs to hold them in place to heal.” He did not
expect his own heart to jump as Altaïr did so. Or again as Altaïr wrapped one
arm around Malik’s waist with the other behind him to lean on for balance. He
felt uncomfortably warm and refused to believe that he might be blushing. He
hoped the lighting was dim enough that Altaïr would not notice. He focused on
bandaging around Altaïr’s chest carefully. It was very awkward straddling
Altaïr’s lap like this, easier to bandage, but dear Allah, let no one come in.
Did I lock the front door?!
Turmoil bubbled inside Malik. Turmoil between this closeness and the feelings
of abandonment for the years they were solo assassins and the tragedy of Kadar
which Malik had so bluntly yanked into their current memories. He moved his
stump and used it to rub his face of the dampness on the folded sleeve. His
spine snapped rigid when Altaïr leaned forward a little more and wrapped the
other arm around him. After a few frantic fluttering heartbeats, he realized
Altaïr was resting his head on his shoulder, not the one with the stump, but
still. “Altaïr... I am never too busy. Really, even if I say I am. I am not.
Not for you. But... I... I am lonely.” He swallowed hard when he felt Altaïr
tighten the hug and then felt Altaïr’s shoulders shaking. He pushed his fingers
into Altaïr’s hair and the back of his neck and held him a while. We are both
lonely....
Chapter End Notes
     ART!!! By ShortieBat... that inspired me for this chapter.
     https://shortiebat.deviantart.com/art/Tears-of-Sorrow-162975133
***** Altair & the Journal *****
At first Altaïr could not believe it. Malik had him pinned. It wasn’t that
Malik had one arm that made him disbelieve, but that he has always been broader
in shoulder, taller and heavier muscled than Malik. Normally he could have
easily defeated Malik by sheer force. It made him angrier, so angry he could
not think. His vision shifted into that wild hazy color flares. Malik shone
bright blue in his vision, not red. Bright blue… the color of a trusted ally.
That was the next shock after the one about being pinned. He froze in his fight
and struggle. In the gaps and silences, Malik’s words found their way to
Altaïr’s ears. He gave up his fight.
His hands gave up their purchase on Malik’s clothes. His whole body was tired
and the hurting parts smarted sharply. Hearing Malik bring up Kadar and compare
him to Kadar in that Malik was afraid that Altaïr might die, was like a deep
stab in his own guilt-ridden soul. He did not think Malik would worry. He had
been sure Malik hated him.
He let Malik remove his hood. The feel of Malik’s fingers moving through his
hair tenderly flooded him with memories of those times together where Malik
comforted him from the night terrors he would never talk about. He looked back
to Malik to see tears streaming down the man’s face. He wanted to say
something, but found he could not. There was nothing to say. There was too much
to say. He sat as bade, balanced on one hand and the other around Malik’s
waist. Before long, and he didn’t even realize he had, he was clinging with
both arms around Malik. He felt like he was drowning. Malik admitted to
loneliness. Altaïr never knew, never suspected, and felt the same. He buried
his face in Malik’s shoulder and gave in to other emotions, again feeling those
soothing fingers stroke through his hair.
It was a long while before he was calm again and just held and was held by
Malik. He had not realized how badly he missed this. He doubted this was any
sort of forgiveness, but it was proof perhaps that Malik was a better man than
he to set aside his bitterness and to voice his vulnerabilities. Altaïr was too
afraid to voice his. If he did, it might make them more real. If they were
real, how could he function?
He felt Malik rise and then carefully get up to tidy the chaos of the room
after their fight as Altaïr pieced together his tattered senses. Already he
felt the loss of the comfortable feeling in his lap. He had never had Malik in
his lap like that, not even when they were younger. He wanted Malik there
again. He wasn’t sure why, however they could never be anything like they were
in their youth. And, Altaïr had had women, it would be wrong to want... a man.
It was wrong… wasn’t it?
He watched Malik clean and again as bade, removed his pants and lay on the bed
mat so Malik could deal with the stitches on his legs. Now and then his muscles
twitch or he inhaled sharply, but that was the only indications he let show of
the pain he felt. He still could not find his tongue to speak. Nor could he
will his hand to do what in his heart he really wanted to, which was to reach
out to touch Malik. His eyes sometimes drifted to the empty sleeve and shied
away. He wanted to redress so he could hide in the shadows of his hood. Malik
never let him brood long as he handed Altaïr a cup of water to sip.
“Did you look through it?” Malik asked, indicating the soft journal.
Altaïr tensed, set down the cup and defended himself, “I would never pry into
your personal affairs.”
“Don’t lie, Altaïr. You poke into everything of mine, you always have.” There
was the smallest hint of sharpness in Malik’s tone and Altaïr flinched.
“I did not look through the book. Only the inside of the back cover,” he
admitted with embarrassment.
Confusion twisted his expression at the mirth in Malik’s. “Altaïr, why must you
always read the LAST page of a book first? Why not start at the beginning?”
Altaïr shrugged feeling oddly offended and criticized. “I want to know if it is
worth reading. I am sorry I saw something so personal. Next time. Don’t leave
it out for me.”
Malik’s only reply was to place the book in Altaïr’s hands. “I’m going to make
some food.”
Altaïr’s brows raised again in confusion. He set the book in his lap and
sniffed the cup of water to see maybe there was a drug there causing him the
unreal hallucination of permission to peruse one of Malik’s personal journals.
It smelled normal. Malik rolled his eyes at Altaïr’s mistrust. “I have not
drugged you. I’m going to hope the pains are not too bad tonight and you can
sleep without the drugs.”
Altaïr’s thumbs caressed the soft cover of the journal. “I thought you
preferred dark stiff leather embossed with ... stuff...”
“Paisley? Or borcade motifs?” Malik corrected from the little kitchen.
Altaïr frowned, annoyed that he could not think of what those little doodly
thingies were and felt completely like an ignorant novice in the same breath.
“Altaïr? I asked you this last week, but you were not really well enough to be
coherent, so I suspect you do not recall. But, do you like it? The journal? Or
would you prefer something more along the lines of something I would write in?”
Altaïr was unsure what all that meant. It was Malik’s journal. Why would his
opinion mean anything? He opened the book at a random page and saw the light
sketch, inked so it would not fade, of a grassy place he and Malik used to hide
at... the one across from the water gorge that Altaïr hated to get to but loved
once there. The page was otherwise devoid of writing yet had more than enough
space to write on. “I like this book.” He frowned at how dumb that sounded
coming off his tongue and wished he had something more eloquent to say about
Malik’s journal. He then turned the book over and opened the front cover.
“Good. That one is for you,” he heard Malik state from the kitchen again.
Altaïr just stared dumbfounded. He was not sure he had heard Malik correctly,
but the evidence inside the book made it ... well... true. There on the inside
cover was the Creed. And there on the first page was his name.
Malik set a plate of flavoured rice and shredded meat beside Altaïr. “You asked
for one. I hope you like it enough to practice writing in it.”
Altaïr just continued to stare at his name so beautifully written and
artistically designed like the inside of some of the religious manuscripts. He
turned a few pages and found the marker he had been ignoring at first. A rice
paper note neatly wrapped around a golden eagle feather. The tip of the feather
had been expertly cut to be a writing quill.
Malik recited from heart the note: “You have information well in you. You have
requested to work on a mission. Here is your feather to complete it.”
Altaïr lifted his eyes finally from the book to meet Malik’s. He felt like a
fish out of water opening and closing his mouth unable to speak his thoughts.
Finally he settled with, “Thank you.”
Malik then gently took the book from Altaïr and replaced it with the plate. The
two ate in silence.
***** Malik Startles Altair *****
Malik really had not expected Altaïr to be so compliant. Altaïr truly had
changed some. He wondered how long this would last though. Not that he didn’t
trust Altaïr, which he didn’t really yet but was trying. It was more that he
knew Altaïr well enough to know Altaïr did not deal well with being wounded and
resting for long.
He hoped Altaïr would be writing in that journal immediately as a way to pass
the time while he rested, but he did not. Malik needed to get back to being the
Dai of the Bureau and back to being a rafiq, a scribe and map maker. He had a
role in this city and people who had paid lots for certain things. He tried to
do some of these things in the back room where he could let Altaïr see what he
was doing and at the same time keep an eye on him.
Without the drugs, Altaïr had a hard time sleeping, both for the night terrors
and the pain. The nights were a bit sleepless for them both. Also, risky. On
the second night, Malik roused to wake Altaïr from the next night terror.
Altaïr was tossing and sometimes flailing, like he was fighting and running.
“Altaïr... Altaïr...” calling his name did not wake the usual light sleeper so
Malik placed his hand on Altaïr’s arm.
He barely had a chance to suck in a breath. Altaïr was on him in a flash. He
pinned Malik down with a talon grip on his throat. “Altaïr,” Malik struggled to
croak out. The look was wild and unseeing in Altaïr’s eyes. “Altaïr... I
can’t... breathe!” He was genuinely afraid now, but Altaïr blinked a few times
and scrambled back off of Malik, stumbling into the wall, tripping a bit on the
bed mat. Malik sat up swallowing and rubbing his throat, taking in grateful
gulps of air.
“You startled me,” mumbled Altaïr.
Malik stood knowing he would be well bruised on his throat from this. He took a
step closer to Altaïr, “I should have expected that.” He tried to reassure
Altaïr he was fine.
“No! Don’t... don’t get close!”
Malik could not fathom what this reaction was till he thought it through a
little and realized Altaïr was blaming himself. It was all in his posture,
shame, guilt, self-disgust and self-loathing. Malik stepped closer and took
Altaïr’s bare arm anyways, guiding him back to sit on the bed mat. “I am not
afraid of you and could have fought you off if I wanted to. So stop being a
scared novice for something you did in your half-sleep.” He noted the grumble
and nodded to himself that he broke that little pattern of thinking that Altaïr
locked himself in. “Here,” Malik handed Altaïr the journal. “Write it down.
Write what you dreamed.”
Tired himself, he laid back on the spare bed mat he had set for himself. He
drifted to sleep finally hearing Altaïr slowly skritching in the journal.
Altaïr was still writing, when Malik woke the next morning. He was about to
chastise Altaïr about not sleeping, but chose not to since Altaïr was so
focused in the journal. Instead he just watched.
Altaïr would shift his naked body now and then to relieve aches. Malik noted
the leanness and how pale Altaïr was compared to himself. Surely, if Altaïr did
not go about robed and hooded, he would be burned as red as some of the
soldiers new in from the English or German peoples. Maybe Altaïr’s heritage was
from them? The scars stood out often red or whiter on Altaïr’s flesh. The
bruises seemed darker. Altaïr had gotten a bit thin and gaunt being in bed rest
from that last mission. Malik decided to increase his diet and maybe get Altaïr
to spar a little with him. Allah knew, Malik desperately wanted to spar with
someone who would not refuse to fight him. He wondered if Altaïr would refuse.
He noted that Altaïr was wearing some loose thin pants for comfort. But why
Altaïr was not chilled from the night, Malik didn’t know.
It was so unusual to see Altaïr writing. There was a pause in the writing as
Altaïr’s brows furrowed. Malik saw him tilt his head to look out the corner of
his eye at him then turn it to look directly. Malik chose to yawn then so he
didn’t look like he had been watching Altaïr for the last maybe twenty minutes.
Altaïr pulled the bed sheet up and around him, over his head and there, he had
a makeshift cloak and hood to hide under before returning to the slow and
frustrating writing. Malik shook his head at Altaïr’s insecurity, bemused that
Altaïr liked his hoody like a small child likes their blankie.
***** Altair's Dream *****
Chapter Summary
     warning... boy on boy stuff...
The night terror made no sense to Altaïr as he had tried to write the details
in the book. He dreamed of fighting all the assassins and Dai through the
library in Masyaf. He dreamed that the Master was in a hundred places at once
laughing at him. He dreamed that even Malik was his enemy and Kadar had come
back from the dead all bloody to fight by Malik’s side. It was like nonsense.
The details faded by the hour.
He felt more comfortable under the blanket and turned the page to write
something else. This was the first page with a little drawing in the corner. It
was a doodle of his own childhood face. He frowned at it not at all recognizing
the child. It broke his focus and anything else he was going to write vanished
into the crowd of thoughts.
There was a loud dragging noise that forced Altaïr to get up and pull the knife
from his hanging harness. He used the tip to lift the fake wall curtain and
nearly stabbed Malik in the back by doing so. “Malik!”
“What?!” Malik was dragging in a large tub.
“Absolutely not! I am NOT getting into that! I am not going to sit in a trap!”
Altaïr glared warily at the bathing tub and flashed looks of betrayal at Malik.
“Who said it was for you? I might want to be clean too, you know. And I happen
to enjoy soaking in it.”
Altaïr turned red with embarrassment at his assumption.
Malik ignored him and proceeded with dragging the tub into the back room
entirely, then filling it with hot water he was heating repeatedly in the
little kitchen. Altaïr sat as far from it as he could and glued his eyes into
the journal. Every muscle tensed. He began to write again, scratching it out
and rewriting.
He heard Malik removing his clothing and risked a small glance. Malik’s skin
was smooth and tanned. There were some scars upon it as one would expect from
an assassin. He watched the robe pool on the floor and then the pants. Malik
undressed the same way still, leaving the shirt till last. Altaïr returned his
attention back to the journal and tried to write out the first times he noticed
this pattern in Malik and his wondering of why. He started to write about how
much he missed Malik’s soft skin under his fingers and then scratched it out in
case Malik was going to read this.
The sound of Malik sinking onto the bath caused Altaïr to jump and drop the
quill, leaking black blotches all over the page. He tried to clean it, but it
only looked worse. He had to set the book down to dry. Just as well, he was too
tired to keep writing or thinking.
Lying upon his side, he unabashedly watched Malik bathe. He could not help but
stare, trying to look without looking, at the remains of Malik’s left arm, but
Malik was turned in such a way as it was too difficult to see. The steam from
the hot bath seemed to be making the whole room hot and damp. Altaïr felt the
heat rise in him and the dampness upon his skin. He rolled over to try to
banish the forbidden thoughts along with the vision before him. The wall... the
wall was very well made. The stone seemed almost perfectly cut to fit together.
This was so not helping! The vision invaded his dream when he drifted
unexpectedly to sleep.
Malik had stepped from the bath as he always did, dripping wet to shake his
hair at Altaïr. It always made the two laugh. Altaïr never bathed despite
Malik’s coaxing, but he would sit on a towel with a basin and wash himself that
way. Sometimes Malik would help. Sometimes Altaïr would just run his fingers
down Malik’s back to watch the other teen shiver. In the privacy of their
shared room, this was like a little ritual. There were playful comparisons and
playful competition, foolish and boyish.
He had watched Malik bathe as usual while washing himself, too nervous to
really get too close to the tub. Malik had stopped asking about that fear years
ago, thank Allah. He came to sit next to Altaïr to get dry. Altaïr turned with
a towel in hand to dropped it over Malik’s head with a mischievous laugh. Then
he traced the lines that water made down Malik’s back. He was rewarded by a
shiver. Biting the inside of his lip debating this evening’s evils, he leaned
forward. He ran both hands up Malik’s soft back. It had to be a really good
plan, it was Malik’s 17th birthday. Malik had given up trying to focus on
drying his hair and just let Altaïr explore his back. It was both soothing and
exciting.
On the back of Malik’s neck, Altaïr breathed out a request, “Can I... I want to
touch you.” Then he pressed his lips briefly on the nape of Malik’s neck,
rewarded with a small gasp of surprise then practically a subconscious nod.
Altaïr slid his hands deviously around either side of Malik and around the
front, pressing his chest to Malik’s back. He could feel each of Malik’s
breaths, his own matching the rhythm. Then he slid both hands down the still
soft skin to the darker line of hair and then around the already hardening
member. He felt Malik gasp again. “I like that I can make you silent and
gasping,” Altaïr joked.
“I like when I hear my name on your lips.” Malik smirked.
Altaïr murmured, “Malik, your name will always be on my lips... and more.” He
had to smother the grin so he could kiss Malik’s neck again. “Malik...” He
placed a small kiss, “Malik...” and another. “Malik...” he murmured in Malik’s
ear. He had to grin again to feel Malik breathing fast and almost squirming
with the desire to thrust into Altaïr’s hands. He found himself as aroused just
from Malik’s arousal and shifted his sitting position to be better pressed up
against Malik. They both panted almost in time with the movements of Altaïr
around Malik’s shaft. Huffing. Thrusting. Murmuring. “Malik...”
Altaïr murmured and moved in his sleep, “Mmm... Malik...”
***** Malik: Frustrated *****
Altaïr murmured and moved in his sleep, “Mmm... Malik...”
Malik’s eyebrows flew into his hair like panicked pigeons. He was in the middle
of drying when he heard the sounds. He had even walked over with the wet towel
ready to smother Altaïr for having a saucy sexy dream in his presence. How dare
he get sex even in his dreams when I don’t. He stood over Altaïr, wet towel in
hand.
Then he heard his name more clearly.
He took a couple steps back, scarlet striking swiftly across his face. His
breath caught. Then as hard as he could throw it, he did. The wet towel
impacted with Altaïr, eliciting a yell of surprise. “Malik! What the hell!”
“What the hell me? What the hell you!!! How dare you rut in my bed!” Malik had
no idea why he was so mad. He just was. Maybe it was because he felt Altaïr no
longer had the right to be that intimate with him. Maybe he was mad that he was
not actively participating. Whatever, he was furious. Injured or not, Altaïr
was not allowed to have a dream like THAT in his presence!
He watched in satisfaction as Altaïr realized his own erection and had the
decency to be humiliated.
“Clean yourself up... and clean my bed!” Malik snapped. He pulled on his
clothing grumpily and stomping out to the main room to bandage the end of his
stump to protect it from accidental impacts. Out there he also shouldered on
his black robe. He listened for the sounds of Altaïr washing before he set up
the scribe work he had on his duty roster. His strokes were too harsh for the
delicate wedding document, so he set that aside and made a grocery list
instead. He needed more salves, medicines, bandages, that gut thread he
resorted to was brilliant as it absorbed neatly into the body, maybe more
curved needles as they made one-handed stitching easier, and eggs because he
was craving them as his own personal comfort food.
How dare Altaïr dream of ... of... US! He’s had women. He’s had WIVES! What
have I had? NOTHING! Not that anyone will even LOOK at me, crippled as I am.
He tore up his list just because he felt the need to destroy something. It was
barely enough. He slammed a few things around before he was calm enough to
rewrite his list. Once done he returned to the private back room. Altaïr had
cleaned up... everything... except the tub of water and was asleep on the bed
mat again, or at least pretending to be, facing the wall. Malik wanted to hit
him again, just... because. He vented by dragging the heavy tub into the
kitchen and waste room and dumping it down the waste grill.
“I’ll be back,” announced Malik. “Don’t go anywhere.” His words clipped out
with the last bit of his anger.
Altaïr continued to ignore him.
The walk outside helped a great deal. Malik needed to be in the sun, breathe
the fresh air and see other human beings. The disdainful looks and glances of
disgust were mostly ignorable. He knew them well by now having had them for a
year. They were the abhorrent looks of those who saw only a cripple. The
occasional shoulder shove by passing thugs added to the usual outside walk.
Malik was then reminded why he actually hated being out there and regretted
that he was just out for a walk.
When he returned from his walk, his robes were rumpled and dusty. The basket of
twenty eggs proved to have only eight survivors. He locked the front door and
marched right into the little back kitchen. Feeling Altaïr’s questioning gaze,
he snapped, “Don’t ask. Don’t even speak to me. You have no idea what it is
like here and I do not want your judgement. I am fine and I can take care of
myself. I am NOT a cripple!”
Malik spat out a string of curses as he dropped the basket, breaking a few more
of the eggs. He snarled and threw anything he could reach, which were mostly
the cooking pots. He didn’t see Altaïr, who knelt and picked up the basket,
taking it into the sleeping area to sort the good from the broken eggs.
***** Altair Lurks Away *****
Altaïr stayed quiet as Malik rampaged through the little side kitchen, then
stormed to rampage a while in the main room out front. He lifted his eyes not
entirely certain what happened but piecing it slowly together. Altaïr took the
mess of eggs to the kitchen and stopped to survey the chaos left there. Little
by little, he cleaned. He wiped the good eggs and set them in a clean basket
with a fresh protective cloth, washed the egg messy basket, and took the next
hour or so to set the little kitchen right again.
By the end, he hurt a good deal. He had to bend and stretch and lift and ...
where the hell did that pan come from? He wiped up spills and disposed of
wasted jars of preserves. Now and then he stopped to listen to Malik venting
with a sword in the other room.
When he was done and the place was clean, he finished his own personal hygiene.
He shaved. It felt much too tense in the Bureau at the moment. He dressed and
mulled over the earlier experiences, debating just leaving. He was mostly well
enough to go. The utter humiliation of waking to having been rutting in the bed
while Malik was bathing just made being there much more uncomfortable. But he
promised. Malik asked him to prove he can be trusted and to stay. He looked to
the main room. He looked to the stairs to the second floor with the roof hatch.
Malik was so angry. Something had happened that made him feel like a cripple.
Altaïr figured Malik must have had to put up with harassment on the street.
Maybe it was rougher than usual. To keep his cover as a rafiq, he would not be
able to fight back. It was not right. Every man had a right to fight back and
defend themselves. Maybe Malik couldn’t? Malik needed an assistant like other
rafiqs. He needed someone to go with him on the errands or run them for him.
Altaïr made his decision. He took the journal and pot of ink and climbed the
stairs to the roof.
The sun was a shock after being in dim rooms for... Altaïr had no idea how
long. He felt a little naked without his armour and weapons. Well, he did have
a knife tucked in his belt, just in case a roof archer came to harass him. He
tugged his sleeves down and pulled on his fingerless gloves. Squinting at the
bright sun, he then tugged the hood over his eyes and wished there was shade up
here. He walked around the roof of the Bureau seeking a shady spot behind a
wall and plopping himself down.
He stared at the journal for a long while. Rereading the near nonsense and
tired scribble of the nightmare seemed ridiculous. What was the point of
writing out a dream? He reread the Creed inside the front cover, then Malik’s
statement inside the back cover. He felt like this was a bad idea to write
things down. Why bother? It was his insanity. Was it insane?
He turned through the pages looking at all the little sketches. They were
mostly of him, of Kadar, of places in Masyaf, of scraps of maps, sometimes just
of a hand, or maybe of pieces of armour. Malik had always been good at art as
well as the most highly literate person he could think of in Masyaf. Altaïr
admired him lots, but today was almost scared of him. He gritted his teeth
because he should not be scared of anything... except maybe drowning. He
wondered what Malik was scared of. He wished they were friends like they were
as teens and could just... talk. Altaïr was too embarrassed to talk or even
face Malik. The idea of just taking off was so appealing. It would be so easy.
But then Malik would never trust him. He needed Malik to trust him. He needed
someone to.
That is where he began. He reopened the journal and dipped the quill into the
ink. What is trust? Does it have anything to do with friendship? Why was trust
needed? Altaïr’s head was full of esoteric questions that he needed answers to.
He needed someone who could understand them enough to help him sort them out.
“You are not a cripple, Malik,” Altaïr spoke softly to no one. “And I am not
stupid, just because it is hard to read and write doesn’t mean I do not listen,
think or know. Why am I always treated like an ignorant child or a tool... or
like a trainable quality horse?” He tapped the quill on his chin oblivious of
the marks it left behind and began to write. It was slow and used a lot of his
concentration.
***** Malik: Spit *****
Chapter Summary
     Every child has had someone do this to them...
Malik dropped the sword on the ground, too tired now to hold it, and slumped to
sitting. He felt like nothing. He felt like no one cared that he hated how
everyone else treated him. He felt like he was isolated. When he caught his
breath and rolled his eyes at his stupid self-pitying, he felt like an idiot
for having what he could only call a temper tantrum. It never mattered if he
vented before. No one was ever here. Now his mood had been witnessed. He took
out a year of frustration at Altaïr, sexual anger and the repressed anxiety of
being treated like an unwanted cripple.
He picked himself up off the floor and tossed the sword back into the large
metal vase that held several other ‘decorative’ blades. Malik felt a little
more focused after splashing water on his face from the fountain. He righted
the table and tidied the scrolls that had fallen. He counted the pots of ink to
be sure he had not broken any. Ink was expensive and he was not receiving
nearly enough of a stipend as he needed from Masyaf. He added some incense to
the coal in his pot and breathed in the soothing scent.
Annoyed only slightly that he will have to apologize to Altaïr of all people,
he reminded himself that Altaïr had been completely cooperative today and the
rutting incident... well... they might have to talk about that. To be fair,
Altaïr was asleep and dreaming. Malik was only a little jealous. Dreams like
that had not really come to him in a long while. He felt... dysfunctional. Not
that he would EVER admit that to anyone! He resolved to walk into the private
back room and apologize for his outburst.
He lifted the fake wall curtain and stepped into the room, letting it fall
behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no one was there. Malik’s eyes
darted around the room. All of Altaïr’s clothing was gone. Malik’s own bed mat
was clean and the bed made up with his things back upon it. The other bed mat
that Malik had been using was rolled up in the corner and tied. Altaïr’s armor
was piled on the floor beside it. But there was no Altaïr. He was just... gone.
Malik pursed his lips at his own foolishness. How could he not expect Altaïr to
not run off after what happened today? He checked the kitchen just in case, and
the waste room. Both were in perfect order once more and clean. Altaïr had
cleaned everything. But still, no Altaïr could be found.
“Dammit, this... this was my fault.”
Malik climbed the stairs to the second floor, it was in its usual chaos, but
the hatch to the roof was ajar. He ran his fingers through his short black
hair. Was there a point to go looking for him? He would be half way to the
front gate of the city by now. He pushed open the hatch and stepped out onto
the sunny roof. An initial scan revealed no Altaïr. He had managed to chase
Altaïr away again. Malik felt lonelier than ever now. He walked about the roof
to see if maybe... just maybe... he could spot Altaïr in the distance. Altaïr
still had wounds and broken ribs, maybe he didn’t get far?
He froze in place with a toe in the shadow of the second floor wall. There sat
Altaïr. He... stayed? Malik could not believe it. Altaïr was sitting in the
shade deeply focused on writing in the journal. His hood hid any possible
visibility of his face. It was a barrier and a message of broken trust. Malik
quietly sat beside him. He regretted sitting with his left stump closest to
Altaïr, he could do so little with it but maybe make Altaïr more uncomfortable.
He saw Altaïr’s hood tilt in his direction. Then Altaïr stopped tapping his
chin with the quill, wrote the last word or three and closed the journal.
“Safety and peace, Malik.”
It really was good to hear his name spoken by Altaïr and not to be called Dai
or rafiq. “Were it that the city was possessed of either...” As Altaïr
straightened and turned to face him, Malik saw the black smudges on Altaïr’s
chin from the quill. He spat on his sleeve and rubbed it away without even
thinking.
“Did... you... I... Malik! I can’t believe you just... that... that is one of
the most disgusting things anyone has ever done to me!”
Malik’s eyes bugged. “You... there... You had black ink all over your chin.”
“You SPAT on your sleeve and then wiped me with it. I need to go wash now.”
Malik watched Altaïr collect his things and go back inside the Bureau. A small
smirk touched Malik’s lips. He to stood and went back inside to start some food
for them both. He sure as hell was not letting Altaïr cook. Malik’s cooking may
not be exciting, but it was at least edible, and sometimes even good.
***** Altair: Touch It *****
Chapter Summary
     ... No... don't get your hopes up. There is nothing Sexy happening
     here.
Altaïr set his journal, quill and ink on the floor beside his armour then
proceeded to do exactly as he intended. He scrubbed his chin clean. When Altaïr
walked back from the fountain, he saw Malik staring at him. “What?”
Malik spat on his sleeve again.
“NO! Absolutely not!” Altaïr retreated back to the fountain to scrub more only
to hear Malik laughing hard in the little kitchen. “I’ll get you for that
later... I promise.” Malik struggled to stop laughing.
The banter back and forth was lighter than it had ever been between them, like
when they used to be friends. They weren’t really friends, but the pretending
made the evening bearable. Neither spoke of the day’s earlier incidents. They
tried to wipe them from having ever happened.
Altaïr couldn’t really forget though. He planned to sleep on the cushions by
the broken fountain... just in case. At least there if something embarrassing
happens in his sleep, Malik won’t be there to hear it. He also could not forget
how upset Malik was from his trip outside. His eyes kept drifting to Malik’s
stump.
Malik’s snarly tone was clear, “Are you afraid of it?”
“No, nothing scares me,” Altaïr pointedly looked away.
“Don’t lie.”
Altaïr returned his gaze, “Does it still hurt?” Altaïr was concerned that this
was way too taboo a subject to be talking about, but since they were on it...
might as well follow through.
He watched Malik’s expressions change and shift as though pondering
skeptically.
“Malik,” Altaïr felt a need to state what he thought was the obvious, “I have
never, and I never will consider you a cripple. But if... if some of my scars
still hurt, I wanted to know if that still hurt.”
Malik’s expression softened. “Which of your wounds still hurt?”
“My knee...” It was a wound he earned in Solomon’s Temple when he was thrown
through the scaffolding and the wall collapsed. He had ignored it. It was
bearable, but it still ached sometimes. He had no actual scars which is what
confused him. He removed his boot and rolled up his pant leg to let Malik
inspect it. Then Altaïr lied haltingly, “I was thrown through some scaffolding
a little while ago. It seems ok, but sometimes it just... stabs.”
Malik nodded like he understood, though the look on his face was clear that he
knew Altaïr was lying about something, not about being injured, but the how and
when. “It should have been seen to immediately. I think you will be stuck with
the hurting forever.”
Altaïr pushed back his hood so he could see Malik better. Their eyes met and
held for several seconds or was it minutes? Then Malik pushed off the black Dai
robe. He didn’t wear a shirt under, just the sleeveless tunic. Without the Dai
robe, the rafiqs and Dai could almost pass for any other assassin. Altaïr had
thought that they wore very different clothing. He watched as Malik even
removed the tunic to sit just in his pants. The stump was very clearly visible.
Malik tugged the slip knot that held the simple bandaging in place and unwound
it from his left arm and shoulder. The scarring was terrible on the very end,
but was otherwise a clean healing. Altaïr wasn’t sure what to expect. The last
time he had really seen it, it was a bloody mess.
“Only the end hurts if I impact it directly,” explained Malik. “Sometimes I get
phantom pains. Like a stabbing or ache in a hand that is not there. It isn’t
too often. But I know that will happen forever, too.”
Altaïr winced. This was his fault. He should have done something to prevent it.
He should have... there were so many things he should have and should not have
done.
“Touch it.” Malik was firm in his request.
Altaïr was not sure if he should or why Malik demanded he do so. This was as
startling as when Malik had reached into his hood a while ago and leaned his
brow to Altaïr’s.
“Touch it!” Malik demanded more insistently.
Altaïr realized this was like a test. If he didn’t then he was no better than
everyone else who thought Malik was a cripple or a leper. Altaïr’s earlier
words would have been considered empty. He wanted Malik’s trust so badly, his
trust and his forgiveness. He just could not bring himself to ask for either.
His eyes locked onto Malik’s dark brown ones as he came to sit close facing
Malik’s left stump of an arm. The glare he got from Malik was daring him to
touch it. He broke the eye lock and focused on his own hands while removing his
fingerless gloves. He raised his hands and slowly placed one on the front of
Malik’s left shoulder and one on the back. He was surprised at how tense Malik
was. His eyes thoroughly explored the sight of the arm that had been cut just
above the elbow. He let his hand flow smoothly across Malik’s back then back to
the shoulder. He paused glancing at Malik to be sure this was still ok and
wanted. Malik did not yell at him to bugger off. Malik said nothing. So Altaïr
felt the front pectoral muscles and down the severed arm, feeling the muscles
there that he had not expected.
The stump had the same smooth texture and complexion as the rest of Malik’s
skin. The scarring on the bottom was tough and shades of white and pink and
tan. As his hand on Malik’s back rubbed again across the tense shoulder blades,
they began to shake. Altaïr had to swallow several times as he knew Malik was
struggling not to sob... and was failing. It inflated Altaïr’s sense of guilt.
He awkwardly drew Malik in to lean that stump into his chest and soon found
Malik sobbing onto his shoulder. Altaïr didn’t know what to do. Malik had never
been the one to break down. Malik was the one he leaned on.
“Malik? I... I need to tell you something. It’s... important.”
***** Malik's Arm *****
“Malik? I... I need to tell you something. It’s... important.”
Malik really didn’t expect Altaïr to touch him, even though he demanded him to.
No one had touched him since the doctors had cut that arm from him. The
sensation of gentle caressing, the feel of being touched on bare skin, then the
comforting rub across his back. It was as if a floodgate had opened. Malik
covered his face with his hand as the unbidden sobs forced their way to the
surface. Then he found himself in strong arms as he was racked by those sobs.
Altaïr’s words only came when he was able to breathe easier. A mix of
humiliation and relief replaced the feelings of overwhelmedness earlier. He
wanted to shove Altaïr away and at the same time wanted to hold onto him and
not let go. Altaïr’s words filled him suddenly with dread. Also, somewhere the
tiniest flutter of hope, but he refused to acknowledge that.
Malik pinched at his eyes and scrubbed his face with his hand to try to reclaim
an ounce of control. He leaned away from Altaïr, regretting giving up that
place of comfort. He was surprised to find Altaïr kept a hand on his back
anyways. There was shame in Altaïr’s eyes and Malik wondered what now.
“I... should have tried harder.” Malik had no idea what Altaïr was talking
about. “They were doctors, but not as good as Faruq. I didn’t think it was bad
enough to need to be cut off. It wasn’t even infected till they practically
left you to rot. I sent the care-takers off to needing doctors when I checked
on you.” Malik’s stomach felt full of stones. “They hadn’t fed you or bathed
you or rebandaged you in like two days. So I swore I would kill anyone who came
in the room. I wasn’t sure what to do to help you. You were fevered so bad.”
Altaïr could not meet Malik’s eyes in his odd confession. “I stayed for a week
washing you, feeding you, trying where they were not. Then the Master ordered
me away and I... had to go. At least your fever was gone and you looked like
you were healing. I should have fought harder, I should not have let them take
it without doing everything they could first.”
Malik felt like the room was air tight. He stood and staggered a little as he
pulled on his Dai robe. He needed air, he needed... this was... How?! Why?! He
headed out to the main room and to the fountain. There he paced a little;
splashed his face with water. He spotted Altaïr hovering near the doorway
staring at the floor. I couldn’t recall the man who had been at his side day
and night, just that it was the same man. He vaguely recalled that man yelling
each time someone opened the door. He had spent so long hating Altaïr and never
knew, no one ever told him, that it was Altaïr who nursed him to health.
Finally, he could stand it no longer, “WHY?! Why did they do it? Why take my
arm if they didn’t need to?! WHY?!” But in his gut he suspected. Cripple him
and he would not only hate Altaïr, but hate that he could do nothing to hurt
him either. No longer a hindrance if he is a cripple. He could be made a Dai
and sent far away where he would no longer even know what was going on beyond
what little news he received. “Why not just kill me?!” But he knew the reason
for that, too. So many of the Brothers liked him and if he was killed in
Masyaf, there would be too many questions. Sympathy strengthened the blow to
Altaïr to further cut Altaïr off from anyone who might see some kind of
corruption.
Altaïr had no answers. His lips were tight locking those secrets inside. Maybe
he didn’t know. Malik suspected Altaïr wouldn’t have really realized that.
Altaïr was after all a great assassin, but obeyed Al Mualim like a trained
puppy. Also, Altaïr was not really well educated. This was deep deceptions and
not at all like Altaïr. Malik knew Altaïr to be a simple man of actions, not
the long plotting type.
Malik wanted to scream and kill someone... something... no, definitely someone.
But who? “Altaïr. There is a traitor in the Order. Someone fairly high sending
out the novices and getting them killed and leaking information about the
missions, about Al Mualim’s missions for you.” It was what he had suspected now
voiced. But, that means the traitor had been there for a year, maybe longer.
Malik paced.
Altaïr grimaced and rubbed his stomach, then turned away.
“Altaïr?”
“I’ll be fine...” Malik knew that as Altaïr-speak for ‘I hurt so bad I want to
die but not worry you.’
***** The Old Altair? *****
“I’ll be fine...” Malik knew that as Altaïr-speak for ‘I hurt so bad I want to
die but not worry you.’
Altaïr tried to brush Malik off when Malik’s hand invaded his face and neck. He
didn’t want to be touched. Not that he didn’t want to be touched, but he felt
ill and there were pains stabbing uncomfortably in his belly. Malik ignored his
protests and steered him to the back room and back onto the bed mat meant for
Malik to sleep on. Altaïr gave up protesting. Malik pulled off the hood and
tunic, then lifted Altaïr’s shirt to check the stitching of the stab wounds.
After several minutes that were truly too long for Altaïr, Malik left him be
while he prepared a hot water bottle. Altaïr had no idea what was wrong with
him. It felt like his insides were full of sharp edged rocks trying to tear
their way out. It was a mix of annoying and excruciating. The pain he tried to
shut out, but by doing so he ended up panting and feeling clammy.
Malik said nothing about the news Altaïr had dropped like a stone wall on him.
Nothing beyond the speculations. They were Altaïr’s speculations, too. Altaïr
wanted Malik to say something about the nursing, but he didn’t. He just
returned the favour and nursed Altaïr in turn.
Malik returned with the hot water bottle, but before putting it to whatever
esoteric medical use, he pressed in various places on Altaïr’s stomach and
abdomen. Altaïr grimaced again and choked out, “What... what is wrong? It will
pass, right? Malik?”
Malik’s eyes soften as did his voice, “Yes, Altaïr. It will. I’m sorry I
thought you were healed enough for solid food.” He nestled the hot water bottle
wrapped in a towel against Altaïr’s abdomen. “This will help ease things.”
Altaïr endured the next very uncomfortable few hours till the pain did pass and
Malik promised softer food for a couple more days.
“Were you really there the whole time?” Malik asked. “Did you actually hurt
anyone?”
Altaïr nodded. Well, he was... and yes, he nearly killed the people who were
supposed to be caring for Malik. “You were bad off.”
“Do you know why they did it?”
Altaïr was quiet a long while thinking. “I didn’t know then.” He sorted out his
thoughts a little more, “I think they didn’t know either. Faruq was already
dead from his mission. They maybe figured it was safer. But... But... I think
they wanted to make sure you hated me.”
“I already hated you plenty.” Malik’s words were cutting. Altaïr winced. “I
hated you before we entered Solomon’s Temple. You were arrogant with a total
disregard for the Creed and human life, any life not your own or Al Mualim’s.
Everyone’s favourite pet assassin. I already hated you. They didn’t need to do
anything to strengthen my hate, especially after Kadar...”
Altaïr endured this pain too. He deserved it. He took it like so many overdue
blows.
“I wish things worked out differently,” Malik rested a hand on Altaïr’s
shoulder. Altaïr flinched unconsciously. “Get some rest. I am going to plan
tomorrow. I have to have the Bureau open for other mundane business.”
Altaïr watched Malik’s back from where he lay. Every one of his muscles rock
hard with tension, braced for impacts that never came. He finally murmured, “Me
too... I wish things were different too...” He waited a little while then
almost invisibly slipped past Malik into the large room under the lattice to
lay in the moonlight on the many cushions and rugs. He didn’t want to be in
that private back room. He didn’t belong there. Maybe if things had been
different. Maybe if they were different people.
***** Imperfect Malik *****
Altaïr almost invisibly slipped past Malik into the large souk to lay in the
moonlight on the many cushions and rugs. He didn’t want to be in that private
back room. He didn’t belong there. Maybe if things had been different. Maybe if
they were different people.
Malik noticed, but chose not to show that he did. He felt like a poorly
fletched arrow flying wildly. It was a rough day... for them both. He didn’t
want to push for anything more, even though he was burning with questions for
Altaïr. If he wanted answers, he had to take it slow. Already, he had some
answers to some of the burning questions. And now, he wasn’t sure he ever
wanted those answers.
Altaïr... it had been Altaïr all this time that was by his side. He couldn’t
understand why. Altaïr had been standoff-ish, rude, and arrogant; all those
things Malik said he was. Yet, why fight to make sure he healed? Why stay and
tend him himself? They were hardly friends after the first ‘special mission’
that brought Adha into Altaïr’s life.
And of course there was the realization of a leak, a spy, a traitor well placed
in the brotherhood. Malik had a sinking feeling that it might actually be Al
Mualim. His gut had already guided him to lie and hide a boy. That boy was so
like Altaïr as a boy, fearless and curious and quick to smile. Altaïr never
really smiled now, as he grew older he had smiled less and less. His ‘special
training’ with the great grand master of the order had hardened him. Malik had
always suspected that Al Mualim had done cruel acts to Altaïr to toughen him.
The beatings as punishment had left Altaïr scarred. True, Altaïr had well
deserved some of those, but many made Malik question. They had made Faruq
question too. Malik was sure now that he had seen Al Mualim push Altaïr off
that wall in a training session.
The questions remained, though. Why do it? Why push so hard? Why test Altaïr’s
limits? Was it for a noble end? Was it really to hone Altaïr for this? To be
the assassin no one else could be and take down the men no one could take down?
What did Altaïr know of all this? He must suspect or he would never have
written that note. Malik peaked in on the resting assassin. Altaïr seemed
asleep facing the wall.
Malik draped his black Dai robe over Altaïr. He dipped into the back room for a
long sleeved shirt for himself and a blanket that he also draped over the
sleeping assassin. What is it that you know? What have you seen? What secrets
are you hiding? Why... why are you so afraid? Malik worried quietly.
Altaïr slept on so exhausted from the events of the day. Malik reminded himself
that in many ways, Altaïr was ‘special’ and any man as wounded as Altaïr had
been should be dead or at least in a long recovery. Altaïr may have been
arrogant and behaved like he was a god before, but Malik somehow knew that
Altaïr really did not realize just how ‘special’ he was. It made sense that Al
Mualim would want to train him differently and make him into the best killer.
But Altaïr still needed down time. He was not a god. While he was good at
hiding or ignoring his body’s needs, the needs were still there. He needed deep
and long sleep to heal. He needed a higher protein diet. He needed other
things, but Malik was not sure what those were. He did not think Altaïr was
insane, confused likely, uncertain, maybe even scared. Right now though, Altaïr
was wounded and needed rest and healing. Today, was anything but those. Malik
left him to sleep.
The next couple days were quiet. They almost tiptoed around each other. Altaïr
would not meet Malik’s eyes, but obeyed anything Malik asked of him without
question. Malik wondered what in all the many things that happened a couple
days ago, which of those made Altaïr behave this introverted. In the evenings,
Altaïr was struggling with writing in the journal. In the days, he stayed in
the back or sometimes in the shade on the roof.
Sometimes Malik joined him. Malik brought out one of the many books he was
reading on either history, philosophy, or medicine. He especially puzzled
through a text from a Chinaman from the Silk Road. It showed the human body
with meridian lines and lots of Chinese writing. That was a language Malik was
less familiar with. There was a sort of comfort to just have Altaïr there,
silent as he was being, he was company. Malik even tried to engage Altaïr a
little by reading bits out loud from his books. Altaïr listened, but never
spoke back, never voiced his opinions. He’d just frown or tilt his head
thinking and then close his eyes and seem like he was ignoring.
It caught Malik completely off guard when Altaïr corrected something Malik
said. Malik was fumbling through the Chinese language of this book when Altaïr
repeated the phrase more correctly first in Chinese then in two other languages
that Malik readily understood. “Altaïr? How... where did you learn? How do you
know this?!”
To Malik’s infuriation and frustration, Altaïr shrugged. Altaïr finally spoke
with a dark annoyed expression, “Just because reading and writing are hard for
me, does not mean I am stupid.” It was not spoken harshly, more like a warning
reprimand or a confession of being insulted and hurt. Malik watched Altaïr walk
away, back inside. Although, he had left his journal and the writing tools
behind. Malik cleaned the quill and corked the ink. He hadn’t claimed that
Altaïr was stupid, didn’t even really think he was, ignorant and uneducated,
but not stupid, even if he teased about it. Then Malik realized that maybe,
just maybe his teasing was not being taken as such. That his words were taken
as believed fact. That his words... hurt. Malik made mental note to mind his
words with Altaïr, before he potentially drove him away. It was just hard
sometimes because Altaïr always managed to say and do things that angered
Malik... like keeping secrets.
Malik collected the books and journal and other things from the roof and headed
inside. He wanted answers.
***** Altair Meets Tibah *****
Malik collected the books and journal and other things from the roof and headed
inside. He wanted answers.
Altaïr was determined to pointedly ignore Malik today as opposed to quietly
sharing space with him. He liked sharing the quiet space. He liked hearing
Malik recite verses or tidbits from the books he was reading. Altaïr did not
like being treated like an idiot. This whole rest and heal in Malik’s presence
was hard. He kept trying to word a formal apology and couldn’t. He tried in
everything that he did to show he was sorry, to help Malik in any way he could
even though he was injured. He was almost healed. He practiced the writing in
the journal, too. That was also hard. Altaïr worried again and again about who
might find and read it. He worried what Malik might think if he read it.
Right now, he was angry at Malik. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to run and
jump and leap off high places, fly! He felt trapped in here and dared not leave
because he wanted Malik’s trust so badly and it came with the promise to stay
till he was done healing, a designated twenty days. He couldn’t even recall the
first six or seven. But the last few made him wonder where he stood. Were they
friends? Or were they just a means to an end for each other? Did Malik even
care?
Altaïr knew how much he cared. It was ruinous how much he cared. Their failed
friendship was a result of how much he cared. He spent years pushing Malik
away, keeping him out of Al Mualim’s eye so Malik would not get dragged into
any of the strange missions Altaïr went on. Malik had ideals, morals, that
Altaïr never wanted to see stained with the things Al Mualim had asked him to
do. Altaïr knew he was a killer, more killer than assassin. Then Adha had come
along...
Altaïr tried to banish Adha from his mind. She had been beautiful, intelligent,
engaging. She seemed to understand Altaïr the way Malik sometimes did. She just
seemed to know things. She was the key to finding one of those treasures. She
was the treasure Al Mualim sought. She was the Chalice. And she was gone.
Templars stole her across the waters. Altaïr liked her. He bedded her. He was
going to marry her as per Al Mualim’s arrangement. She knew Altaïr was not
stupid and never treated him like he was. Altaïr felt stupid around her, more
so when he watched the boat sail away with her. She didn’t seem to have been
fighting. Maybe she felt trapped in Masyaf and she was running away? Everyone
ran away from Altaïr. Everyone he cared for left him or hurt him and left him.
He didn’t realize he was pacing as trench in the back room till Malik stood in
front of him forcing him to stop. They glared at each other. Altaïr had planned
to bathe and try to nap through the heat, but was pacing in just his pants.
Malik pressed his hand on Altaïr’s bandaged chest. “Tell me what you know,
Altaïr. What is going on? You have been keeping secrets from me since we were
children in training.”
This spiraled fast out of control. Within moments they were yelling and
spitting insults at each other. They hollered about betrayals and secrets and
false trust. It fast degenerated as arguments often do to the ridiculous and
yet not. They tore at each other’s egos and spat about each other’s poor sexual
habits. “Maybe you just need a good woman! Because obviously I am not good
enough and no one ever really will be for you!” Spat Altaïr as he flung the
fake wall curtain aside and stepped into the main Bureau. Frazzled, he stood
behind the counter, pants sagging off his hip, fists clenched.
A young woman cleared her throat politely from the other side.
Altaïr’s cheeks splashed crimson that blotched its way down his neck and chest
and made his body hair seem blond by comparison. “Malik?!” Altaïr called as he
hitched his pants better and tightened the ties, abandoning the idea of bathing
now.
Malik flung the curtain aside and stormed out to yell more at Altaïr only to
nearly trip at the sight before him and the frantic mental check and
chastisement for not remembering to lock the front door. Altaïr side-glanced
him and felt much better and less alone in this embarrassment to see Malik too
was splashed crimson across his cheeks. Sadly, Malik recovered better, “Miss
Tibah...” Malik turned to Altaïr and quietly ordered, “Get in the back and stay
there. This is not over.”
Altaïr shoved past him into the back. He hoped he suitably shocked Malik’s
pretty little client. It was good punishment for Malik. Altaïr growled lots to
himself and took over Malik’s bed mat for good measure, feeling very vindictive
at the moment. He rolled over facing the wall.
***** Malik: Tibah's Request *****
Chapter Summary
     All I can say about the last chapter and this one... is... AWKWARD!!!
     OMG AWKWARD!!!
Malik was left in the main room with Tibah.
He wondered what she had overheard. He wondered what she saw and thought. On
second thought, no... he really didn’t want to know. Her eyes had followed the
half-naked Altaïr into the back and that alone made him want to kill Altaïr.
Why must every girl look at him like that?! He chose to diffuse it as best he
can. “Some guards are not very good at letting themselves be healed. I
apologize for what you witnessed.”
Tibah smiled and tucked her veil under her chin. “Oh, that’s alright. I do have
brothers, rafiq. And honestly, they can be downright ornery when they have to
sit still and get healed.” She approached the counter. “I see that maybe the
dream I had was not so wrong after all. I suspect you will need more doctoring
supplies. Did what I sent you work out alright?” She bit her lip hopefully.
Malik nodded and leaned his elbow on the counter wondering just how she knew
what she did about his medical practices and about needing more supplies now.
“Yes, the gut threading is amazing and as I read it absorbs into the body so
can...”
“Can be used for stitching internally,” she finished for him, ever so proud of
her own research. “I tested it on cat last month. And the curved needles?” She
rocked in her toes, hands clasped behind her back to hide her eagerness that
showed in every other fiber of her being.
“I can’t find anything on them. But I did use them. It made stitching some
things much easier, all things considered.” He was referring to being rendered
one-handed and not having the benefit of a second hand for stitching.
Tibah grinned broadly. “Oh... you won’t find anything from doctors on those.
They are my very own idea! I saw my sister using one to fix a pillow that got
torn and thought how brilliant that might be for sewing someone who was hurt.”
Malik was impressed with her innovation. He made mental note to write a new
medical text later on the use of curved needles in surgery.
“So, I see you have been using what I sent and he looks very stitched in lots
of places. I won’t ask from what or how. That is none of my business. But do
you maybe need more supplies?” The tone of her voice lilted up with
hopefulness. “The angel said you would.”
“Miss Tibah... angel? I didn’t think you were Christian.”
“Yes, the angel. I said I had a dream,” she began to explain. “It was a little
while ago, but it recurred so I thought maybe it was an important message from
Allah. Allah can use any kind of messenger I suppose. So, I dreamed about this
angel who told me that you had a very wounded eagle you needed to heal. That
healing this wounded eagle was going to use many of the supplies I sent you and
that I should come by and make sure you have enough for next time since the
eagle was in grave danger all the time and you were the only one who would or
could heal such a dangerous creature. Have you ever healed an eagle before? I
see them all the time, but my father says they can tear off your fingers and
face if you get close.”
Malik felt a little like he swallowed a gecko lizard whole. This girl may not
understand the truth behind the metaphor she dreamed, but Malik did. Altaïr was
the eagle; that was his name. And everything this girl said was exactly what
was happening. “Who... who told you these things?” Malik thought his words
sounded squeaky, but he needed to know.
“The angel,” Tibah repeated as if Malik missed hearing the obvious. “There was
this angel in my dream. He was a beautiful man. I know men aren’t really
supposed to be called beautiful, but this one was. Not handsome like your
friend there or like you, but beautiful, almost pretty like a girl. And he had
huge fluffy feather wings. One was white like jasmine flowers and the other was
charcoal grey.”
Malik stumbled almost off the edge of the counter and stood upright. He had
seen the same thing in the alley when he found Altaïr after the drunken
stabbing. He thought it was a trick of the light.
“Anyways, I am here now. Do you need anything restocked? I don’t want to take
too long. My brother is being very...”she rolled her eyes, “overprotective
right now. He wants to get home soon.”
Malik reigned in the fragments of his thoughts to focus on the here and now.
“Miss Tibah, these are very difficult supplies, very expensive. I don’t even
know how you knew I would need them.”
There was that devious womanly smile Malik really disliked. It was the one that
said that you made a big mistake and the woman knew it. “Rafiq, you have asked
for some supplies from our apothecary that we have only ever sold to the most
skilled doctors or to the hospitalier in Acre before it was shut down. It was
simply a matter of deducing that if you used those medicines, then you must do
many other similar things. You are so knowledgeable. I bet you are an amazing
doctor even if you practice only in secret. I am sure most people would not
want to be treated by you because of your accident leaving you with one arm.
But that doesn’t mean you still don’t know how and doesn’t mean you stopped
practicing, even if you are scribing and making pretty maps now.”
Malik knew for sure now that he needed to be much more careful with what he got
from where and how. Also, if Al Mualim knew this girl had sorted this much out,
she could end up leading people right to the brotherhood by accident. The rules
would dictate having her assassinated. But at the same time she was an
innocent. It was a flaw in the Creed. Unless... Unless she married one of the
brotherhood. That would solve this neatly.
“Miss Tibah, I need to know. What is it you want in return?”
Malik hated how she lengthened the pause and glanced back at the door where her
impatient brother, the family guard, waited. She placed her hands on his
counter and already he felt violated. He felt like prey. “I want... Please
consider it. I am smart. I can read and write unlike most girls. I learn fast.
I will be sure to clean up after you. Please oh please rafiq.”
“Tibah?”
“Take me on as your apprentice? I want to be a doctor.”
Malik was not sure if he was relieved or not. A doctor. She wanted to be a
doctor. He stifled a chuckle that threatened to embarrass him, “Tibah. I am not
a doctor. I dabble, but that it all. Being a doctor is highly inappropriate for
a girl. There is... blood... and nudity... and many other things you just
should not be privy to.”
Tibah pleaded desperately. “But no one will ever take me. No doctor would ever
consider training a girl for those reasons. I am not scared of blood or men’s
bodies, or puss, or feces or anything else. I have seen it in animals. Please?
Pleeeaase?!”
“Your father would not approve of this.”
“He’s in Acre right now. And... and he really likes you.”
“No... by Allah, Tibah, I thought I was going to have to deal with a marriage
request... not this.”
She looked down a moment then determinedly at him again. “I would never
consider you for marriage, rafiq. You are clearly too much like my brother. I
am thus the wrong gender. And... you are much too old for me. But that means
you are wise! And know a lot! Please, just consider it!”
Altaïr was guffawing in the back room and Malik ground his teeth internally
swearing that he was going to make Altaïr pay for this a thousand fold with the
only cruel torture that Malik alone knew as a weapon on Altaïr... if he didn’t
just stab Altaïr to death first.
Malik came around the counter placing his hand on the small of Tibah’s back. He
guided her forcibly, yet gently to and OUT the door. “I will think about it.
I’ll speak with your father. But I doubt he will agree.” He glanced at the
brother with his new knowledge and filed that for later. To the young man he
suggested firmly, “Take her home. We are done here.”
He stepped back in and LOCKED the door. “Wrong gender…. And I am not too old,”
he muttered to himself. His eyes narrowing with fury as he could still hear
Altaïr laughing.
***** Altair Wants to Talk *****
Malik stepped back in and LOCKED the door. “Wrong gender…. And I am not too
old,” he muttered to himself. His eyes narrowed with fury as he could still
hear Altaïr laughing.
Altaïr was holding his sides from laughing. He never heard Malik enter the back
room. He never heard Malik take a book from the shelf. Nor did he head Malik’s
snarl as he threw that book. But he sure felt the impact! “How... dare!” Malik
threw a second book. Altaïr cringed, braced for the impact. Malik was so angry
he couldn’t even find coherent words. Altaïr thought Malik could never be as
angry as when he had returned after Kadar was killed. Altaïr soon realized that
if you add jealousy and embarrassment to the pile, Malik can get pretty
spitting mad.
A third larger book hit Altaïr. “Woah! Hey... stop!” A fourth book struck him.
“You’re damaging your books!” Altaïr heard the hesitation and the fifth book
being reshelved.
“Today... I hate you. Go sleep by the fountain.”
Subdued and ashamed, Altaïr stood and retreated carpets in the other room,
“Yes, Malik...”
There, Altaïr flopped onto the sun warmed cushions and carpets. He pondered all
the things they yelled at each other. He thought of how Malik reacted with that
girl, Tibah. That is when he realized, Malik had never had anyone, not a woman
nor a man. Oops... Why did their arguments always have to end up finding the
most stupid and yet most painful things to lash at each other. Those became the
very next words he wrote in the journal.
Then he wrote about his trip down the Silk Road in search of the Chinese Taoist
elixir for longevity and the Chinese tutor who taught him a few other things
besides language. That was a whole year immersion in a very foreign world. He
was deep in trying to write it in the journal. The sun had set making it
impossible to continue. Altaïr crept into the main room to seek out a lamp. He
refreshed the incense pot’s coal and sniffed all the other little pots for the
incense, then added a few pinches.
Altaïr inched into the back room quietly. “Don’t speak to me unless you are
going to tell me something I really want to hear,” snarled Malik, who didn’t
bother to look up from the book he was writing in. Altaïr felt like he was
standing before Al Mualim, caught in the act of something the Master
disapproved of. He stared at his toes. Why is saying I am sorry so hard?
After staring at his toes a while longer he came and sat near Malik. “These
stitches are itching.” Malik put down the book, corked his ink and cleaned his
quill. It might not have been what Malik wanted to hear, but Altaïr knew it was
at least something that would get Malik to pay him some attention. He was never
very good at ignoring Malik, but Malik was exceptional at ignoring him. He
didn’t want to be ignored, but he still didn’t know how to say the things he
wanted to.
While Malik inspected and even removed the stitches, Altaïr stayed still and
quiet thinking about what the girl had said. How she figured Malik for a lover
of other men and how maybe she was right. Also, Altaïr considered what else she
said about how she figured out Malik. She was too smart for her own good. The
Master would definitely have her... removed. “We... maybe we ... should talk.”
Altaïr wanted that to come out much more smoothly than it did.
Malik slammed down the little scissors he had used to cut the stitches. “Now
you decide this? After all this time that I have been trying to get you to? Now
you finally conclude that we need to. I just want to hit you!”
Altaïr flinched unconsciously. Malik might as well have hit him.
“So? Altaïr? Talk...”
Now Altaïr had no voice. His lips tightened,and he stared into his lap.
“That is exactly what I figured!”
Altaïr winced away. “Malik... Please... stop yelling at me... just... for a
little while.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
***** Malik and Altair Talk *****
A heavy silence fell between them.
Malik hated when Altaïr flinched untrusting. It made Malik feeling like one of
those husbands that beat their wives. A master assassin like Altaïr never
flinched, not at anyone or anything, except Al Mualim... and Malik. It was more
apparent when he reached his hand out to reassure Altaïr and again Altaïr
flinched from him. “You have this knack, Altaïr, for making me angry, but...
not always or even really at you. It drives me crazy not knowing whatever it is
you are hiding. And I know it is a lot.”
“There is so much,” Altaïr confessed. “I don’t know where to begin.... Malik?
Have you never married?”
This was a bit odd and extremely personal for Malik, especially since Tibah had
been too right. “No, I am picky and Al Mualim had not seen fit to arrange a
marriage for me. You though have been married twice.” He tried not to sound
angry or jealous, but started to recognize those feelings sneaking around the
surface.
“I only married once,” Altaïr corrected. “I never got to marry Adha. They took
her across the waters to the English Isles, before I could.”
Malik looked ashamed as Altaïr’s sadness was clear. “You loved her, didn’t
you?”
“No, but I liked her a fair deal. She was nice, smart, not afraid of me... in
many ways, she was like... like you.” Malik did not expect that response at
all, nor the blush that warmed his cheeks. “I was supposed to marry her when we
returned from that mission. And before you ask, yes we slept together, but only
once. I was... lonely... and one thing just lead to another.”
Malik fought the questions that wanted to push Altaïr for more about that
mission. He stayed silent to listen, Altaïr was actually talking to him. He had
to ask though, “What was that mission? We still have people searching for her.
Why is she so important?”
“The Master thinks she knew where to find a treasure called the Chalice. She
had said she knew it and would guide me to it. On the way, she told me
things... things about Those Who Came Before and that it was why I was...
different. She said she was different too. She... taught me things...”
Malik had read some things about Those Who Came Before. Discovered them in the
library while looking to understand why Altaïr was so different. So, Al Mualim
was hunting sacred treasures even back then, maybe longer. Maybe Malik was
right and AL Mualim was training Altaïr to be this hunter. Maybe Al Mualim knew
Altaïr was different right from the start. Malik almost asked another question,
but Altaïr continued speaking.
“Adha explained that the Chalice was a sacred vessel, like something to hold
the blood of Christ, or life-giving water. Malik, Adha was never guiding me to
the Chalice.”
Malik, even though he liked hearing his name instead of his title, frowned,
“But you said you lost it.”
“I did. Can I really trust you not to tell the Master?”
Malik hated that Altaïr called Al Mualim Master. It twisted in his gut somehow,
always did. “I will keep your secrets, Altaïr. I swear.”
“Adha... WAS the Chalice. Her name is Adha Calisse. I didn’t realize till she
was taken and the Templar yelled back to me a thank you for the Sacred Chalice.
I didn’t understand when she was explaining the Chalice to me, but... What’s
more sacred a chalice than the womb of life, the womb of a woman who was...
special or different? I don’t think she was stolen either, but I only realized
this recently. I think she was running. Something had her scared or trapped. I
can understand... I can’t bear feeling caged or trapped either. I’d run, too.”
Malik’s mouth dropped. Adha... a woman... was a sacred treasure. It made sense.
It really did. So did Altaïr’s logic for running away. All Malik could think of
now was how he had been making Altaïr feel... caged and trapped. No wonder
Altaïr kept bolting from him. It also dawned on him that Altaïr had felt
lonely, admitted it. He never thought Altaïr would feel lonely being the center
of attention and Al Mualim’s pet.
Since they were on the subject of women, Malik dared, “And Nina?”
“Nina... I hated her. I really ... we really disliked each other. She was smart
too, and dangerous. She wanted to be an assassin. She was like sleeping with a
viper. I married her because it was arranged. I was told to charm her and bed
her, so I did. The Master never wanted her trained. She was punishment...
punishment for losing Adha.”
Malik pursed his lips wondering if he should not tell Altaïr what he knew of
Nina. He opted to share half of what he knew. No need to tell Altaïr of the
unborn child. It would only unnecessarily upset Altaïr, since he knew Altaïr
badly wanted a child, always did. “We are still looking for her too. She knows
too much about us, if the Templars get hold of her...”
“It has been a whole year,” protested Altaïr, “More for Adha. They are both
gone. Adha cannot be retrieved. And honestly? Nina? How the hell could a woman
survive with nothing in this world? She’s probably dead. Good riddance.”
Malik knew better. There would not be a standing hunt for her if Al Mualim
thought she was dead. Malik knew it was not Nina that Al Mualim would want. If
it is true that Al Mualim knows what Altaïr is (whatever Altaïr is), then Al
Mualim would be after the child. Raise one from a babe and then you avoid the
problems that Altaïr has caused. He didn’t mention any of this to Altaïr. He
wasn’t sure enough to say anything. Al Mualim is the Grand Master of the Order.
He must have his reasons. Malik wondered if Altaïr knew the reasons behind
these insane hunts for sacred treasures and these near impossible
assassination.
The silence grew between them again for a little while. Malik prepared some
food, things he felt Altaïr was ready to eat. Malik wanted to mush the food in
Altaïr’s face when Altaïr spoke, “That Tibah girl... she’d be good to marry.”
Malik snapped without even thinking, “Then YOU marry her.”
“If you are too old for her, then so am I. What I was trying to get at...
well... she knows an awful lot about you, and obviously about this back room.
She’s a liability to the Brotherhood.” Altaïr was calculating already the
problems a smart girl like Tibah would be and the dangers she represented.
“Don’t you DARE tell Al Mualim. She is an innocent, Altaïr. You leave her be.”
Altaïr poked his food disinterestedly. “I’m just saying, she poses a threat, if
she spoke to a Templar, or to someone who knew one... Marrying her would save
her from what would only be the destined fate if...”
“IF Al Mualim knew about her. Which he WON’T... I’ll deal with her...
somehow...” Malik did not like this thinking, but he knew, he understood. If
she spoke to someone, anyone, Templars could be all over this Bureau, or worse.
They ate in silence, both deep in thought.
“Altaïr, open the other bed mat and sleep in here.” It came out like a command,
but he didn’t mean it that way. Malik tried to change how it sounded, “Unless,
unless you would rather sleep out there.” Leaving Altaïr with the choice would
shed light on if Altaïr trusted Malik, at least a little. He found himself
hoping more than he expected, really hoping Altaïr would sleep in this room. He
also found himself hating Tibah a little for having so bluntly laid out his
sexual preferences. That was all Altaïr’s fault. And yet, his hope remained.
***** Altair Chooses *****
Chapter Summary
     Warning... some BL moments...
Altaïr rose to his feet and was about to do as he was told. Then he paused. He
turned back to Malik unsure if he really heard what he did. He was being given
a choice? Malik gave him a choice? Altaïr wasn’t sure what the plan was, if
Malik was plotting something. Malik was always testing him, wasn’t he? This
must be another test of trust. He studied Malik trying to puzzle out the
intentions.
Malik almost seemed to shy away, a bashfulness Altaïr did not recognize. Maybe
Malik meant it. Maybe Malik really was letting him choose freely. It was what
he had always liked about Malik when they were young. Altaïr got to make some
of the decision. He got to choose his own path. Malik was his link to a sense
of freedom he did not have within the brotherhood under the Master’s watchful,
seemingly almost all-seeing, eye. Well, there was this one time...
Altaïr’s eyes slid over Malik a moment before he stepped out of the back room
into the main room. He heard Malik’s disappointed sigh but kept walking to the
fountain room. He sat upon the cushions under the starry sky that could be seen
through the lattice. He thought about that freedom. He thought about that one
time they, he and Malik, gave the Master the slip. That was a moment of total
intoxicating freedom. It was like flying, like leaping from an eagle point.
Malik didn’t even come out after Altaïr. He decided to relax there for a little
bit and absorb himself in that one exquisite memory of escaping the Master.
They managed to sneak around the corner of a building, stifling their nervous
excitement. Al Mualim was always sharp, but this time he was distracted by some
news he had received and showed up just a few minutes late. Altaïr convinced
Malik to sneak off with him, at least this far.
Altaïr brushed his fingers into Malik’s hood to expose his ear so he could
whisper into it. “Let’s run away, just us, just for a little while. I want to
just be with you, Malik.” Malik pulled Altaïr closer to be sure they were not
scene.
Al Mualim yelled from the stairway, “Altaïr! Maliiik!! You will regret it if
you do not take the swimming lesson!”
Altaïr could feel Malik’s breath short and fast debating the choice. “Please
Malik. Let it be my choice. I’ll take the heat for it. It will be so worth it.
Besides, Faruq will teach swimming later.” Altaïr’s lips tickled the soft teen
stubble along Malik’s jaw as he spoke. When he nodded, he could feel Altaïr
grin, they were so close.
As soon as they heard the click of Al Mualim’s cane receding, they were OFF!
They ran through the alleys and over the buildings. They leapt off ledges with
their arms spread like eagle wings in flight. They raced to their favoured
ledge and dove carefree... into their secret pile of hay. There they laughed
about their victory. There their fingers intertwined. There... their lips met.
Altaïr opened his journal and tried to write the scene into it as best he
could. Freedom is worth the punishment.
There was definitely a punishment from the Master for avoiding him. Altaïr took
the full blame. He stood with his head hung before the Master. Kadar shielded
his eyes from the sun with his hood as he watched his idol endure the
reprimand. Malik had argued with Altaïr about who would take the punishment.
His cheeks burned in frustration and humiliation, watching Al Mualim tear
verbal strips off of Altaïr. The assassin glued his eyes to the ground in
knowing this was just the beginning of the punishment. This was just for show.
The real punishment would be later. It would be punishment to remind Altaïr who
was in charge, who gave the orders, and who was supposed to obey them.
Altaïr fumbled as he wrote this too into his journal. Then he detailed the
punishment, explaining why he tried to keep Malik out of the various things
that involved the Master. This was not the note Altaïr wanted to be left on.
Also, he was cold... so he made a new decision.
He packed his journal and brought it with him as he snuck back into the private
sleeping room. Malik was just finishing cleaning the dinner dishes by the
lamplight. “You... came back...” Malik sounded so surprised.
“I was cold.”
Malik narrowed his eyes and Altaïr knew that Malik was trying to decide if
Altaïr was joking or not. He must have concluded Altaïr was serious. He found
Altaïr a blanket. “You were laughing at me over the whole Tibah thing before. I
know I was mad... but it was good to hear you laugh again.”
Altaïr unrolled the extra bed mat as Malik got comfortable on his own. Altaïr
felt himself being intensely watched. “Are you ever really lonely?” asked
Altaïr like he was asking something taboo.
“All the time. Does it look like I share space with people regularly?” It was a
confession, if a bit biting.
Altaïr shoved his bed mat right up against Malik’s so they would be side by
side. “Me too,” Altaïr confessed in turn. He stretched out on the spare bed mat
facing Malik. He took a deep slow breath and let his eyes unfocus a moment.
“What are you doing?” Malik asked having never seen Altaïr behave like he was
doing some kind of meditative breathing.
“You... are bright blue.” Altaïr wanted to confirm it. He wanted to know that
what he once saw was still a fact. It was reassuring.
“What? What are you talking about?” Malik was clearly confused.
Altaïr blinked a couple times and refocused. “Adha taught me to do something.
It... it will sound crazy. But, I can see people in colors... like glowing
shining colors. I’ve practiced it when I have stood on good lookout places. It
also happens unbidden when I fight. Innocent people shine white. Friendly
people shine bright blue. Enemies and those who intend me harm glow and angry
red. Targeted people, those I am seeking, are glowing yellow... You... shine
bright blue. So... I ... I can trust you.” He tucked his right arm under his
head to watch Malik with his golden eyes.
Did Malik believe him? Did Malik think he was crazy, insane? Altaïr worried, or
tried not to worry. Malik’s dark eyes seemed to be searching Altaïr’s. It was
interesting how Malik tucked his stump under his head to be comfortable as
though there was a whole arm there. If they were boys again, Malik would have
pulled Altaïr close to cuddle and sleep in order to keep the nightmares away.
Altaïr knew that would not happen. But this... this was still nice. He closed
his eyes to sleep and felt Malik’s fingers almost shyly move through his hair.
Altaïr tensed a little, but did not flinch this time. He wanted to move closer
to Malik and hold him and be held by him, but didn’t think that would be...
appropriate anymore. This would do though. This would do.
***** Malik: Caught *****
Malik felt abandoned for the first time in his life when Altaïr had walked out.
He had given him the choice and he left. Malik felt... he didn’t want to admit
it, but he felt rejected. Why did Tibah have to be so right? And what did she
mean by he was like her brother? Was she suggesting that her brother the guard
preferred boys to girls? Malik could not say men, because the brother was
barely a year older than Tibah. He supposed that constituted a grown man...
with peach fuzz for chin hair.
But Altaïr returned after several hours, journal in hand. In a way Malik was
deeply relieved. Altaïr just needed to add to the journal in private. Malik
could respect that. The cold comment, well, he still didn’t know if Altaïr was
joking. He wanted to see that smile on Altaïr’s face or hear him laugh... when
it was not at Malik’s expense.
It was a relief to tell someone he was lonely, and to know that Altaïr was
equally so. They didn’t have to be lonely. That was Altaïr’s message in shoving
the bed mats together. The next words from Altaïr made him think too much about
how different Altaïr was. These odd abilities reminded him of myths he had read
of great heroes. Altaïr? A great hero? That was a little hard to swallow.
Seeing colors was so strange. I am bright blue... to him it means a friend...
someone that can be trusted. If that is how Allah will remind you, so be it.He
hesitated only a moment. He didn’t think he should do this while Altaïr was
awake and aware. But then his hand betrayed him and did it anyways. His fingers
found their way into Altaïr’s hair with those golden eyes watching him.
Malik was woken a couple times in the night by Altaïr’s thrashing, but found he
could ease Altaïr back into sleep. There was a modicum of trust there now.
Altaïr did not jump at the sound of his voice, nor did he attack like Malik was
the enemy. In the morning, he woke to Altaïr snuggled in close to him shivering
slightly as the blanket had been lost in the last fitfulness. Malik sat up and
pulled the blankets, both his and Altaïr, to cover Altaïr before he vacated the
spot on his bed. Altaïr mumbled something and inched drowsily into Malik’s
warmed spot.
Malik wondered how long this quiet would last. The doctor in him could
logically deduce that the fights between him and Altaïr were just them needing
to work out what was between them till it eventually was out of them and
sorted... and forgiven. Not that Altaïr would EVER say he was sorry! Not that
any amount of saying sorry would bring Kadar back. Malik, for all his logic,
could not help being upset about the past with Altaïr there to remind him of
it.
Then he also could not help thinking about how Altaïr revealed that it was he
who was at Malik’s side the entire time during the healing of his severed limb.
Malik found himself sipping his tea and failing to resist opening Altaïr’s
journal while the assassin slept. The writing was horrible! He was right,
Altaïr desperately needed the practice. Altaïr couldn’t even write a single
sentence using the same language. It had words and scripts mixed together to
form fragments of sentences. It was like reading code. Messy almost illiterate
code. Malik wondered if Altaïr thought in these chaotic codex forms. It would
certainly account for Altaïr being confused all the time. There were even words
in languages that Malik was not very familiar with. This would take too long to
decipher. He flipped through the pages and stopped at the word elixir. That
part he read more carefully. It explained why Altaïr knew Chinese. How did he
pick it up so fast though? Was Altaïr a natural at understanding what he
overheard in foreign languages? Just apparently writing them was not his forte.
Nope, this was going to take too much time and Altaïr would wake soon.
Malik set the book down and stiffened. Altaïr’s sharp golden eyes had been
watching him for who knew how long. Malik had never really been the kind to
snoop. Malik had to reconsider that, he was not the kind to snoop where he
would remotely get caught. He was never caught snooping through forbidden
sections of the library in Masyaf. He opened his mouth searching for the words
to explain himself and not finding them.
Altaïr sat up and patted his shoulder, “I was hoping you would read it. Maybe
it will make sense to you.” Malik watched Altaïr slip through to the little
kitchen to use the privy. Malik awkwardly set the journal down on the bed mat.
He dressed and was about to make some breakfast for them both when two
unskilled thuds were heard in the other room. Altaïr met him face to face as
they exchanged wary looks. “You are badly wounded,” Malik hissed to him. “Too
wounded to be out of bed.”
Altaïr silently dropped himself back onto the bed mat and left the blankets off
to expose his bandages and stitches. He dipped his hands into the jug of water
nearby and patted his face to look like he was sweating with fever and closed
his eyes. Malik nodded approval as he slid a knife into place on his hip and
crept cautiously into the main room, just in case it was not others from their
Brotherhood.
“Safety and peace, rafiq!” called one trainee in uniformed greys. “Safety and
peace!” called the second. Malik noted that they were not full assassins yet,
they still had all ten fingers and no wrist daggers.
“Safety and peace, brothers. What brings you two to Jerusalem?” Malik was
almost relieved to see them.
“See,” one prodded the other, “He is not such a heartless bastard.”
Malik narrowed his eyes at them. “Well?! Out with it. Why are you girls here?”
he snapped.
The young men cringed to Malik’s approval and sputtered, “On mission. We were
to find the Bureau in each of the major cities. Acre, Damascus, and Jerusalem
and return with proof that we did. Can we uhm... have some proof?”
Malik opened up one of his rolls of maps and poked at it letting the two youths
wonder and wait. Without looking up he asked, “What kind of proof were you
expected to get?” Then he let them sweat for many long slow minutes while they
stressed about not having asked what they were supposed to get from Jerusalem.
“Rest and wash. You both smell. Maybe once you are clean, you will remember
what you are here for.”
The two youths concluded that Malik was indeed the heartless bastard they
thought he was. They slunk side room to strip and wash. At least they had
slightly better manners than Altaïr. They asked for basins and towels. Malik
allowed one to come with him into the back to retrieve those items. The youth
stared at the prone unwell looking Altaïr bandaged and resting on a bed mat.
“Woah... he is stitched... everywhere...” the youth breathed before Malik
shoved him out. That would suit Malik just fine for when these boys babbled
back in Masyaf. It would be shocking proof for them. As Malik prepared
breakfast for ... four... he overheard them talking about Altaïr and how
bandaged he was and how stitched up he was and wondering if he was going to
live. Altaïr moaned loudly for good measure and Malik could not help rolling
his eyes.
Once cleaned and fed the youths still had no idea what they had to get as
proof. Malik solved that himself. “You have to earn your proof from me. Find
for me three of the city flags. You may speak to any of the informants for
advice. Expect them to test your resolve. Be gone as soon as you are done
eating. And don’t come back till the sun sets. If you are not here at sunset, I
send another assassin after you to kill both you and the Templar you stupidly
let catch you. They are hunting us here, so be careful. Sunset!”
They nodded emphatically and wolfed down their food. The longer they ate the
less time they had to find three flags from an informant. They scrambled up the
fountain and out the roof opening.
Malik sighed with annoyance and took a damp towel to clean the fountain they
just dirtied from their scramble. Altaïr never messed the fountain. He was
graceful unlike these clumsy colts. Once the front was cleaned to his
satisfaction, he returned to Altaïr’s side. “The moan was really unnecessary.”
Altaïr shrugged. Malik shook his head. “I was going to take out some of those
stitches, Altaïr. But now that you did such a wonderful job of making them
think you are near death, I will have to leave them in till those trainees are
finished their mission.” He smirked pleased with himself as Altaïr groaned for
real, lamenting his obliged state. “Here, write more. You need the practice.”
Malik slid the journal and writing supplies over to Altaïr.
“Maybe I should follow them and make sure they are...”
“No, Altaïr. It is their missions, they will succeed or not. And YOU... cannot
be spotted. Don’t make me think you are still a novice like them!”
Altaïr flumped back onto the bed mat.
***** Altair Challenges Malik *****
Chapter Summary
     Sweating men...
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Throughout the day, Altaïr just grew irritable. Malik was busy out in the front
room. He was stuck in the back playing “wounded.” Even though he WAS wounded,
he wasn’t THAT wounded. He grumbled and snarled through random writings in the
journal. Now that he really HAD to stay in the back in the bed, he desperately
wanted to sneak out onto the roof. The two novices might see him though. He
snarled and rolled over shoving the journal aside.
It was the deepest relief to have Malik come back in and make meat sandwiches.
Malik even sat to eat with him and read from one of his own journals about
things he learned about Those Who Came Before. It wasn’t anything really
special or anything really new to Altaïr. It was more myth and legend than fact
about people who lived in a mythical city that was destroying by either water
of volcanic fire. Either way, those people were mostly gone from the world and
their city sunk deep in the seas.
All the stitches itched and irritated him. He picked at them and rubbed them.
Malik would reach over and smack Altaïr every time without missing a beat in
what he was reading, or looking over. Altaïr began to wonder who was different
because it was as if Malik had eyes on the side of his head or in the back.
“Fine! Stay still. I will take out the ones that are not so visible.” Malik’s
words were like the sweetest music.
Altaïr flopped out spread eagle and relished the mild sense of internal
amusement seeing Malik roll his eyes... again. He patiently stayed still and
moved only as Malik bade him so that the annoying stitches were neatly snipped
and plucked out. What was not so comfortable was Malik feeling along his still
black and purple ribs. Bones heal slower than everything else. Malik rubbed a
simple salve into all the wounds and over the stitches he was leaving in for
show. Then he rebandaged Altaïr’s chest.
The blessed sound of the over-eager youths dropping in was followed by their
excited voices. Altaïr relaxed back on the bed mat and listened to Malik berate
them for their gracelessness and indiscretion. Altaïr grinned at the resounding
THUMP the log book made on the counter and the yelps of surprise from the
novices. They haltingly recounted their foray to find the flags and produced
them proudly in the end. Malik was going to keep one and they each were to keep
one of the others. It was like a souvenir they rolled tightly and tucked into
their belt pouches. Malik wrote the mission in the log, explaining it to them
as he did, along with proper protocol. Since it was only a few hours after
noon, they had plenty of time to hurry themselves out of Jerusalem and off to
their next city. He warned them about Acre’s port and advised them to be
especially careful because Acre was Templar owned. Promises were exchanged,
along with the usual greeting.
When Malik returned to the back, Altaïr sat up hopeful. “Yes Altaïr, they are
gone now.”
Altaïr could not be happier, “Great, get the rest of these out of me.” He was
plenty fed up of the stitches.
Stitches were all removed by the second day. Altaïr revelled in the feeling.
His ribs ached, but he could easily ignore that, not that Malik would let him.
Malik had him stretching and retraining those muscles. Malik watched him
critically while he grunted through sit-ups and climbed up and down the
fountain maybe a hundred times till he was sweating and wished he could
complain about how sore he was. He refused to give in though. In the middle of
doing some push-ups, he snarled at Malik. “Stop just sitting there and staring.
Stop correcting me... you want a right to say something? You come down here and
do them with me!”
Altaïr wanted to hit Malik when Malik laughed, “Alright golden boy... let’s see
who can do more.” Altaïr sat and watched as Malik stripped himself down to just
his pants like Altaïr. He was a little surprised to see Malik jump on the
challenge. It was also refreshing.
They assumed their positions. Altaïr stared somewhat distracted as Malik
actually accomplished push-up’s one handed at the same pace he was going.
Although, Altaïr had been pushing himself all day and was already tired. He
blamed his failing strength on that while Malik sneered back at him. The sweat
dripped off them both. Altaïr had never been bested by Malik and had no
intention of that happening now. After about eighty, Altaïr tried to shift to
one hand to prove he could... and to give one hand a rest. That failed swiftly
and he had to keep at it with both. When the exhaustion shifted to aching then
to pain, so did his focus.  He wavered a moment then shoved it all aside and
kept going.
Chapter End Notes
     I love doubleleaf... PUSHUPS!
     https://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/pushups-160586065
***** Malik: Shame *****
Chapter Summary
     Pun intended when you find it! Oh... YAOI warning.
There was something so completely and totally satisfying to know he could beat
Altaïr at something. Altaïr had always been cocky and arrogant, flaunting how
he was the best and could do anything. Malik grinned to himself seeing how
Altaïr could not do one-handed push-ups. It required a whole different set of
balancing. Malik had been practicing and trying to stay fit, just in case
Templars came to the Bureau. He wanted to make sure he could still fight them
off and escape.
He wasn’t sure he could do the escaping part, but he sure would give them a
hell of a fight. He side-glanced Altaïr noting the assassin slowing. Malik
frowned a little at the changed and determined expression on Altaïr’s face. It
was the one he showed when he was in pain and ignoring it. Malik sighed
internally. He’d have to fake giving in to Altaïr because Altaïr was being a
stupid novice and pushing too hard.
Malik lowered himself and then rolled onto his back puffing as though
exhausted. He turned his head to see Altaïr do the same after a couple more.
Altaïr’s breathing was too shallow. Malik sat up and lightly touched over the
fading bruises on Altaïr’s ribs. The responding wince answered his concern. As
much as Altaïr was grumpy because he was feeling much better and being treated
like an invalid, Malik and Altaïr fought less over the last couple days. Malik
was already sensing that it would soon be time for Altaïr to leave... just...
not yet, not quite yet.
Altaïr spent most of the time now writing or training. Like this evening, Malik
was pushing him to be back in form. It was his job. He tried to puzzle out some
of journal sometimes too, but that would need some private quiet. There were
things in there that Malik could understand why Altaïr called it insanity. They
never said anything about Tibah, nor brought up each other’s sexual habits or
lack thereof. There were just so many subjects that were off limits in an
unspoken way.
Malik prepared a bath for himself, set out salves to help Altaïr’s aching
muscles and even set out a basin and towels for Altaïr to wash. He was slowly
heating and filling the bath with kettle water when Altaïr came up behind him
and took the kettle from him. This was happening more and more. Altaïr was just
stepping in and... doing things, helping in his way. Altaïr was still so quiet.
Malik still had not really seen him smile. He thought about his cruel little
torture... but wanted to only use it as a suitable revenge for... something.
Maybe later. Altaïr was bound to do something so incredibly annoying to deserve
being tickled to death.
Malik allowed Altaïr to finish heating and filling the bath. Normally, Malik
would protest that he was perfectly capable of handling this, but he was
starting to appreciate the help. And, watching Altaïr fill a bath was puzzling.
Altaïr hated the bath, hated most standing bodies of water that were deeper
than a couple inches. Maybe it was because Malik was not expecting Altaïr to
bathe in the tub?
He tried not to watch Altaïr finish stripping. The scars were still new and
stood out on Altaïr’s skin. When Malik’s eyes drifted into taboo regions, he
snapped his head away and focused on his own affairs of stripping and sinking
into the bath. Why seeking a naked Altaïr was distracting him, he could not
fathom. He’d seen Altaïr naked on and off for nearly twenty days. Thank Allah,
there were no more rutting in the bed incidents from Altaïr. Malik wasn’t sure
he could handle that without either killing Altaïr or unthinkably joining him.
Malik sunk down under the water to drown the thoughts from his mind.
He was hauled out sputtering by Altaïr whose eyes were wide with near terror.
“Altaïr! I am fine! Dammit!”
“But you went under.” There was this shake in Altaïr’s voice that Malik had
rarely heard.
Malik tried to reassure him, “I am fine, really. I was just sinking under to
rinse my hair.”
Altaïr backed off embarrassed. “I knew that,” he muttered retreating.
Malik wondered why Altaïr was so afraid of water. He knew asking would never
get him any answers. It never did, not about this. Stepping out of the tub, he
shook his hair. Altaïr was already sitting on the bed mats mostly dry, back to
Malik to prevent another embarrassing incident. Malik tugged on pants loosely
and plopped down behind Altaïr with the jar of warming salve. Altaïr peered
over his shoulder at Malik. Those golden eyes held his for a few moments before
Altaïr turned away again and sat still for Malik to rub the salve in. Malik was
grateful in a way for the modesty that his pants provided. His body had chosen
now to be beyond rude. He did his best to ignore it, hard as that was.
He stood and came to sit in front of Altaïr to rub the salve in there, knowing
the right muscles that would be sore from today’s workout. Altaïr had a towel
discreetly around his waist, but Malik still noticed the erection. He tried to
ignore that too. This was foolish. This was wrong. Several religions condemned
people for even thinking this, and stoned them to death after a severe beating.
At least that was the common punishment here in Jerusalem. If they lived in
Greece or some other similar place, things would be different.
Malik could not speak, he dared not even try, even though he desperately wanted
something to distract his thoughts than the long overdue urges burning in his
loins. He turned away awkwardly, back to Altaïr this time while he fumbled to
close the jar. The jar vanished from his hand. He almost turned to see why when
he felt Altaïr’s hands on his back rubbing in salve to warm his muscles in
turn.
Malik tensed with the forbidden touch but soon relaxed under Altaïr’s large and
surprisingly skilled hands. Altaïr actually always had skilled hands. Malik had
only forgotten because it had been so long ago, six maybe seven years. Altaïr
even rubbed the stump, then down Malik’s other arm to the hand. Malik swallowed
again to try to keep his breath steady. An evil part of him wanted this so
badly, even if they hated each other. He had not had anything in so long.
Altaïr’s fingers entwined in Malik’s and his breath caught at Altaïr’s action.
It caught again as he felt Altaïr breathe on the back of his neck. He wanted to
tell Altaïr to stop. Altaïr’s lips pressed against the back of Malik’s
shoulder. The word ‘stop’ got sucked back down Malik’s throat when he gasped.
His finger tightened in Altaïr’s. Traitorous fingers!!! Altaïr’s other hand
slid slick with salve around Malik’s middle. He clenched his abdominal muscles
instinctively. Another hot kiss on the back of his shoulder caused Malik to
arch slightly, his cheeks flushed with the blood racing through him. Altaïr
leaned back against the wall, pulling Malik against his chest, pressing into
the small of Malik’s back, the towel between them.
Malik wished his pants had been properly tied as they hitched at his hips.
Altaïr was as good now with his lips and fingers as he was when they were
finishing their training together. It sent tingles and shivers all through
Malik. He tried to fight back and sit up, but Altaïr’s salve slick hand slid
down the front of Malik’s pants. Malik gasped, head thrown back. He had tried
so hard to ignore these urges for years and now Altaïr was destroying his
resolve. Correction, Altaïr destroyed his resolve in one smooth greased grip.
Malik forgot everything there was to focus on and abandoned himself to desire.
Altaïr knew exactly how to please him, exactly how to hold him, exactly how to
run his thumb across the top, exactly how to tighten his grip and when. Malik
rode this to oblivion, oblivious paradise.
Only once he was thoroughly sated, thoroughly spent and curled on the bed mat
in that muzzy, fuzzy dazed aftershock did the thought and reality creep in.
Malik stared as Altaïr cleaned up. The realization... Altaïr did not take his
own pleasure in this. Altaïr even avoided Malik’s gaze. Malik gritted his teeth
in his own shame. “Altaïr... get out. Sleep in the other room.”
***** Altair Runs *****
Altaïr was humming in his veins from the pleasure and the comfort of this act
that was their secret in their youth. He thought it unfair that Malik not have
any release since... who knew when. Altaïr was fairly sure that Malik would not
tend himself. So, he helped... as he had helped Malik in other ways over the
past few days. He was going to be gone soon and if things went badly, would not
be back. He wanted to give this to Malik. It was all he dared. It wouldn’t
cross any actual barriers.
Malik stared as Altaïr cleaned up. The realization... Altaïr did not take his
own pleasure in this. Altaïr even avoided Malik’s gaze. Malik gritted his teeth
in his own shame. “Altaïr... get out. Sleep in the souk.”
As he cleaned up after, he felt just a little smug that he had not forgotten
just how Malik liked it. He didn’t look over because he wanted Malik to just
have this moment to himself. To hear Malik snarl after and order him out
shocked him. He opened his mouth but was told to leave a second time, more
harshly. Frowning, stuck somewhere between angry and hurt, Altaïr grabbed up
his clothes and armour and took it all with him to the fountain room.
What did I do wrong? I thought he wanted that. He was looking at me, he was
touching me. I thought... I thought he liked it.
His breath came fast and shallow as he fumbled with his clothing in the chill
air. His cheeks started to burn with his own shame and embarrassment. If he
misread Malik, what if... Altaïr gulped air and forced calm into his breathing
at least, even though it was tense still. He heard the words already sliding in
deceptively to provide the logic to justify his actions. They were the master’s
words. Altaïr dropped his sword twice before he realized his hands were shaking
too much to hold it.
What have I done? What have I done to him? Was that no better than the Master
has done to me? Allah... am I becoming like him?
Part of him justified the actions as a gift, an act of kindness and affection.
The other part of him saw it as manipulation, an act that should have come with
permission and didn’t. That made it no better than rape.
The moral questions chained him and confused him and crushed him.
The sun was rising to find Altaïr already on the road toward the rest of the
Kingdom. He dropped to his knees gasping for breath, trying to get his
bearings. He stood slowly on burning shaking legs and sank to the ground again.
How did I get here? Where... where am I? He looked around frantic. Looking back
the way he had run, he saw the walls of the city of Jerusalem. Awareness
collected his thoughts and assessed his state of being. He had only half his
armour and none of his weapons. Logic told him to go back and get them.
Humiliation begged him to keep running. How could he dare face Malik now...
ever?
I am such a coward... the great eagle of Masyaf... they are right. I am
nothing... nothing worth anything but to be a tool. I can’t even hold a simple
respect of the simplest forms of the Creed with the only person I actually care
about.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME???!!!
The Master was not there to answer that inner cry. And God, by whatever name,
was silent as well.
He let out an anguished yell that set some nearby birds into flight. If he
continued on to Masyaf, he would have to have an excuse for not having his
armour and weapons. Lying to the Master was impossible. Altaïr weighted his
anxiety. Malik... or the Master... Malik or the master. He pushed himself to
his feet. They dragged heavily. He forced the feeling aside like he would any
other pain and numbly put one foot in front of the other.
An hour later, head hung, feet shuffling, he blended in with a group of monks.
He joined their soft prayers wishing they gave him solace, but finding them
very empty at the moment. The city guards parted to let them pass into
Jerusalem. Facing Malik would be one pain. Facing the Master would be too many
for it would end up looking bad for Malik or worse, ruin him further. Altaïr
was sure he could not live with more of that shame. So facing Malik it will
have to be.
He had to stop often on his way back to the Bureau, just to rest. He was so
tired and ached way more than he wanted to. It was easier to be numb, but numb
made mistakes sometimes. So he alternated between coherent inner and outer
pain, and the nothingness of being numb. The heat wavered off the hot stones of
the street and buildings. Or was that just his vision in the late afternoon?
The stars winked in the night sky as he staggered across the Brotherhood emblem
on the roof of the Bureau. He didn’t really notice either. Even in numbness,
each motion was getting more and more difficult. Somehow, he managed to drop
softly onto the carpets. He stood wavering bodily like the heat off the stones
earlier in the day. Every muscle quaked. His knees buckled and he sank too fast
to the ground, his hands bracing him shakily up.
He just barely registered that his armour and weapons were not where he left
them. He wondered dazedly if he even brought them out. Then he doubted he had
left at all. He closed his eyes to stop the tilting of the room. Something warm
pressed against his face and he found himself leaning into the warm soft
fabric. Someone hauled him up onto his feet which sagged like wet cloth. There
was a harshness in the tone of voice speaking to him but he could not will his
eyes to open or will his ears to hear clearly.
A thick tongue slurred out a plea, begging forgiveness, “I’m... sorry,
master... I failed... I’m sorry... I know I never please you... I’m sorry...
Please... please no more... no more... Please... I’m sorry.... Master, please
let me rest...” It came out in several languages blurred from word to thick
word.
***** Malik Asks for Trust *****
Malik’s emotions roiled. He wanted to hit Altaïr and stab him many times. He
wanted to hold him close and tight. He wanted to yell at him over and over.
Some of the yelling happened, calling him a stupid novice often.
Malik had wallowed in his private shame the night before for maybe an hour. It
took him time to sort out what he had experienced and where he stood on the
acceptance of that. Oh yes, he wanted it. He wanted it so badly it ached too
deep for his comfort. He ached for that feeling... he ached for... Altaïr. That
knowledge alone made him upset. He had pulled his wits together and headed to
the other room to have it out with Altaïr. Lines and rules needed to be drawn.
This could not happen again. And if it did, it had to come first with some
serious apologies and some agreements. Malik had decided to seek out Altaïr and
talk about this, sort it out, but Altaïr was... gone. Malik was about to be
furious when he had noticed that most of Altaïr’s armor and all his weapons
were still there on the floor where he had heard Altaïr drop them. He looked
everywhere for Altaïr. By sunrise, he was genuinely afraid for Altaïr. It made
no sense. Altaïr would never leave unarmed.
Malik could not think through the day. He searched the streets for Altaïr and
then was met by a client asking about his documents. Setting aside his mixed
anger and distress, he behaved like the sometimes grouchy scribe that he had to
pretend to be and placated his client. He returned just before the sun was
setting and moved Altaïr’s things into the back room. He wondered if Altaïr was
on his way to Masyaf. He wondered what Altaïr was going to say and do; how he
would explain to Al Mualim his state and loss of equipment. He wondered why...
why of all things Altaïr had engaged as he did with Malik. They had not done
that since late in their teens. Maybe Altaïr did prefer men to women. Malik
wondered if that was his fault.
He was just getting ready for bed when he heard the soft thud in the souk. He
did not want to deal with someone from the Brotherhood. He came to the souk’s
doorway to see... Altaïr. He looked like a haunted mess. He was dusty from the
Kingdom road. Malik watched Altaïr sag to the ground shaking. He rushed over to
him worried Altaïr might be injured. His hand touched over Altaïr’s face.
Altaïr leaned into his shoulder, bonelessly.
Malik hauled Altaïr up to his wobbling feet berating him sharply for all the
worry he caused, for his stupidity, for so much he had not meant to snap out.
But as he dragged Altaïr into the back room, he concluded Altaïr had not heard
him. Altaïr mumbled and slurred what was almost word salad from several
languages.
A thick tongue slurred out a plea, begging forgiveness, “I’m... sorry,
master... I failed... I’m sorry... I know I never please you... I’m sorry...
Please... please no more... no more... Please... I’m sorry.... Master, please
let me rest...” It came out in several languages blurred from word to thick
word.
Every word was a stone sinking into Malik’s belly. They made no sense... they
made too much sense. He didn’t want to believe them. Yet, he wanted to know
more, wanted to know the truth. That would have to come after.
His hand deftly picked at the boots and pulled them from Altaïr’s feet, then
did the same to the remaining armour while Altaïr lay on the bed mat. Malik
poked and prodded and swiftly explored for injuries and found none. All he
found were the aching healing ribs, some abrasions on Altaïr’s hands from
climbing without his protective gloves, the swell in Altaïr’s knee, and some
blisters on his feet as though he had been walking non-stop for ... “You are
the stupidest novice I have ever met!” Salve and bandages administered, Malik
paced the room trying to sort out the roiling inside him. “You have to stop
running, Altaïr. The problems don’t get left behind. Stop... stop running from
me. Stop trying to leave me behind.”
The solution presented itself in a bottle on Malik’s medical shelf. It was a
drug that in small quantities could sedate a lion... or a certain eagle nicely.
Mixed with another substance, it became a powerful and dangerous drug. In the
right dose, you can control someone’s actions, tell them to do something and
they would do it without thought or even memory of it later. The side effects
were that one could not manage to speak while under the influence, would either
be violently ill for several hours after or sleep hard for many hours, and
could become addicted to it if used a few times. Malik picked up both little
bottles and looked back at Altaïr.
Malik set the bottles aside. He had more morals than others he knew. He’d ask
Altaïr if he would be willing to subject himself instead of just slipping it to
him. Slipping him sedatives and healing medicines is one thing, this was
entirely something else. Looking back over at Altaïr, he set his jaw and got to
work. Right now, Malik need to tend to Altaïr who was still shaking and yet
burning up. He soaked towels in cold water and packed them around Altaïr. Then
he coaxed him to drink water as often as he could.
Every now and then Malik murmured almost affectionately how Altaïr was such a
stupid novice. He slept close to Altaïr to make sure all was well, and to catch
any other strange mumblings that hinted at whatever hard secrets Altaïr was too
scared or too confused to talk about. He woke early and stripped Altaïr out of
his damp clothing and into dry clothing, making sure he again drank more water.
With reticence, he had to open the Bureau for that irate client. He pulled out
the documents he was supposed to have ready and worked on them all morning. The
client was there at noon as he had threatened. Money was exchanged for neatly
scribed documents and Malik promptly locked the door the second the man was
through it. He was almost finished packing things neatly away again when he
heard Altaïr.
“M... Malik?”
Malik instantly abandoned everything and sat with Altaïr. “You are an
infuriating, stress inducing novice... You worried me Altaïr.” His words were
spoken softly despite their choice. He dabbed the cool cloth on Altaïr’s brow
and watched those golden eyes flutter open. As Altaïr struggled to sit with so
much confusion in his expression, Malik set the cloth down and brought a cup of
water to his lips. “Why don’t we both try to not assume things about each other
from now on? Take this a step at a time.”
Altaïr nodded and sipped more water. “Malik... I... I don’t know what happened.
How did you... how did you find me?”
“You came back here. You came back to where it is safe.” Malik meant more with
those words but wasn’t sure he could adequately express them at this moment.
The things Altaïr had mumbled about Master Al Mualim, for he was sure that was
to whom Altaïr referred, made Malik want to stab the man. “Some things are
true, Altaïr. Try to remember that.” He let Altaïr hold the cup on his own
since his hands were steady again, so Malik could have his free. Their eyes
searched each other a moment. Malik wanted to make sure those words really sunk
in. He repeated them softly.
Lunch was not very exciting and altogether disgusting as Malik gave Altaïr a
thick soupy substance to drink. It was full of protein and nutrients, like a
puree of legumes and vegetables. Altaïr never complained. Malik was sure if he
made a fruit version of this with the usual bananas, he would hear complaints.
He left Altaïr to get his bearing a little and sort himself out while Malik
finished tidying the front room.
Scrambling over the lattice drew Malik’s attention a little, but more so with
the distressed calling, “Rafiiiiq! Rafiq! Heellp!” There dangled a certain ten
year old novice. Malik watched the boy struggle several minutes before
arranging some cushions and instructing him to let go. “NO! I’ll...”
“Trust, novice, trust first that you will land on your feet and trust that I
will always take care of you. The cushions will soften your fall.”
With a loud OOF! The boy let go, dropping only a little clumsily onto the
cushions. “I found the right roof!” he cheered. “Safety and peace, rafiq. I
came to see if you needed anything from the market. I am going there.”
Malik thanked his good fortune and Allah. He instructed the boy to buy as much
small journals as he could with the money he was given, showing him Altaïr’s
little journal for size reference. It didn’t matter what they looked like, but
they had to have lots of pages and be this size. Malik then pointed out a
couple hand-holds so the boy could climb out unaided. He only had to wait an
hour or so before there was a loud thump as the green scarf hit the ground. It
was tied around several empty journal books. The boy puzzled out how to get in
without help and used the hand-holds he was shown earlier. Malik recorded the
mission in a smaller journal he used for the boy’s first mission, one he also
kept for private things he recorded with his informants. The boy was thrilled
to have TWO missions now logged and hurried home to tell the old Dai of his
success.
Malik entered the back room with his arm full of small journals. Altaïr
immediately stood and took them from him as they teetered and almost fell.
“What are these for?” asked Altaïr.
Malik pursed his lips a moment wondering if Altaïr would actually agree or not.
“I thought we might try something. I am asking you to trust me. Really trust
me. Something happened and we both need answers, unless you know exactly why
you are afraid of water and exactly why some other things happen to you that
you cannot remember.” Malik saw Altaïr’s eyes drop to the floor. “I want to
help you. I want to heal you. But I need you to want help and want to be
healed. I need your trust.” Malik retrieved the two small bottles to explain
what he had in mind.
***** Altair Agrees *****
Chapter Summary
     From comments on my fic on FF.net I have to say...
     Wow... everyone wants to shank Al Mualim. I haven’t even revealed
     what he has done, yet.
“Altaïr, I want to help you. I want to heal you. But I need you to want help
and want to be healed. I need your trust.” Malik retrieved the two small
bottles to explain what he had in mind.
Altaïr listened to Malik explain how this drug would work. It made him sick
thinking about it. He killed a man who believed he was helping people, healing
them, by using something like this. They went mad. It was so easy for the
Hospitalier to control people... too easy. That kind of power was corruptive.
It is exactly what Altaïr had been trying to keep Malik from. At the same time,
being under that kind of influence was terrifying.
He was shaking his head and backing away from Malik. “I trust you... I do...
but not... I do not trust that.” He didn’t even realize he had backed into the
wall while sitting on the bed mats listening to Malik, not until the wall
pressed firmly against him.
He watched Malik bring over a book to read the details of the drug and what it
can do. Altaïr stopped him from reading, “Herbs... extracts... mixtures from
distant eastern lands. They give a vague sense of... of... paradise and
pleasure. They make you crave more. You remember nothing but the sensation.
Robbed of your will and forced to act unwittingly, serving...” Altaïr knew it
well. He had acquired some for the Master to study. Garnier, the Hospitalier
,used it to control his soldiers. “The Master warned me of it. One of my
targets used it in his experiments. Frequent use will make a mad man sane, but
utterly obedient, or a sane man... to take leave of his senses and be nothing
... less than nothing. Maybe do things... terrible things. Malik... please
don’t.”
Malik was silently reading through the text as he wanted to be sure he had the
right thing in mind. He did, but what Altaïr described was a gross misuse of
it. “Malik, I do not want you to become like him.” Let Malik think he was
discussing Garnier. Altaïr meant the Master at the same time though.
“Leaders... find ways to make others follow them and obey them...”
Malik countered, “I am not going to make you do anything but write answers to
questions in a way that is coherent, maybe answer some questions to things you
can’t remember, like why you are so afraid of water. Also, I am not a leader,
Altaïr... No one follows me or obeys me.”
“Some would... I would,” replied Altaïr. They just looked at each other. Altaïr
hoped Malik understood. He wasn’t sure how else to explain it. He would follow
Malik to his own death if Malik asked him. Deep down, he believed Malik would
make the very best leader for the brotherhood. He was moral, knowledgeable, and
wise. He knew how to be both an assassin and a rafiq. He knew healing and
politics. He knew so many things that Altaïr looked up to him, always had. At
least he had till he was obliged not to. Till he had a choice of going solo or
bringing Malik with him on the path that the Master had set for him. He shook
his head to clear the confusions.
Malik set down the bottles and sat in front of Altaïr. “I won’t if you really
don’t want me to. I just thought it was the best way to sort out things that
seem to have you so knotted up.”
Malik was right about that. He was all knotted up and confused, so much so it
was starting to worry him that he would make fatal mistakes on missions, or
worse, a fatal mistake with the Master. Altaïr weighed it all very gravely, the
pros and cons. How much did he trust Malik, really? After all he had done to
the man, a year ago and just the other night. Maybe he deserved a little of
Malik’s revenge.
He met Malik’s eyes. It surprised him not to see malice there. Malice had
always been there other times in the year. The last couple weeks, left Altaïr
wondering... wondering and feeling guiltier because of Malik’s kindnesses.
“Alright. But... don’t leave me. I don’t want ...”
“I will never leave you, Altaïr.” Malik emphasized his serious reassurance by
placing his hand on Altaïr’s.
Malik instructed Altaïr to carry in the blank journals while he brought inks
and quills. Malik expected that the worst that would happen to Altaïr would be
a seriously aching hand. Altaïr had to dig through the dusty abandoned supplies
in the second floor for a small writing table that Malik swore he had seen
there. It was one for sitting and reading or writing in bed. Altaïr brought in
some cushions and got as comfortable as he could despite the growing anxiety.
Malik cracked open the medicinal book he had earlier for the right proportions
of the two herbal medicines. Altaïr wanted to ask if Malik really knew what he
was doing but was too nervous to distract him. Killing people was easier than
this. Why did he have to be so skittish about writing memories?
He accepted the decent meal from Malik who insisted he not do this on an empty
stomach. “And what if that vomiting side effect hits me?”
“Just don’t throw up in my bed.”
Altaïr scowled back at Malik for the quip.
Malik swiftly scripted some of the questions on a paper for himself as a guide
as Altaïr looked over his shoulder. Then he shredded it. Altaïr raised a brow
perplexed. Malik pushed him back to sitting and so Altaïr was not so close.
Altaïr winced internally thinking maybe he really should not have tried to
please Malik. This whole idea felt surreal. It was like when they were children
and Malik was practicing medicine. Altaïr was always the test subject, always
the patient. He wondered if any of Garnier’s subjects were like this, willing
and hopeful and scared, trusting that this educated doctor would heal their
minds somehow. His eyes followed Malik preparing the medicine for Altaïr to
drink.
He sank into his place and opened the first blank notebook, watching the cup
warily, not yet ready to drink this... poison. I wonder if this is how Garnier
started out. His eyes met Malik’s again and saw only gentleness in the dark
browns. “You’ll be fine, Altaïr. I’ll be here the whole time.” Altaïr took a
deep breath picked up the cup, and swallowed it back as fast as he could so he
could not change his mind.
***** Drugged: Part 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     Written stuff by Altaïr is all written here in bold italics for your
     convenience. Many thanks to all of you reading who helped me with
     ideas on what to address in this chapter. Long chapter is FREAKING
     long. So... I broke it up into sorta digestible parts.
Malik would not tell Altaïr, but this was really an experiment. It was all
guesswork. If Altaïr were any other person, it would not be. But Altaïr... was
Altaïr... different. He was faster, stronger, keener... healed abnormally
quick. Who knew how this drug would actually affect Altaïr? Maybe Altaïr would
not get the euphoric high at all. Maybe he would be able to speak and then
wouldn’t need to write. Maybe he’d remember clearly traumatic events. This
could go really well. It could also go catastrophically bad. Malik feigned
confidence because that is what you had to do for a scared patient. And
Altaïr... was a scared patient, a dangerous scared patient. Malik hoped this
worked with little after effects.
It was supposed act quickly. Nothing seemed to be happening. Malik got up to
get a book to read. He heard Altaïr’s breathing change and become strained.
Immediately he returned to Altaïr’s side and sat down. He put his hand over
Altaïr, “I am right here. Safety. Safety and peace, Altaïr. Just relax.” Those
golden eyes were wide as the pupils were dilating. Malik wondered if maybe he
gave too high a dose. He nibbled the inside of his lower lip as he wondered.
First effect should be euphoria. Maybe I will get to see him smile in a goofy
high?
Malik murmured soothing words, coaxing Altaïr to relax and not fight this.
“Look at me, Altaïr.” This was a bit of a test to see if Altaïr could and how
he focused. Every muscle was tense and Altaïr was sweating. His pupils were
completely dilated so he could not focus. Malik kept reassuring him. Then
Altaïr started to mumble and speak. This drug is supposed to inhibit speaking!!
Honestly, what came from Altaïr’s mouth could not rightly be called speaking.
It was multilingual word salad. Malik strained to try to understand. This is
not a goofy high... Malik wished he could reverse this now. He hugged Altaïr to
him doing everything he could to soothe the sweating panic and gibbering.
In about half an hour, Altaïr started to relax and mumble. Malik eased away
from him. “Altaïr... Altaïr... look at me. Say my name... Can you say my name?”
Altaïr turned his head; glassy golden eyes wavered as they slowly came to focus
on Malik. “Mmm... Mal...” Altaïr fumbled with a numbing tongue as words were
soon impossible to form. Malik let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure at
first if the drug was taking hold or wearing off.
So now came the testing. If the drug was taking hold, then Altaïr would obey
even the stupidest command. If the drug was wearing off, then he’d hear about
it after. “Altaïr... Say your name.” He watched as Altaïr frowned and struggled
to form the word of his name and couldn’t make it sound anything like it. Malik
decided that was not such a good test considering the drug’s effects. “Suck
your thumb, Altaïr” There was a bit of a quizzical look from Altaïr as he
obeyed. Malik refrained from smirking. “You can stop now.” He thought for a few
moments then asked, “Altaïr, smile for me?” It was a clumsy drugged smile, but
sweet and silly in its way, like Altaïr would smile when he was much younger.
“Thank you.” The smile faded instantly. Malik concluded that the drug had
indeed taken hold in some fashion. This meant he had to be absolutely careful
about what he said, how he said it and what it implied. Altaïr would take
things very literally and not likely too logically. Or, might be fully logical
and carry out a complex task as if it were an order. Like if Malik said he
hated someone and wanted them dead, Altaïr might bolt out the room and the
Bureau and kill them.
Also, who knew how long this drug would last in Altaïr?
Malik opened a blank book and held out a quill. “Altaïr, write in the journal.
Write your name.”
Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad
“I am going to ask you questions, Altaïr. I want you to answer them as best you
can with as much clear detail as you can in the book before you. Let’s try to
keep it all in one language.” Malik hoped that would help.
What language?
Malik was caught off guard to see Altaïr asked a question back. It was asked in
German. “The one you are most comfortable with to answer the questions I ask.”
He suspected already that the language might change depending on the question,
but he found it incredibly fascinating that the first language Altaïr chose to
write in was not one he usually heard Altaïr speak. That alone answered a
question for Malik, who always suspected Altaïr was from another place. Now he
assumed that place was Germany, or at least his mother was from there.
Malik thought about a variety of ‘safe’ questions to ask. He wanted to ease
Altaïr into the rhythm of this and not potentially instigate another panic
attack. He was already fairly certain now that Altaïr had been subject to this
before, thus the fight and panic earlier. He filed that question for later.
‘Safe’ questions... What would be a safe question? “How old were you when you
joined the assassins in Masyaf?”
I was eight years old when I came to Masyaf. The Master retrieved me the day
after my birthday.
Retrieved? That was going to be another question. That was an assassin term for
when you were sent for an object and ordered to assassinate those in possession
of it, like the Solomon Temple mission was to retrieve the treasure, the Piece
or Apple of Eden. “What promise did I make you the first night we shared a room
together?”
You promised you would always be my friend.
Other ‘safe’ questions came to mind. “What is your favourite color and mine?”
Sandy gold. You wanted to make a black uniform with gold trim. I wanted a white
one. Gold is both our favourite color.
“What happened to your knee that makes it give you trouble? And when?” This was
a ‘safe’ question too since Malik was already knew the answer. Altaïr had
fallen badly and ignored it and it healed poorly without attention.
It is the knee I keep landing on. It was first hurt when the Master forced me
to my knees when I was twelve.
THAT was not the answer Malik expected. It was also not the answer he knew from
what Altaïr had told him earlier. He opened his mouth to ask a deeper question
and chose not to just yet. “Where did you go and what did you do when you left
the Bureau the day before yesterday?” Malik had a fair idea of this answer. It
was ‘safe’ to ask.
Altaïr detailed the route he took out of the city and up the road to the rest
of the Kingdom where he stopped. It was a non-stop run to that point. The quill
hesitated and Malik assumed Altaïr was not sure how far to write. Maybe that
was as far as Altaïr had run before turning back.
Malik wondered how much Altaïr was coherently aware of at this moment since he
had asked a question back. But as he watched the writing it steadily become for
consistent and the look in Altaïr’s face more lax and neutral. “Why did you
leave?”
You did not want me around. I shamed you. I shamed me. You were angry. I
thought I pleased you, but I did not. I didn’t want to be punished anymore.
Running is easier. I didn’t want to fight, not with you.
Malik frowned as he read the Arabic wishing he could answer to these issues and
have his words remembered. He answered anyways; maybe Altaïr would remember it
in his heart at least. “I was ashamed. Ashamed of myself, not of you. I didn’t
want you to go, just to give me space to sort it out in my head. Altaïr, you
did please me. And it scared me to think I might want more from you and not
know if that were even possible.” Why not say it all! Not like Altaïr will
consciously remember it. Maybe now that it was said once, it might be easier to
say again later.
Malik continued with a few other random shallow questions partially for his own
comfort and to be sure Altaïr was deeply into this rhythm. Also, he was
weighing how he wanted to ask his questions, chronologically or subject of
importance. Or maybe his most burning questions? First burning questions then
chronological was his decision, all in a split second. “Why did you try to
please me two nights ago?”
You prefer men. You seemed to want to be touched. I used to please you. I
thought you would want to be pleased for a change since you had not in so long.
I wanted to please you. I like to please you.
Malik’s cheeks burned deeply as he read this. He pulled his focus to a clinical
angle and deduced that things that were very personal to Altaïr were German in
writing. Things that related to Malik were in Arabic. Although the knee answer
was in Latin. Malik suspected Latin was what Altaïr was using for things
related to Al Mualim.
“Why did Master Al Mualim force you to your knees when you hurt your knee?”
Malik suspected Altaïr was being punished... again... for another breaking of
some rule thus displeasing Al Mualim and needing correction. Malik still had a
hard time believing Al Mualim would do anything disreputable.
I upset him. I did not please him. He was angered and was instructing me.
It was as Malik suspected but on a whim he asked anyways, “Did you please him
like you please me?”
No. I please you because I want to. I please him because I have to.
Malik’s hand flew to his mouth to prevent him from saying something that could
be taken as a command from Altaïr. Of all the things he would expect of Al
Mualim, THAT was not one of them. “Did you have to please him often?”
It was part of my night training in his study.
Malik clenched his fist and took a deep breath. Consensual acts were one thing.
This... was right there on the list of things Malik considered should not be
permitted... right there with not harming innocents. Next question now that he
thought about it and was in a mood about Al Mualim on this. “Did he beat you?
Tell me what he has done to you.”
***** Drugged: Part 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     So here is part 2 from the madness of Altaïr. Pardon that I will not
     write everything of the answer to the question... just the random
     flashes that Malik once Malik reads it all.
     WARNING WARNING WARNING
     If you have issues with physical abuse or sexual assault or rape or
     anything along those lines that could happen to a child and adult...
     then maybe you should just skip this chapter. Like seriously... this
     is a WARNING... this is bad and graphic. It may come out a bit
     random... but Malik did not ask for it to come out chronologically.
Malik clenched his fist and took a deep breath. Consensual acts was one thing.
This... was right there on the list of things Malik considered should not be
permitted... right there with not harming innocents. It was part of the CREED!
Next question now that he thought about it and was in a mood about AL Mualim on
this. “Did he beat you? Tell me what he has done to you.”
Yes. I had to be toughened, taught, punished, forged. I am nothing and
everything. Without him, I would not be. He made me.
Altaïr started to write and write and write. The lettering was terrible, but at
least pretty much all in Latin. Somewhere in Altaïr’s mind he was screaming out
to stop, but he could not. The images, the memories surfaced unbidden, forced
to the surface to be relived in silent anguish and written. The best Altaïr
could pray for was to forget it all when the drug wore off. Maybe beg for a
little more of the drug and a compulsion to forget.
He’d hit me and tell me to quiet. Teaching me to take it. In case I was ever
captured. I had to obey him. Never make a mistake. I was punished often. The
cane hit me on the shoulders, my arms, my back, my chest, my legs. If I yelled
or cried I was hit again.
It is easier to be numb, to pretend to not be there. Easier to just not feel
it. They were lessons. So I can fight beyond the pain. So when other men would
be dead, I will still fight. I will live. I will complete my missions when
other assassins would fall. I am silent. I am deadly. I can endure anything.
I am special... I am nothing. He told me that.
He wrote and wrote. It was not in any order of occurrence. How do you describe
twenty years’ worth of stuff taught and done to him.
On my knees he instructed me. Never to meet his eyes. Never to show how I feel.
To open my mouth and accept. To swallow my pride and obey. I pleased him on my
knees. If he was pleased, the lessons would be different. I would learn lore,
language, subtle skills good for assassination. I would learn about the other
missions and how they succeeded or failed, how I could do it better. I wanted
to be the best. I did not want to drown. Held under water is the worst
punishment, worse than being held over a table from behind. Submit and obey or
die.
Altaïr gave details of event after event as they rose in his mind. The details
were precise and thorough. He sweated as he wrote unable to cry out to Malik to
save him.
At first I would choke on him. He grew so large in my mouth and dove down my
throat. It was hard to breathe. I learned to breathe. I learned to relax.
I will be good. I will obey. I am the best assassin in the order. No one can do
what I do. No one.
There is no fear. Fear is not allowed. Even when he pushed me from the wall. He
caught me. He will always catch me. There is no escaping him. He knows
everything I do. He saves me when I am drowning.
Malik! Malik stop! Please make it stop!
The cane bangs the table with each mistake. Bangs my arm or my leg if they are
wrong. Bangs the desk. I bang the desk when he holds me teaching me to be still
and wait for the right moment. Timing. It hurts. The desk is hard. I like soft
things, he likes hard. If I relax, it is less hard. I learn to relax so it
hurts less. He pushes me over the desk so I cannot throw him off. He teaches me
new lessons. They are old now. I heal fast so he tests me. How much he can hit
me. How often he can push into me. Can I recite the routes in the languages I
know? I know the desk map by heart.
I didn’t run fast enough. I stopped when I should have run. He dragged me away
from you. I never listen. I should not speak back. He hit me with the cane.
There was blood again. I bleed but I don’t die. I am special.
He made me drink things and he recorded the effects. I can name two hundred and
thirty three poisons by taste and smell.
He showed me all the weapons. I learned what they could do and what it feel
like to have it used on me. He taught me to ignore the pain. I have to ignore
it or I will die. I have to obey or I will drown. If I am a good assassin, the
best assassin, I will live and do great things with him. We can bring about
peace.
He teaches me about peace. Oneness. I sit on his lap as he holds me. Oneness
can be like that too. It doesn’t have to hurt. If people learn to move together
it can be bliss. Paradise is possible. Everything is permitted. Nothing is
true. There is no paradise unless we create it.
Malik could not keep up and could not keep reading. It just was horrible page
after page. He wanted to throw up. He recognized the beating that earned Altaïr
the scar on his mouth, remembered it well. He wondered if he should stop
Altaïr. He stopped reading. He just couldn’t do it. Malik looked away and let
Altaïr write. He promised himself he would read it all later when he was not
going to totally explode with a man under the influence of a compulsion drug.
He glimpsed over now and then. Altaïr learned how to keep silent from Al
Mualim. The lessons were a mix of assassin lessons, language lessons, sexual
lessons, beatings, and twisted theory and philosophy that all lent to Altaïr’s
early arrogance.
Nothing is true, everything is permitted. There is no one true right way. No
black or white. Only the desire for better and the choices we make for that.
Anything is possible. Free will allows us to choose. So everything is
permitted. Rules are a there for the sheep who cannot understand. Leaders are
there to help people choose when the choices are difficult. There are many ways
to achieve a goal. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Think beyond the
rules and you cannot fail. I will not fail. Everything is permitted. This
supersedes the Creed. The Creed can be limiting.
I DON’T UNDERSTAND!!! WHY? Why? Why teach me and then punish me for doing as I
was told? He loved me. He protected me. I tried. I tried to please him. I was
never good enough. I can never really please him... or anyone... I should
question but learn. Not question without reason. He always has the answers.
When Altaïr’s writing slowed, Malik asked, “You said Al Mualim retrieved you.
Tell me about that.” Again Altaïr wanted to scream and run, above all else from
this memory. He relived it as though he was just eight again.
Smothered with a hand of a man in Dai robes. A one-eyed man. I could hear my
father fighting and struggling, bubbling and splashing as two men in plain
clothing held him under till the struggles stopped. I could hear my mother
screaming. The water was so shallow. My mother was tied so she could not run.
She bubbled and wriggled till she too was silent. Held protectively by the
Master.“Shhhhh... Quiet my little fledgeling and you will be safe. Silence and
invisibility. Let the crowd hide you in plain sight and they will not see you.
They will not drown you. I will save you. I will teach you. I will protect you.
But you must listen to me, learn from me. Be a good assassin. I name you Son of
None, for now you are. You will learn to fly like an eagle so that too will be
your name. Altaïr, the flying eagle.
He kept me safe while we watched people drown my parents at the docks of Acre.
If I was a good assassin, that would never happen to me. All I wanted to be was
a good assassin. The best. He said if I did as he told me, I would be. And I
am.
Then I failed him... twice.
***** Drugged: Part 3 *****
Malik no longer needed to ask why Altaïr was afraid of water. “Do you know who
drowned your parents?”
No
Malik suspected though. Malik’s next questions he knew were going to be hard
ones for them both. He chose not to look over at all. It was best he ask all
the hard awful questions in one go and analyze it later... even the questions
he might not want the answers to.
He asked about the two failings. The first he guessed would gain him the same
information about Adha that he already knew. The second would be the failure at
Solomon’s Temple, which he also already knew. He asked why Altaïr was given
these missions.
Robert de Sable would be there. So I had to be. He was guarding the treasure.
You and Kadar would never survive getting it without me. You were limited.
Kadar was a novice. I could not do it alone, but I should have. I am the best
and it would be I who would help the Master bring about a world of peace. That
treasure was the key. And since I lost the Chalice, I could not lose this
treasure. If I had the chance, I was to kill him, kill Robert de Sable. Then
you and Kadar could get the treasure. If not, you and Kadar would give good
distraction while I retrieved it. I could not let that happen. You and Kadar
should not face Robert de Sable. He is a better fighter. I could not kill him
the first time I fought him.
Then he asked even harder questions. Why did Altaïr abandon their friendship
and work solo? Why did he stop confiding in him? Why were he and Kadar suddenly
expected to work with him on such an important mission as the treasure at
Solomon’s temple?
I was supposed to keep you with me. We were good partners. But you had so much
good in you and what I did was not so moral. You would never approve of what I
was doing, what I was learning. I had to make you hate me, keep you away. I
know what was happening with the Master was wrong, I did not want it to happen
to you. I wanted you safe. I wanted you far away from him. I did not want him
to think he could touch you. I did not want him touching you. No one is allowed
to hurt you. I wanted to keep you safe. You were already jealous. I used that.
It was easy. I hated myself for it. But you were away from me. I was... I am...
dangerous. I am not human, but an animal. I am better solo. You are better
without me.
The Master ordered me to take you and Kadar along to the temple. I wanted to do
it alone. He did not trust me. I failed with the chalice. I asked for someone
else, anyone else, anyone but you. He punished me for questioning his
judgement. He hit me so hard everything was black. When I woke he commanded me
again. I begged he not send Kadar at least. He taught me about begging. I am
never allowed to beg. He is the master and we must all obey him. He knows what
must be done.
From here Malik asked about the treasures. What were they and why Altaïr was
chosen to hunt them? However, Altaïr did not know much.
They belonged to Those Who Came Before. There is the Chalice and the Apple of
Eden. The Chalice is gone. Adha... is gone. These treasures can help bring a
new world order. Peace between all people. But the Templars wish to use it to
control people. We must keep the treasures from them. The Master wants them
where we can keep them safe. They are so powerful and so dangerous. They are
worth dying for. Worth killing for. I am the one who can get them because I am
above the Creed.
But I am not above the Creed.
And I have not learned to move as one with the Master. I needed to start over.
Then Malik asked something forbidden. He asked the details of the missions
Altaïr was on now. Did Al Mualim kill Altaïr as rumoured and what happened
after? Who were his targets and why? A furtive glance showed that Altaïr was
moving from language to language as he wrote about different people or
situation.
***** Drugged: Part 4 *****
Then Malik asked something forbidden. He asked the details of the missions
Altaïr was on now. Did Al Mualim kill Altaïr as rumored and what happened
after? Who were his targets and why? A furtive glance showed that Altaïr was
moving from language to language as he wrote about different people or
situation.
Before everyone, I was apprehended. He had heard your statement and challenged
me on the Creed. Convicted me for doing as I was bade. They held me while he
denounced me as a traitor in your name. I was not a traitor. I AM NOT A
TRAITOR! I did what I had thought I should. I did what I was taught. The
Master’s blade bit deep into my chest. I felt death’s embrace.
I woke healed and in his study. I was reborn to relearn the ways of the
Assassins. To bring about peace, peace in all things. I had lost myself. He
lost me. I was out of control. I had to die. I had to be reborn. I had to
relearn. Peace in all things, within and without. There is no peace within me.
I need to learn it.
He said I should be killed for the pain I brought upon the Brotherhood. You
wanted me dead as fair exchange for Kadar’s life. But the Master had use of me
and did not want to waste me. I was stripped to a novice to learn again and to
redeem myself.  Others used to track my targets for me, now I track my own. I
become the hunter and the killer.
The Master told me we have a traitor in our ranks, high in the ranks. The
traitor is assisting Robert de Sable. He is my final target... if I can find
him. The Master has clues, but not enough for me to find him and kill him. We
found him in Masyaf. But he is one of what might be many.
Nine men need to die. They are plague-bringers, war-makers. Their power and
influence corrupts the land and ensure the Crusades continue. I will find them.
Kill them. In doing so, I sow the seeds of peace. Both for the region, and for
myself. In this way I might be redeemed. Nine lives in exchange for mine.
Tamir of Damascus was my first. He was a Black Market merchant.
Talal, the slave trader of Jerusalem, was my second.
Garnier, my third, was a doctor, a torturer. He was in Acre.
Abul was a merchant king in Damascus. He was going to poison the entire
nobility and merchant upper classes.
In the Fort of Acre was William. He was a Templar ruler of the city.
The Regent here in Jerusalem, the Madj Addin.
There are three others, but the Master had not named them for me yet. I will
know them when I return to him. I hope he is pleased with my successes.
Malik had to change books a couple time by this point. After all these heavy
questions, Malik decided to ask some simpler ones. “Do you still want a child?”
Yes. I wish we could have adopted one together as we had planned. Maybe I will
have a woman one day who will not hate me and have a child with her, one we can
all share and love the way your family loved each other. The way mine used to
love me.
Malik knew for certain now that Altaïr was comfortable with bedding women. Part
of him was disappointed. Though, part of him was completely touched at how
Altaïr would ensure he was involved as if part of that family. He wondered if
he would be called Malik-dad and Altaïr would be Altaïr-dad or if he would be
called Uncle Malik. Malik had to clear his throat before he asked his next
question. “Did you love anyone or anything after you came to Masyaf?” Malik
suspected this was both a selfish and loaded question. Also, it could so be bad
to read the answer, but he leaned in anyways to read.
I loved you and some kittens I found a month after I arrived. They were so
small and soft. I brought them back to show you but the Master caught me with
them. He made me drown them one by one in a bucket.
Well, that would neatly add to Altaïr’s fear of water and drowning.
I still love you. But so much has happened between us that I know you no longer
love me. You had said it would only be fair if I died.
Malik took a deep shaking breath. He wanted to address this too, but especially
wanted Altaïr coherent for it. It took Malik a couple minutes to recompose
himself and find the other questions he had in his head before the drugs wore
off. “My first assassination mission was to find and kill the goat that was
wrecking the laundry lines around Masyaf. What was your first mission?”
My target was Rasheed Saharam.
“I meant your novice assassination.”
My target was Rasheed Saharam.
Malik paused as he realized what this meant. Altaïr had never had a novice
mission. Rasheed was a mission Al Mualim went on that Altaïr was supposed to be
just observing. Malik now knew Altaïr had been obliged to take a human life for
his first mission... unless you counted the litter of innocent kittens.
Malik was starting to run out of questions. He had questions about their
relationship and what Altaïr has learned from his demotion. But those were
things he wanted to discuss with Altaïr not get a written answer without
discussion. Altaïr’s writing had gotten messier and his hand had started to
shake. Malik was fairly sure he could also ask about something that would help
him, like things that could be done, or concessions taken to make him more
comfortable in Malik's presence, less afraid of rejection. Altaïr’s hand would
hurt for days after this. He has written more in the last several hours than he
has in likely his whole life.
One last question. Malik figured anything else would or could be dealt with
after. This was a step to help them start talking about things. “Have you ever
been drugged before? I need you to remember this Altaïr. Remember what happened
if you were. You need to remember.”
He never got the answer. Altaïr was already starting to shake too much and
slurring stressed words. He could only assume that was a yes. Watching as
Altaïr came down from the trance-like state in fits of terror and struggle were
as horrible as watching him write some things. He wanted to ask more and now
that he couldn’t, a million questions were in his head. Some secrets were
either going to remain secrets or one day there would be enough trust between
them that they could share their hard secrets with each other.
It was like watching a night terror but Altaïr was awake, gibbering and
struggling and panicking. Malik fought to keep Altaïr from hurting himself in
his frantic thrashing. Malik held him tightly for hours after. Altaïr managed
to shove him off and back himself into a corner, hands on his head almost
screaming to not remember, begging to not remember.
Oh gods... he remembers? I made him remember it? And he had to chastise himself
for forgetting that Altaïr was different, different enough that you could not
predict the outcome of a drug like this. It was another several hours before
Altaïr was calmed and asleep.
***** Malik: Regrets *****
Chapter Summary
     Glad you all survived reading the 4-part drugged sequence. I wish
     there were happy endings, but not yet... so not yet...
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr was different from other human beings, different enough that you could
not predict the outcome of a drug like this. The last commands stayed with him.
It was another several hours before Altaïr was calmed and asleep. And he slept
hard, unless Malik tried to hold him more or touch him, then he fussed and
pushed away and stressed, but did not really wake. Malik blamed Al Mualim
completely for Altaïr’s lack of trust in this kind of comfort.
Malik fretted quietly about what he had done. It was a mistake. It was so easy
and so tempting. He had felt a little of the payback for all the things Altaïr
had done to him, but then when they really were into this, there were no words
for how horrible it was. Guilt made him nauseous. Altaïr had been trying to
keep him from all this, all this that had happened to Altaïr could have
happened to him, or to Kadar. Altaïr had tried to keep them both safe from it,
but in the end could not.
Malik rose to light the lamps as the room was dark, and to light incense. He
needed to feel some comfortable routine. Every time Altaïr groaned and moved in
his sleep, Malik rushed back. But no amount of trying could wake Altaïr. This
was the crash from the drug, a known side effect. He wished he could have
learned what Altaïr did under the drug given him before and who administered
it. He wished he had never given it to Altaïr.
He wished that even more when Altaïr roused slightly begging in murmurs for
more of the drug to make it all go away. Over and over, Malik questioned his
own motives for drugging Altaïr.
He could not believe Altaïr would let Al Mualim do these things to him. But
maybe as a child he did not know better. Maybe now as an adult, he believed it
was the price for greater things. Malik would never want to compromise his
morals. Altaïr needed someone to discuss the Creed with him, the morals of it
and the extensions of it.
There was so much in these journals now. So many emotions between them and so
many things that happened. No wonder Altaïr does not trust him, he truly
believed Malik hated him and wanted him dead. Malik kind of did back then, but
he knows better now. In fact, especially now, he knows more than he wanted. He
hated Al Mualim so much, yet understood the motives. Find someone who might be
able to do the impossible, train them to do it, then use them to deal with
something so big it is hard to fathom. Few could have accomplished some of the
things Altaïr does. Few would ever survive it. The fact that even Altaïr
survived this last one was miraculous.
Malik cleaned up the ink bottles noting he will need more now. He piled the
filled journals and discarded the ruined quills. Malik liked things in their
places and clean. He could not bear to look through what Altaïr had written
yet. He made sure to put away the drugs to lessen the chance of Altaïr helping
himself. His own mind buzzed with the mix of wondering what Al Mualim really
was doing, who was the high ranking traitor in the Brotherhood, and the truly
terrible things Al Mualim did to Altaïr. Al Mualim was like a father and a
great leader to them all. This dark stain on his reputation... no one would
believe it. No one would believe Altaïr. Why would they? Altaïr had betrayed
people, in their eyes.
He made food and ate and watched Altaïr sleep fitfully.
“Forgive me Altaïr for what I just did to you. Had I really known the extent...
I am not sure I would have done it. I hope we can sort it out after and we can
both heal from it.” Malik smoothed Altaïr’s damp hair; the hood pushed back so
he could gaze upon his face saddened. “He has driven us apart and tears us
further every day. I am not so easily shaken off when I want something. That is
why I am here, isn’t it? So, I cannot see. So I will not know.”
Malik heard the name Faruq muttered in one of the late night moments when
Altaïr was dreaming... or remembering. Malik was himself not sleeping well, so
this woke him. It was near dawn and he debated staying up. He heard Altaïr
mutter the word fog too and complained to himself how he completely forgot to
ask about the fog. He’d ask later. What did Faruq have to do with the fog that
Altaïr experienced? He tried to forget he heard it and think about Altaïr’s
targets. Why them? What connected them? The ones here in Jerusalem were
certainly people Malik had on a list of those he felt needed to be removed. But
Altaïr had said nine lives for his own. If he failed, Al Mualim would kill him
for that failure. There was no doubt. And the Brotherhood would cheer for it.
Something connected these people and something connected them to the traitor
within the Brotherhood ranks. Al Mualim may have done terrible things to
Altaïr, but he has led the Assassins well for decades.
Malik tried to soothe Altaïr in another fitful moment that morning, but the
still mostly asleep Altaïr would have none of it. He struggled to keep Malik
away, “Mrmnh... noo... Don’t touch... no...” Malik frowned at Altaïr’s
mumbling. The only thing he could do was sit close and maybe brush his fingers
through Altaïr’s hair.
Chapter End Notes
     Fanart for this chapter by Jingko! Thank you so much!
     https://jingko.deviantart.com/art/chapter-64-assassions-creed-pi-
     168407050
***** Altair Remembers Faruq *****
Chapter Summary
     The last command was to remember... remember what happened the last
     time Altaïr was drugged. So... what did he remember?
Chapter Notes
     For those following the FLURRY of added chapters, I am editing the
     ff.net chapters (cleaning up the spelling and grammar and
     refamiliarizing myself with the story). It is moments like this when
     I ask myself why the FUCK I write bloody epics like this!! Glad you
     all enjoy it.
Throughout the night, Altaïr fought within an eternal nightmare. He never had
recalled how he got his mouth scar. Many things he had not recalled. His
parents’ death was among them. They all swam in and out of his dreams. He could
not wake from them. As the night wore on, they faded some. All but the last
memory. He hadn’t even had the slightest inkling of it, unlike the others.
There was no familiarity with it and yet the completely sick sense that it was
familiar.
This memory surfaced again and again through the night, more as the morning
showed some light.
He had argued with the Master. That was never a good thing. He tried to argue
as his equal. He paid for it as his subject, bent hard over a table, barely
able to stand from the caning. Forced into submission in every way till he said
“Yes, Master.” Until he said it and accepted it, meant it. He sagged to the
floor of the private study, sore and shaking from what he experienced. He
blacked out before he could crawl to the small privy and fountain to clean up.
He woke clean and dressed. He was lounging on a soft sofa as a novice brought
him some food and fine wine. He thought maybe he had fallen asleep on this
little balcony sofa. He ate and sipped the wine as he collected his thoughts,
then geared up with his armor and weapons which were all neatly piled where he
would have left them. The sun had beat down on him too long and he felt a bit
dizzy. He entered the Library and found a quiet shady place to lie down again.
Everything sounded hallow and too sharp at the same time till it all came into
focus. “Ride out to Acre. Intercept Faruq on his mission and end him. Be the
assassin you are known to be, invisible and deadly. Take a sip of this vial
evenly spaced three times a day till you return. Return swiftly when you are
done.”
He was marching swiftly through the halls and out through the city of Masyaf.
The nearest horse sufficed. Logically, this mission was insane, forbidden, but
there was this pleasant buzz where he did not care, hijacked by the pleasure he
barely recognized as an opium high. The rest would be forgotten till he woke
again in the library, except he was asked to remember. So he remembered....
Four guards died at the side gates for his entry into Acre. He wove invisibly
through the crowds. Faruq’s mission was to take out a corrupt money manager. He
knew which one. He crouched near the Bureau waiting and watching for Faruq to
return with information and to claim the feather for his target. It was
supposed to be his last mission. He was retiring to be a doctor after this.
Altaïr listened to the discussion in the Bureau after Faruq acquired his
feather for his kill.
As instructed, Altaïr sipped more from the vial and relaxed into the
pleasantness of it. Faruq was on the move. Altaïr almost missed him. He ran
across buildings and leapt gaps with an eagle’s grace. It was easy to fly. But
flying was not the mission. He saw Faruq ahead and gave light chase. He dropped
down in front of Faruq startling him into a defensive stance.
“Altaïr, you caught me almost off guard.” Faruq relaxed to the familiar face.
“Was there something wrong? Is there a change to my mission? No... Templars...
you show up if there are Templars. But there are not supposed to be...” Faruq
never finished the statement of shock, though his expression was more stunned
by the sword through him, held by none other than Altaïr. The blood oozed up
the blade and trickled over Altaïr’s fingers. Faruq sank and sagged off the
blade confused.
Altaïr had cleaned his blade with Faruq’s robe and vanished in the darkness.
Night guards felt the sting of his blade, too, till he was again free of Acre’s
stench and riding hard on a stolen horse, dust kicked up as he forced the horse
to run till it could no longer walk. He abandoned it and ran on foot till he
could get another horse. He rode three horses to death. The fourth trotted to a
halt outside Masyaf and he sipped the last from the vial. The pleasantness
warmed his whole body for a little while.
Back in the library the Master chastised him for being dirty and instructed him
to clean, change and rest in the library lounge. He woke there as sun from a
window baked his face and made him terribly nauseous. He had no memory of how
he had gotten there.
But now he did. Now Altaïr knew exactly how he got there and what happened, but
not who had set him on that path of horror. He tossed and rolled and tried to
pull away from Malik’s attempts to comfort him. He did not deserve them. He
wanted to die. This had to all be a lie... but he knew... he knew it was not.
Then the fog invaded his dream. This had never happened before. The fog never
swelled through the chaos of thoughts to blank them all out and quiet the
tension. There was something peaceful in it. Maybe he got his wish. Maybe he
was actually poisoned by accident with this drug. Maybe he was dying.
The fog was all around him, cool and soothing. Faruq knelt before him.
“Finally. I have waited a long time for this.”
“How are you here?” Altaïr asked dumbfounded.
“I waited till you remembered what you had done. And I do not blame you for it.
You were swift. I did not suffer. And you would never have done it if you had
not been forced from your senses.” Faruq was always too understanding.
“But I killed you. You were on mission. You are one of the Brotherhood.” This
made no sense.
“And someone bade you do it when you could not control yourself. You need to
find out who. You need to tell Malik.” Faruq was gentle, but insistent.
Altaïr shook his head, “Malik will not understand. He’ll kill me. He already
wanted me dead for Kadar. I cannot tell him!”
“You can... and you must. He deserves to know. And he won’t kill you. He cares
too much for you. He loves you.” Faruq leaned closer to Altaïr in the fog. “He
will be angry though. He always did have a temper. He’ll probably throw books
at you. He used to do that a lot. Don’t run from him. This is something you
need to take. He needs you to take it and stay till he realizes you had been
drugged.”
“He won’t believe that.”
“He will... let his anger run its course. Stay... he needs you. You are all
he’s got now. You need each other. Tell him, I am proud of him and that I am
looking after Kadar now. We are in good hands. You two... you must find the
traitor and end him before he destroys not just the Brotherhood, but makes this
war into something far, far worse.” Faruq’s words were grave with their
warning. “Promise, Altaïr. Promise you will not run from Malik. Promise!.”
“I promise...”
The fog faded and the dream returned to the blood on his hands and Faruq’s body
on the alley floor in Acre. Altaïr yelled as he woke.
***** Malik Explodes *****
Chapter Summary
     You know Malik will not take the news well...
Altaïr yelled as he woke.
Malik of course hurried over now that Altaïr was awake and clearly distraught.
Altaïr’s wide golden eyes met his. Malik watched Altaïr’s mouth work but
nothing came out, “Altaïr? What is it? Tell me.”
Altaïr’s breath was short and almost frantic. He pulled away from Malik, one
hand shoving him back. “Blood… Acre… The fog… Blood on my blade… Faruq… in the
fog… in the alley… What have I done?”
The words tumbled from Altaïr’s mouth and Malik tried to understand. “Altaïr,
you are not making sense…
“I… I… killed Faruq…”
Then he heard his brother’s name, Faruq. He stood and took a couple steps back
from Altaïr. All he heard was the rushing of his own blood in his ears drowning
out all other sounds as the room seemed suddenly midnight chill. The words
clicked into their puzzle places in Malik’s mind. Altaïr killed Faruq on
Faruq’s last mission in Acre… right before going to Solomon’s Temple.
Altaïr knew his brother was dead before their own mission. That arrogant
insensitive BASTARD! Malik’s world snapped back into deadly focus, “YOU
BASTARD!” He grabbed the first thing he could reach and threw it. The book hit
Altaïr hard on the shoulder.
Altaïr struggled to his feet as a second book hit true.
Jars of salve followed books, anything Malik could grab and throw. Malik
screamed and yelled his fury at him. All the anger from a whole year ago boiled
to the surface. “How could you! He cared about you! He was my brother! He was
one of our order! You knew! Before the temple, you knew!!” He yelled
incoherently as he pulled the blade from Altaïr’s weapon’s harness hanging off
a hook.
Whatever Altaïr might have tried to say was never heard. Malik raged at him,
rushed him swinging the short curved knife. The first two swings backed Altaïr
into the wall. “YOU TRAITOROUS HATEFUL BASTARD!” The blade swung arcing across
Altaïr’s face. His hands barely blocked it as the edge sliced a deep cuts
across both palms several times. In the one back swing, instinct made Altaïr
clench his fists and turn them in to use his forearms for a shield; just
usually the forearms were armored. The knife sliced back across them, cutting a
line into both. Malik snarled his hatred out at Altaïr. His words ripping
shreds as well as his blade could, maybe better.
Malik flung the knife that clattered into the wall. He then tore through the
room in his blind fury, screaming at Altaïr to get out, to leave, to die like
he should have. Altaïr stayed put, rooted against the wall. If Altaïr was not
leaving then he would! Malik stormed from the back room. The gate banged back
and forth with the force of his passing. The bolt locks clanged and the door
slammed open and then shut.
Malik stood in his little benched garden area outside, chest heaving. His
fingers grabbed at his own hair with a strangled cry that he tried to smother
so as not to draw too much attention. He sank onto a bench there. He knew by
the time he calmed enough to go back inside, Altaïr would be gone because that
is what Altaïr does. He runs. His fingers dragged from his hairline down over
his eyes as he choked on his tears. Faruq… Kadar… It was easier thinking Faruq
died on mission. It was an occupational hazard and Faruq was not so young. But
to know he was assassinated… by a member of their own order… by Altaïr of all
people. He wanted to hate Altaïr, wanted to kill him, but somehow could not and
hated himself instead.
Two guards who had heard the fight as most neighbours likely did and came to
the edge of the covered garden. Someone intercepted them and told them things
were under control. Malik looked up confused as one of his trusted informants
sat down on the bench beside him. The informant said nothing, just sat there
with Malik for a long while, maybe half an hour while Malik calmed his emotions
and tried to sort his thoughts.
A woman with a little four-year-old came into the garden. The child ran over to
the informant and hugged him. “Elli, sweetheart, you remember Malik? The rafiq
who came for tea a few weeks ago? I think he needs one of your extra special
hugs.” The woman looked quizzically at her husband who shook his head at her.
The little girl wriggled free and climbed the bench beside Malik. “You need a
hug. Daddy said.” And she hugged Malik who could do nothing else but hug her
back.
“Sometimes things are not as clear as we think and we need to get past the
anger and misinformation to find the truth, rafiq.” The informant directed his
daughter back to her mother’s waiting arms and instructed them to meet him in
the market at the sweets stand. Elli squealed in glee and her mother carried
her off.
Malik wiped his face with his sleeve and collected his shattered pride and
soul.
“The apothecary merchant’s daughter was here to drop off a box. But you were
yelling inside so I advised her to leave it. She looked at me like a lioness
surveys prey before she finally agreed to trust me with it.” The informant
indicated the box by his own feet. “Shall I place it inside for you?”
Malik nodded with a tired thank you. The lies were not Altaïr’s but someone
else’s. Altaïr was as much victim in this. Malik thought about this a bit more
as he opened the door for the informant to set the box inside. Someone drugged
Altaïr and bade him kill Faruq. The informant said what he had to say could
wait and that Malik really should come by the house for it at his earliest
convenience. Malik promised to do so and quietly locked the door behind him.
***** Altair Tries to Right Things *****
Chapter Summary
     Some asked how Malik figured out Altaïr was drugged for it. He
     already knew something happened when Altaïr was drugged, but not
     what. It had to be something awful considering how Altaïr came out of
     his drugged trance and the way he slept off the drugging. Also, Malik
     has been slowly over the last few months and especially the last few
     weeks piecing together a mystery of treachery. He is missing only a
     few pieces… important one. If he had been in Masyaf this whole time…
     He would have seen this. He only regrets how blindly trusting he was
     about what Al Mualim did to Altaïr. He knew and yet didn’t get the
     true extent of it. His own jealousy was in the way of really
     recognizing the horrors that were inflicted on Altaïr that he now
     knows as fact. I will try to bring in some comfort after so many
     chapters of anguish… just not in this one.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
In the meantime…
Everything Altaïr had ever imagined Malik would think or say to him was
screamed and punctuated by a thrown object. His instincts pushed him to run,
but there was nowhere to run unless Malik left, then there would be less need
to run. His other instincts tempted him to let go and fight back like an
assassin. But it was Malik! He could not do it. A very dark deep part of him
asked over and over again why he was bothering to put up any defence. He was
being punished justly. Though Altaïr was not sure anything but death was a
suitable or fair punishment. Not now, not with what he knew.
Malik has lost everything because of me. He hates me, rightly hates me like no
one else could.
The bite of the blade into his flesh reminded him of too many other pains. He
cringed against the wall. He tried to say Malik’s name but fast realized he was
forbidden to speak. Malik would yell at him to shut the hell up. He could be
quiet. How is this any different than any other deserved punishment? Take it.
He would take it like he has taken so many others.
Then Malik was gone. The bangs and slams told Altaïr that Malik left the
Bureau.
He remained where he was for many long minutes. His eyes peaked through
squinted eyelids to search the exits and count the weapons and devise many
plans but none that he would actually act upon. Run. Running is all he wanted
to do.
“Stay... he needs you. You are all he’s got now.” Faruq’s voice whispered in
his head. “Promise, Altaïr. Promise you will not run from Malik. Promise!”
Altaïr whimpered out, “I promise…”
How could he ever make this right? All he wanted was Malik’s trust. It was gone
all over again. How could he ever trust Malik? Would he ever be able to please
him? Had he failed forever? How could he make things right?
Altaïr’s eyes darted about the room. War seemed to have torn it apart. He took
a tentative step and froze listening for Malik’s return. It was quiet. Malik
had really left the building. Altaïr’s teeth chattered unexpectedly and it
startled him. He promised not to leave, but that was all he wanted to do now,
run far away and never return. Trapped, he was trapped by commitment and
promises. Trapped… like he was with the Master. Were they at all different?
Sometimes he could do smaller things to make things seem a bit right. He had
been doing that now and then with Malik and it seemed to help. He could not
right the wrong he had done with Faruq, but he could… maybe… right the room. He
reached to pick something up and saw blood. Then the throbbing and pain slammed
through his arms and hands. Blood. His breath came shallow again till he forces
aside the waves of guilt and realized it was his own blood not an innocent
man’s. With some focus, he shoved aside that pain too till everything was quiet
and numb.
His eyes alone searched the room for the box of bandages, compresses, and
towels. It was kicked over, its contents scattered in a corner. Altaïr clutched
the first couple towels in each fist to soak the blood in his hands. He knelt
down, and with a couple fingers sorted the mess for what he thought might be
suitable to bandage his hands. He wrapped each palm tightly and with the help
of his teeth and a small dagger, he tied and cut the bandages, till he had each
hand and each forearm relatively bandaged. Now he would not be adding to the
mess in the room. Malik liked things super clean.
Everything felt a little surreal as he replaced the furnishings and placed
books back in the order he knew Malik liked, alphabetical by subject. It
progressed very mechanically till most things were in their places and broken
things were collected in a box to discard. Maybe Malik will feel less mad when
everything is as it should be. As it should be? What was that?
Altaïr picked up a jar shard and noticed fresh drops of blood. He was sure he
had wiped it all up already. Confused he looked about. His sleeves had been
pushed up above his elbows and the bandages were doing their job there for the
most part. The blood stained through them but they were not soaked through. He
looked to each palm. There… they were bleeding through the bandages in his
right hand. He held a towel fisted tightly to try to stop the bleeding and used
that same towel to wipe the blood from the floor.
A wave of dizziness caused him to teeter a moment and he gulped air that seemed
too thin. He felt like he was in the hot sun till he stood and felt like
someone dumped cold water over him. His stomach flipped over and he lurched to
the little kitchen and waste area. He sagged to the floor clutching the edges
of the grill to the sewage. He pressed his face to the cool stones and metal of
the grill panting as his stomach flipped over a few more times threateningly.
He dared not move.
Chapter End Notes
     That was the proverbial kissing toilet after a BAD drug trip.
***** Malik Bridges the Gap *****
Malik moved through the big room slowly as he thought through all that has
happened. It pained him terribly to think about Faruq now. Truth, though, was
that someone inside the Brotherhood ordered that death and did so in such a
secret way as to drug someone to do it for them. That meant they could not do
it themselves. Maybe they were not actually an assassin. Malik’s mind was busy
puzzling out the new mystery.
He paused at the gate. Everything was so quiet. Altaïr must have run again. I
guess I can’t blame him… Malik felt horribly alone. He dreaded stepping through
the fake wall into the back knowing the chaos he left there that he would have
to clean. Altaïr is likely out on a frantic out of control run somewhere, ill
equipped physically and certainly mentally. Malik thought where Altaïr would
likely go and catalogued the things he would need to maybe go after him. Altaïr
would go to the devil he knew best… Al Mualim in Masyaf.
Malik lifted the curtain and stepped inside the back room. There was no Altaïr.
There was however not the room he had left either. Most things were where they
ought to be. There was blood all over the corner of a bed mat and little
splashes on the wall. Oh gods… I cut him up. By Allah… where the hell is he?
He dashed back out to the fountain, but there were no blood drops or smears. He
could not have climbed out then. Not that way. Maybe he took the stairs out. He
dashed back into the room stepping into the little hidden kitchen and freezing
in his place. There was Altaïr on the floor hugging the waste grill and
panting. Clammy sweat beaded his face and dampened his hair and his shirt. His
hood was pushed back for more air. His arms and hands were poorly bandaged, and
there were bloody hand prints on the raised stones that held the grill in
place. “Altaïr…”
Just saying his name made the man tense. That resulted in his stomach violently
rebelling. Malik stepped around him into the kitchen to get a cup of water to
add some mint extract to and to soak a cloth in cool water. I did this… I
drugged him… I made him remember… and then I… did this to him… Malik winced to
himself. He let out a slow breath. How badly have I ruined the Great Eagle? Did
I push him over the edge after Al Mualim readied him for that edge? He better
not think of taking a leap.
He set the cup on the stone ledge near Altaïr and then carefully laid the cool
cloth on the back of Altaïr’s neck. The movements and the contact made him
throw up again. Malik knew it was because of the drugs last night. Whatever
details Altaïr remembered of it likely did not help. He started to set up the
medical supplies to treat the wounds he inflicted when he saw that many of the
jars and bottles were gone and there were many drops of blood all over the
rolls of bandages and towels. It worried him how badly he might have hurt
Altaïr. They’ve fought before, but never like that. They never gave each other
anything worse than bruises, black eyes and bloody noses. In a box of things
that were broken and to be tossed were many bloody rags, towels and discarded
bandages from Altaïr’s attempts to self-heal. Malik winced again.
He heard Altaïr moving a little and spitting out the water he rinsed his mouth
with. Malik quietly showed up beside Altaïr. He reached to help him and Altaïr
pulled away. “Altaïr. I won’t… I won’t hurt you.” How could Altaïr trust that
after what happened. The words seemed useless, but that was all Malik had to
work with. He held out a towel, “Hold this, you’re bleeding.” Everything seemed
awkward. Every word, every action. They practically didn’t know each other
anymore. They had done things to the other that were both forgivable and not at
the same time. That chasm between them gaped so wide that Malik heard his
soul’s call echo hollowly back at him.
After a few agonizing minutes, Altaïr finally accepted the towel, but kept as
much distance as he could manage between him and Malik. As Altaïr edged past
Malik into the private sleeping room, he used one finger to curl around the
edge of his hood and pull it up over his head. The used the same finger to curl
around the pointed peak and tug it down over his eyes.
Malik was unsure why Altaïr had not run, and yet knew he was likely too unwell
to run. Or Altaïr had enough good sense to know his wounds were too hindering.
Malik left to retrieve the box Tibah had dropped off. He especially needed
those supplies now. Accepting anything from her now was a message. He’d have to
address this with her soon, or with her father. He’d have to do something about
her before it leaked back to Al Mualim and a contract got put out for her… and
her family.
“Sit down, Altaïr.” Malik tried to sound as gentle as he could.
It sickened him when Altaïr mumbled back, “yes, Malik.”
Malik thought it was as bad as if Altaïr had said ‘yes master’ and had no idea
how to deal with that. In hindsight, he recalled that Altaïr had been acting
around him entirely like this all month he was here. Malik wanted to slam his
palm into his own face at the belated realization. In light of what Al Mualim
had done to Altaïr, no wonder Altaïr had sexually tried to please Malik. It was
an expectation. Malik wanted to groan but saved the feeling to add it to his
growing hatred of the Master of the Order. No one would ever believe that
Altaïr, the Great Master Assassin Altaïr, was a victim of physical and sexual
abuse enslaving him to Al Mualim. Al Mualim would completely deny it too. These
were hard and dark secrets.
Malik moved the little writing table back by Altaïr and laid a towel across it.
The low table allowed for a bit of a barrier between them and Malik noted how
Altaïr relaxed his shoulders some as he set his poorly bandaged arms on the
table. Altaïr still gripped the towel with both hands. Malik selected new
bottles of disinfectant, alcohol, ointments, waxed thread, and needles and
piled some rolls of new bandages nearby. Then he collected fresh cloths for
washing making a mental note that laundry desperately needed doing now.
There were no words exchanged between them. What could possibly be said anyway?
Malik removed the bandages from around each of Altaïr’s arms. He refrained from
tisking. Reminding himself that HE inflicted this set, he clenched his jaw and
washed the wounds in silence. Malik glanced at Altaïr often to gauge how he was
coping. Every muscle was rock hard with tension, almost to the point of
shaking, except his arms. Altaïr hissed when the disinfecting liquid stung
surprisingly, but then shunted the pain away as he always did. Malik stitched
each forearm feeling like Faruq when Faruq stitched Altaïr’s face so long ago.
Altaïr made no other sounds or movements just accepted what was happening to
him as if he was a doll and his mind was gone elsewhere. That too sickened
Malik. Altaïr had learned to do this by the time he was ten… in two years of
being in Masyaf with Al Mualim.
Malik rested his hand over the back of one of Altaïr’s. Altaïr let go of the
towel with that hand and let Malik strip off the blood soaked bandages. This
time Malik hissed in sympathy. He sighed and got to work. As he bandaged the
first hand after it was stitched, he felt something drop onto his hand. It was
clear like water. He frowned and finished tying off the bandage. He worked
gently, as gently as he could on Altaïr’s other hand. Again a drop fell upon
him as he was stitching. He paused in the stitching and looked at Altaïr’s
face. All he could see was the hood pulled far over his eyes and his head
dipped so Malik could hardly even see his chin and jaw. He looked back down and
finished the stitching. This time as he was bandaging, he saw a drop fall, then
another to hit the towel. “Altaïr…” The hood turned to try to hide further.
Malik finished bandaging the hand and moved the table and supplies aside.
Altaïr just sat there, hands limp in his lap. Malik moved to sit a little close
in front of Altaïr now that the table was moved. Altaïr tensed and turned his
head aside. Malik saw clearly the drops of water now forming in the stubble of
Altaïr’s jaw and dripping off. Malik reached up and pressed his hand to the wet
cheek. “Altaïr.”
“Malik.” Altaïr’s voice was so thick with emotion it made Malik swallow the
lump that formed in his own throat. “I never would have done it if I knew. I… I
never would have…”
Malik wished he had a second hand to wipe his own eyes. He slid his hand along
Altaïr’s cheek and pushed the hood off. Altaïr’s eyes were scrunched shut, wet
streaks stained cleanly down his dusty stubbly cheeks. He leaned forward and
touched his brow to Altaïr’s. He whispered, “I know… it took me some time to
realize, but I know. What I don’t know is who drugged you? Who ordered you to
kill him? And why? Why Faruq?” Malik allowed himself a few moments of grieving
with Altaïr before he spoke brokenly again, “Why do this… to us?”
***** Altair Talks *****
Altaïr could not understand Malik’s compassion and gentleness. All through the
stitching and bandaging, Altaïr willed the pain away, but the emotions he could
not. And he couldn’t use his hands to wipe his own face. He wanted to cringe
and pull away from Malik when the hand invaded his hood, but he found himself
leaning into that hand desperately seeking... something. His emotions were laid
bare when the hood was pushed back. He could see that Malik was feeling much
the same. This... this he could trust. He had no one else to turn to. Neither
did Malik.
“Faruq... was in the fog.” Altaïr fumbled through his thoughts and memories.
“He waited... till I remembered.”
Malik pulled back to puzzle out this new information and temper his emotions.
Altaïr took that moment to bring his hands up to wipe his face. Malik stopped
him and used his sleeve to wipe Altaïr’s face. It felt weird having someone
else do that. “Tell me about the fogs, Altaïr?”
“They started coming again.” Altaïr was worried Malik would think he was crazy,
but he needed to tell someone, even if it came out sounding insane. The details
he wanted to write down. That shocked him, wanting... actually wanting... to
write. “After I killed the first of the nine on my mission list. The fog just
comes. Blocks out everything. Everything but my target and me. Their dying
spirit speaks things. Things that don’t make sense.” He thought he himself
didn’t make sense.
Malik just watched his face and listened. So Altaïr hesitantly continued, “The
first, Tamir told me he was one of many brothers. Garnier believed, really
believed he was helping people, healing the already insane. Talal was not
trading slaves, but taking prisoners, homeless, sick and unwanted people and
yes... enslaving them, but was that wrong? He gave them homes and purpose. He
told me I had walled off my mind as our Brothers were so good at doing...”
Altaïr shook his head. It got all confusing after that. “They say so many
things in the fog.”
In the silence that started to grow between them, Malik asked, “My brother...
you said Faruq spoke to you in the fog?”
Altaïr nodded. “He said... he and Kadar are in good hands. Said... he was proud
of who you are. That I should tell you.” He heard Malik choke up. “He knows
there is someone in our Brotherhood who is a traitor and bade us figure out
who. He made me promise not to... not... not to run from you.”
Altaïr stared at his bandaged hands. “I sound like a madman. But the things in
the fog. The things the dying have said. As much as it makes no sense,
sometimes it seems like it makes too much sense and I wonder. I question. I am
not always sure I did the right thing. It isn’t black and white anymore.”
“Have you mentioned these to Al Mualim?” Malik asked.
“Yes,” Altaïr glanced at Malik and dropped his eyes again. He felt like he was
being judged. Malik took hold of Altaïr’s chin and lifted it. Altaïr met his
eyes and continued, “He explains it all to me and also makes sense. But I am
still confused.”
This honest talking was hard. Altaïr felt naked in uncomfortable ways. He had
kept all this and much more secret. Now he was leaking it out a little. Wasn’t
this what he wanted to do?
“You are not crazy, Altaïr.” Malik withdrew his hand from Altaïr’s chin.
“And... I believe you.”
“What do I do, Malik? Tell me what do do...”
The look that came into Malik’s eyes was the one Altaïr was much more used to.
It was the knowledgeable look of one who knew exactly what the next steps were.
“You go back and continue your missions. Find out everything you can. Listen to
everyone in Masyaf. Learn like you do here. And... come to me in between. We’ll
figure out everything together.”
This was like a huge weight lifted from him. Altaïr thought he might float
away. Then he found Malik’s eyes staring at his own. They bore through him and
rooted him in place, kept him grounded. He dropped his eyes to his wounded arms
and hands.
Malik changed the subject, “You need a shave. I don’t expect you to let me
after... but... I’ll ask anyways. Will you let me shave you? Since you won’t be
holding much for a couple days?”
Altaïr felt Malik’s fingers brush his cheek. He flinched a little, but
consented. If Malik still hated him and blamed him, he would use this moment to
kill Altaïr. But somehow, Altaïr figured Malik would not do so. Was Faruq
right? Did Malik love him? He doubted that. I am a tool to find a traitor. It
is just another mission, a more complicated one, but not much different. In the
end, someone will die.
***** Malik: Turkish Coffee *****
Chapter Notes
     Art drawn specifically for this chapter by 0viper0 on Deviant Art
     https://0viper0.deviantart.com/art/Dai-and-Assassin-178970887
Malik noted how Altaïr would tense, flinch and avert his eyes. He felt back at
square one in the trust department. He collected the items to shave the
stubbliness from Altaïr and sat back in front of him. As much as Altaïr had
consented to being shaved, Malik saw how Altaïr eyed the straight razor and
watched every single motion with great wariness. “Maybe... Maybe we’ll just let
you be stubbly for a few more days. You can shave yourself then.” Malik didn’t
miss the quiet sigh but pretended too.
He put everything away again and instead asked if Altaïr felt up to having
something to eat. The awkwardness between them felt a thousand-fold. It made
Malik fidgety. He watched Altaïr fumble with some flatbread and hummus while he
finished cleaning things and sorting the new box of supplies. Tibah’s timing
was impeccable. Malik glanced toward the notebooks with the trance writing in
them and decided he did not want to look at them when Altaïr was here. He
didn’t trust his own temper and Altaïr was especially skittish.
The next couple days were like this. It pained Malik to know he was not trusted
on a personal level. It pained him more when Altaïr chose to sleep by the
fountain. The clear statement of distrust and discomfort was salt and lemon
juice on the guilt wounds he bore. He tried to keep the Bureau open as scribe
and map work. He tried to set back his routine of training in the evenings. He
tried to keep busy. It was like being alone all over again and not because
company was close, but avoiding him except when he checked on the wounded. They
healed well under his almost obsessive care.
Altaïr even started to fumble with writing again just to regain dexterity in
his fingers. When Altaïr grew frustrated and slammed the journal shut for his
fumbling one evening, Malik brought over a roughly bound bunch of pages.
“Altaïr, why don’t you read instead? I’d like if you would read this aloud for
me while I work on this map for my client. Will you?” It was a ploy to get
Altaïr to practice reading, but was also a ploy to get to hear Altaïr speak
since the silence almost made Malik want to scream at him.
He set up his map work in the back room to lounge as he worked and then
prepared something in the kitchen that filled the whole building with an odd
but exquisite smell. Altaïr was too bored and frustrated with not being able to
use his hands that he was willing to read out loud just to alleviate that for a
little while. He muttered as much a few times while Malik made his brew as well
as a mint tea for Altaïr who seemed to like the mint tea. Malik was no longer
sure what Altaïr liked or disliked anymore, except bananas. Altaïr never voiced
his likes or dislikes. I should have asked him some of those kinds of question,
Malik thought selfishly.
Listening to Altaïr read out loud was somewhat painful and torturous, like
listening to a small child read something too difficult for their reading
level. It was halting and stumbling, sounding out some words. It made the
written word salad seem like choir music. Malik didn’t complain. Altaïr however
did with a gruff slamming shut of the makeshift book.
“Try with a feather, Altaïr, to guide you,” suggested Malik as he retrieved his
brew from the little kitchen stove. Altaïr sniffed the air at the strange
smell. It reminded Malik of when they were children and Malik would introduce
him often to strange foods and drinks, sometimes just to see Altaïr’s reaction.
Altaïr took one of the feather quills and tried again to read aloud, he tugged
his hood down over his eyes a bit to hide his embarrassment. Malik fought the
urge to throw back that hood, but he wanted to try to reclaim a tiny bit of the
trust that had been lost between them. He sipped his brew with a sigh of
pleasure. Altaïr instantly stopped reading and looked over.
“It is Turkish coffee done the Romanian way with much sugar. Both are expensive
but so worth it once in a while. I’m not sure you will like it. You never liked
things that were very sweet before. But, if you want, you may try it.” Malik
offered his own half sipped cup over to Altaïr, who eyed it then Malik then it
several times before finally accepting it from Malik’s hand. He held it a bit
awkwardly in his bandaged hands. Malik sat up straighter anticipating Altaïr’s
reaction and wondering what that reaction would be.
Altaïr sniffed the cup slowly. The fact that he did this a couple times already
informed Malik that Altaïr liked the smell. “But this is your cup, Malik.”
Altaïr was unsure about taking something from Malik. Malik reassured him that
is was more than fine if Altaïr wanted to sip from it. He watched as Altaïr
took a small mouthful and swallowed and instantly recoiled. Malik chuckled
lightly. It earned him a sharp look from Altaïr. He always loved that recoil
reaction to new strong flavours. Altaïr took more careful a second sip. The
rule always was to try it twice. He recoiled again, but less so as he held the
bitter, yet sweet coffee in his mouth. He took a third sip and then held the
cup back to Malik.
“No no, you can have the rest if you like it.” Malik was surprised Altaïr
seemed to like this. It was much sweeter than most things Altaïr used to
ingest. “Do you like it?” Altaïr’s hood bobbed a couple times as he nodded.
Malik almost cheered. He felt like he just had a major victory! He encouraged
Altaïr to start over and to keep reading, helping him now and then with the
complicated words, which were all in Greek.
***** Altair Reads the Mystery *****
Chapter Summary
     It's all Greek to me! (snicker... sorry)
Altaïr read the Greek line awkwardly, though a little less so with the aid of
the feather as a line to follow, and translated each line. It was still
painfully halting, but something in what Malik asked him to read seemed deeply
important. Altaïr wanted to read it because Malik asked him to. He wanted to
please Malik, even if it was humiliating.
“Whoever find the... the... ex--- explanation of these words will not ... taste
death.” This sounded like the Taoist text about alchemy and longevity elixirs
he acquired for the Master, until he read on. “Let him who ... seeks... not
cease seeking until he finds. And ... when... when he finds, he will be
troubled?” Malik nodded to Altaïr and encouraged him to keep reading. “When he
finds, he will be troubled. And when he has been troubled, he will... will...
marvel and he will reign over the all.”
Altaïr looked up from the book and sipped some of the strange brew, bracing
himself almost comically for the potent taste. Then he read on in this esoteric
text. “If those who... lead you say the... Kingdom is in heaven, then the birds
will... precede you. If they say the Kingdom is in... the sea, then the fish
will precede you.” Altaïr pushed his hood back a bit to see the text better. He
glanced at Malik from the corner of his eye thinking how this text already
sounded crazy like his own thoughts.
“But the Kingdom is... within you... and... without you.” Altaïr frowned
puzzled. Malik offered no enlightenment. “But if you... know yourselves, then
you will be known... and you will know that you are sons of the... living
father.” Altaïr tilted his head and read the text silently again before
continuing. “But if you do not know yourselves then you are... in... in...”
Malik helped there and he read on, “poverty and you are poverty.”
Already annoyed with not wholly understanding and yet sensing it was all very
important, he flipped a couple pages and read another part. “When you make the
inside like the outside... and the outside like the inside... and the above
like the below, and when you make the male and the female one... then will you
enter the Kingdom.” The last part made him think Malik gave him a strange
spiritual sex text... but the inside outside lines made him murmur, “As
above... so below... as within... so without...” It was starting to make sense
in what Altaïr already considered an insane mind.
Malik nodded and instructed, “Go to the forty-eighth verse.”
Altaïr turned several pages and started to read, curiosity almost heard in his
voice, “When two make... peace... with each other in this one house... they
will say to... the mountain... 'Move !' and it will move.”
“That is my one of my favourite lines,” confessed Malik.
Altaïr repeated the line and thought about it for a few moments. He wanted to
ask something but his curiosity lead him to flip several more pages to read
another verse. “If you... bring forth what is within you, what you have will...
save you.... If you do not have that within you... what you do not have within
you will kill you.”  He thought hard and then murmured again, “As within, so
without.”
Malik nodded and he flipped through seeking another verse along with Malik’s
approval. “I am... the Light that... falls on all things. I am the All. From Me
the All has... gone out and to Me the All... came back. C... C... cleave?
Cleave a piece of wood, and I am there.... Lift up a stone, and You will find
Me.” Malik was whispering the same line with Altaïr.
Altaïr closed the rough book and quoted already by heart, “When two make peace
with each other in this one house, they will say to the mountain, 'Move !' and
it will move.” He said this while looking right at Malik, “Will we ever have
peace?”
***** Malik Releases the Eagle *****
Chapter Notes
     To all you who wondered and guessed. Malik had Altaïr reading from a
     forbidden copy of a Greek translation of the Coptic text of the
     Gospel of Thomas.
Listening to Altaïr read was painful, but Malik exercised patience. Watching
Altaïr have little epiphanies as he read and thought about each verse while
sipping the Turkish coffee was a tiny piece of heaven for Malik. He could not
help quoting softly as Altaïr read. When Altaïr quoted an earlier line already
by heart, it surprised Malik.
Then came that question.
“Will we?” asked Altaïr again when Malik didn’t answer.
Malik licked his lips not sure whether Altaïr meant peace in regards to the war
between the Assassins, Saracens and Templars or between them with their over-
complicated relationship. Malik chose to answer both vaguely and honestly, “I’m
not sure, Altaïr.”
He approached Altaïr and noted the initial flinch and wary gaze. Malik waited.
When Altaïr relaxed Malik unbandaged the arms and hands to inspect them again.
“Let’s leave your arms unbandaged to heal. I think the stitches can come out
tomorrow for those.” He inspected Altaïr’s hands critically trying to pretend
these wounds were inflicted by someone else. He cleaned the wounds and placed
the wood disks he was using to help Altaïr keep his hands and fingers in the
correct positions for healing. “These need a couple more days.” He rebandaged
them.
“Malik... I need...”
“I know. You need to get back to Masyaf. You are overdue.” It was the guess
Malik made on what Altaïr was going to say. It was the logical thing. Malik had
already received a bird’s message from Al Mualim wondering if Altaïr was on his
way back or dead. “Tomorrow, you can go tomorrow. Be easy on the stitching on
your hands and you can remove the threads when you get to Masyaf. Then slowly
work back up to your skills.”
Altaïr kept his silence. He slept that night again by the fountain, watching
Malik train with a sword in the large room at night. In the morning after
breakfast, Malik removed the stitches in Altaïr’s arms. The scars were neat
thin lines that with luck may even fade to almost nothing. The stitches in
Altaïr would have to stay. Malik washed and salved them and rebandaged them,
but without the disks.
They said nothing to one another as Altaïr tied on his armour. Malik felt sick
to his stomach knowing Altaïr was going to be in close proximity to Al Mualim.
That man was one of the best leaders of the Brotherhood. It was a contradiction
or a paradox. Yet, maybe Malik could understand that some people had foul
vices, but can still do great things. It did not excuse what he had done to
Altaïr, but Altaïr WAS the best and most dangerous assassin because of it. Do
the ends justify the means? Maybe in Al Mualim’s world, but not in Malik’s.
Malik watched Altaïr struggle a little with the climb through the lattice of
the roof. He hoped Altaïr took the journey to Masyaf slowly and used every
opportunity along the way to train and regain what he lost while healing. He
wrote a small note to Al Mualim and coaxed a pigeon over with some honeyed
seeds. Malik never caged his birds. They seemed content enough to be there with
him. He only wished the same were true of Altaïr. He sighed as he tied the note
in place and sent the bird on its way, letting Al Mualim know that Altaïr was
in flight. The eagle is coming home.
The Bureau was once again empty leaving Malik all alone. He had a whole year to
get used to this, and the past twenty some odd days tore apart his routine and
gave him company he did not want to let go of. In hindsight, he realized he had
not asked Altaïr to come back. He wanted Altaïr to return between missions. He
kicked his counter in dejected frustration.
Malik busied himself through the days doing the piles and piles of laundry,
fixing uniforms (mostly or entirely Altaïr’s), sorting his medical supplies...
for the fiftieth time. He transcribed some of the popular prayers that people
asked for to have them ready in advance. He even started on a second map of
Acre. He trained himself with weapons at night, as if he could sense a certain
need that he would have to use them in the future. Just because I have one arm
does not mean I cannot still be deadly with a sword.
When he felt depressed and too alone he took up his informant’s invitation and
visited. It was like briefly being in a whole other world of smells and noise.
A little girl of four climbing into his lap to babble about the birds in their
coup and even dragged Malik by his empty sleeve up there to see them. She had
names for them all. It was a good break. The news the informant and his wife
had was of their new unborn child. Malik left there feeling almost content, and
thinking about the time he and Altaïr considered children. That was silly...
and it saddened him that the likelihood was nil now.
He returned to the Bureau and stared at the pile of notebooks full of the
trance writing. His eyes saw the soft journal on the top. He had wanted Altaïr
to write more in that one, to know Altaïr’s current thoughts and feelings. He
braced himself and promised an hour or so before bed each night to go through
these, all of them, no matter how awful. His thoughts constantly wandered to
Altaïr on the road and wondered when and if he would ever see him again. If...
he stabbed that thought out of his head. If would mean Altaïr died on
mission... maybe died as his Brother did... on mission. He could not think
that.
If you love something, set it free... if it returns to you, it is yours... if
it doesn't, it never was.
Altaïr was in Masyaf, licking Al Mualim’s boots so to speak, and learning of
his next targets. Nine... Altaïr had three yet to deal with.
***** Altair Arrives in Masyaf *****
It took him the better part of a week to travel. Altaïr honestly did as Malik
advised. He rode hard, then rested, then toughened himself up and trained, then
rested more before the next day’s ride. He wanted to be in full form when he
arrived in Masyaf.
He knew by the time he was sleeping in some hay a day away from Masyaf that he
was still too weak for a full fight. He removed his arm guards and wrist knife
and then his gloves. They lay in his lap while he stared at his palms. He had
tried so hard to not think of Malik the entire way... home.... Masyaf did not
feel like home. Nowhere really did, except maybe that Bureau he had stayed in
for a solid twenty-two days. It was safe. Even with Malik’s temper. He had hurt
Malik in unforgivable ways. Whatever Malik did to him was deserved. Everything
else made little sense and filled his head with questions.
So many questions were sown in the fertile soil of the fog. He clenched his
fists and leaned back in the hay. The stars twinkled above him. He thumped his
fists a couple times on his chest wishing the ache in there would subside and
the emptiness be filled. The master will fill some of it. He always did. He
offered punishments as well as comfort. He offered answers to the many
questions, even as he inspired more questions.
Altaïr wondered if there was a god or if there were many or none at all. He
wondered if anyone looked down upon them and saw the victories and the sins. He
wondered if they were counting. He wondered... wondered what become of his life
after these nine lives. Would his life be his own? Would he be the hunting bird
for the Master again on a new quest?
He rolled onto his side and took a small knife to poke at the thread of the
stitches on each hand. They weren’t ready to come out, but maybe tomorrow.
Would there ever be peace between him and Malik? Peace; that was what the
Assassins fought for. He wondered if the originator of the order, Hassan, would
approve of the Master’s leadership. The Master was getting old, but he was
still surprisingly strong. Maybe that was due to the texts about the Chinese
Taoist elixir Altaïr had retrieved.
The hay was prickly. It itched and reminded him how much he missed the soft
carpets and pillows of Malik’s Bureau. Even the bed mat was soft. He rolled
over again. Sitting up in frustration, he tied his blade, gloves and guards
back on. The things that transpired between him and Malik were pushed back into
a corner of his mind and locked down tightly.
He mounted the horse and walked it into Masyaf. Like a dangerous predator,
Altaïr moved from shadow to shadow through the city. Most were asleep. Those on
night watch barely noted his passing. Some watched him with the usual hatred.
He climbed a building for a better view of the city and let his mind relax and
his vision blur a little so those strange colors overlaid the people that were
out. Shades of blue and white shone back at him. However, the shimmers were
unstable, flickering red sometimes. Altaïr blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was
tired and it was very late.
He climbed the long hilly route to the fortress that housed assassins and the
library. He wondered if the Master would be pleased with his successes and able
to answer the confusing questions that bothered him. The training ring in the
courtyard was quiet. He passed through the great doors into the library.
Scholars were still working through their studies. Some things never seemed to
change. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. Two turning flights would bring
him to the main desk of the Master. Altaïr wondered if the Master was at the
desk, or in his study or in the private room off the private study. A silent
peak out into the fancy gardens told Altaïr that the Master was definitely not
there. He stalled only a little longer before climbing the stairs. Why he felt
so much anxiety, he didn’t really know. He was successful in his mission. The
Master should be pleased.
A stony bearded face lifted as the single black-brown eye of Al Mualim met
Altaïr across the desk. The Master stood, his cane slamming on the desk’s hard
oak surface. “I hear your mission was mostly a success.”
Mostly?! Altaïr snarled, “It WAS a success. How can you say mostly? The Regent
is dead!”
“I see you still hold too much torment in your heart, Altaïr. You are quick to
judge.” The Master studied the indignant Altaïr a few moments. Altaïr dropped
his eyes allowing the hood to hide his features. “I say mostly, because you
clearly exposed yourself so much that you exposed us and nearly died for it.
You were healing for a full passing of the moon. We missed some good
opportunities.”
Altaïr clenched his fists. Why can’t the Master just be pleased? “Recite the
tenets of our Creed, Altaïr. Clearly you need reminding.”
After gritting his teeth, he bit out defiantly the lines of the Creed. It
earned him the end of the Master cane on the side of his head. The Master still
could move swiftly and he never missed. Altaïr was already counting the divots
in the stone floor where he had fallen from the hit, waiting for another
strike.
“Get up, Altaïr. Go into the study. If you are going to behave like an arrogant
teen, then I will treat you like the one you were.” There was a whooshing sound
as the cane arced through the air to point to the study.
Altaïr wondered how many bruises he would have from this lesson and what it was
going to be. He felt though that he could handle it. In silence, he would take
it as he plotted an... accident. The Master followed him into the study, closed
and locked the door behind him.
“Peace, Altaïr, starts within.”
Altaïr murmured, “As within, so without...”
“Exactly! Now, show me your wounds. Recite the Creed as you do so... repeatedly
until you can say it and feel it peacefully from within and have it emanate
from you.” He slid a curtain aside that lead to the waste and bathing room. A
tub filled with cool water was prepared with towels for washing. “There will be
a new uniform for you. You are filthy.”
Altaïr tensed unable to move at first, then slowly took off each piece of
clothing and armor. At the slam of the cane on the study’s table with a map
painted into it, Altaïr started to recite the Creed through clenched teeth. The
still water of the bath was a threat in the corner of his eye. He ripped his
focus from it and removed clothing still while reciting over and over the
Creed. He felt like a prize horse stripped of bridle and gear being inspected.
The Master walked around him, cane lightly poking the new scars. When asked to
recite what superseded the Creed, Altaïr replied, “Nothing is true; and
everything is permitted.” He was asked to repeat this. Altaïr did so as he
shoved all his thoughts and senses aside, allowing himself to be numb and
passive, as if not wholly there, wishing he were not there for this. It had
been almost a year since he endured this.
***** Malik Sorts the Insanity *****
Chapter Summary
     So begins unravelling the mysteries of the notebooks
Malik had reluctantly rolled up the spare bed mat and shoved it hard into a
corner between the wall and a shelf for later use. He removed and folded his
black Dai robe so that he sat only in his pants and sleeveless hooded tunic.
His clothes differed due to his rank from Altaïr’s. Altaïr had a sleeveless
tunic he wore over a long sleeved shirt and a separate hood that was more like
a cowl over the shoulders like the monks. Malik could wear a shirt under his
sleeveless tunic but preferred not to since he wore Dai robes over his tunic.
He stared at the pile of notebooks and journals, yet untouched. He had promised
himself to look through them a couple hours before bed each night and found he
did not have the will to open them. Five days had passed and he ran out of
excuses. The current debate was whether to start with the insanity of the past
or start with the insanity of the present. The goal was to be able to help
Altaïr when Altaïr returned. Altaïr will come back to me;it was his mantra.
He wondered what kind of man would come back. Altaïr had been changing each
time he showed up. Stripping him of rank and forcing him to learn the ways of
the Assassins was the very best thing Al Mualim could have done for Altaïr, as
far as Malik was concerned. Altaïr was more mature now and understood more, he
thought about his actions and their consequences more. There were traces of the
youth he cherished, and fading traces of the arrogant ass that ruined his life.
What Altaïr had become was something maybe closer to who he really ought to be,
who he was inside striving for freedom and at the same time terrified to just
be. No wonder Altaïr became fond of ‘As above, so below. As within, so
without.’
“As within... so without...”
Malik picked up the first of the notebooks and firmly decided that the best way
to help Altaïr was to understand what he missed in their growing up. German was
the first language used. So Altaïr was German by birth of a Christian mother
and a Muslim or Arab father. That would explain his easy grip of both German
and Arabic when they met. If he was from a wealthy family, then he would have
had fine teachers and learned Greek and Latin and Hebrew. Everything after that
was taught to them all in Masyaf. An Assassin, according to the old Creeds was
to be able to blend in perfectly with any people, thus had to be fluent in
every language they could.
The old Creed... There had been a split among the Assassins almost a hundred
years ago. The first manifestation of the Order was suicide killers who made
public displays of their targets. In a way that still held true. A target
should be removed in as public a setting as you could so you can leave a clear
message. Hassan, the founder, though was a fanatic. After him, two men fought
for the control of the order. The Assassins were born out of the battle. It was
there that history grew fuzzy. Hassan’s followers and the religious seekers of
peace went separate ways. Though now that Malik thought about it, he was not
sure who they served. The man who led the Order in Masyaf did not live very
long, but had started to put into place an intense training systems in all
fields of study. Scholars, rafiqs and the Dai were formed, as were the
organization and training of the informants. Malik wanted to know more. Needed
to know more. He suspected that Al Mualim drew the two groups back together
somehow. Al Mualim’s leadership, even at the young age when he took over was
astounding, brilliant. They really would not be what they were now without him.
He was the Grand Master. Despite what he may have done, Malik had to remember
to trust in Al Mualim. He fought hard for the peace and freedom of all people.
But at what cost?
Malik read on. Altaïr had been retrieved. Malik knew the details of that were
in another notebook. He was tempted to seek that information out, but didn’t.
Not yet. He opened a bottle of ink and started to script in the questions he
had asked as he read the answers, hoping he could remember them all. The first
few questions and answers were random and shallow yet revealed so much.
Retrieved. Altaïr was retrieved. That already said he was considered an object
of value and not human with feelings and a soul, just another treasure. Maybe
Altaïr was right about Adha as the Chalice, a sacred treasure in a sense. What
was Altaïr then? He scribbled his thoughts in the margins. Altaïr said that
Adha had said they were alike, descendants in a way of Those Who Came Before.
There were a select few texts about those people, locked in the library of
Masyaf. Malik sighed wishing he could get them. He was glad Altaïr only wrote
on one side of the page, it allowed Malik to fill the other with more of his
thoughts on what he was puzzling out.
A grin flickered through his expression as he read about colors and remembered
he had asked what their favourite color was. They shared that in common. “Maybe
one day we will, Altaïr. We will each have a unique robe trimmed in gold, mine
in black and yours in white.” He didn’t care that he spoke out loud. Not like
anyone was there to complain to him about it. Also, it made him feel a little
less alone to hear a voice, even if it was his own. “Guess we are both a little
insane, Altaïr.”
He read the answer about the knee and wrote in the question. On the blank page,
he wrote in Altaïr’s first explanation of the knee being from a poor fall and
never treated. Then scribbled in his own questions. What happened at age twelve
that made Al Mualim force Altaïr to his knees? The fact that Altaïr referred to
him repeatedly landing on that knee made Malik wonder if Al Mualim forced
Altaïr to his knees often or if that was just how Altaïr actually always
landed. He tried to think of their training and the few times they did initial
missions. Altaïr did tend to land on the right first and drop to his knee
before rolling. Was that to favour the injury or just habit? Malik didn’t know.
Altaïr’s writing shifted language when he described where he ran to. It was in
terrible Arabic. Barely legible. All the writing was barely legible, but at
least consistent. Malik scribbled a note that maybe Altaïr had a... problem?
Somehow he mixed the letters up when he read or wrote them. It was a consistent
mixing up too. That told Malik that no amount of practice was going to help
save for neatening up the actual script.
When writing personal or private things, Altaïr writes in German. When writing
something that refers to me, he writes in Arabic, my language of birth.
Malik rubbed his eyes and debated continuing or saving it till later. He
skimmed and scribbled in the questions. Why did you leave me? Why did you try
to please me?
On second thought, Malik wanted to consider both of those. A mix of shame and
fear and being tired of fighting those he loved, tired of being punished. Malik
surmised that Altaïr likely got verbal jabs from everyone in the Brotherhood.
Punished daily by those he should be able to trust, the trust ripped away when
he was stripped of rank. Malik thought more carefully about that. Altaïr was
stripped of rank only after Malik had recited his statement of what happened at
the temple. Malik was sure he was clear about who led the Templars to Masyaf,
yet Altaïr was blamed for it. Altaïr was blamed for everything and made to
truly believe it was his fault, strip him down to nothing when he was just
starting to become unmanageable. A new puzzle piece clicked into place and
Malik cursed aloud.
About the incident of when Altaïr pleased Malik, his cheeks burned remembering
it. Oh Allah, how he enjoyed it and wanted more. And he felt so violated at the
same time. Altaïr had honestly thought he had done nothing wrong till after.
Somehow the notions of right and wrong actions were twisted and mixed up. No
wonder Altaïr had pleaded for help in knowing the difference. He was starting
to grapple with moral issues and had no strong foundation of his own on which
to base decisions.
Here he stopped. He knew what would come next was not what he was ready to
stomach, just yet. He could not remotely imagine Al Mualim doing... forcing...
such acts upon child Altaïr, and maybe even an adult Altaïr. The questions
would be: Did Altaïr want it? Did he come to like it? Malik slammed the
notebook shut and decided not to look back till tomorrow. He didn’t want ideas
to plague his mind right now of what Al Mualim MIGHT be doing to Altaïr.
***** Altair Learns Acceptance *****
Chapter Summary
     WARNING... WARNING... this is a BAD very bad YAOI abuse chapter. You
     have been WARNED!
Malik slammed the notebook shut and decided not to look back till tomorrow. He
didn’t want ideas to plague his mind right now of what Al Mualim MIGHT be doing
to Altaïr.
Altaïr repeated, “Nothing is true and everything is permitted.” Altaïr did so
as he shoved all his thoughts and senses aside, allowing himself to be numb and
passive, as if not wholly there, wishing he were not there for this. It had
been almost a year since he endured this.
“Novice, you need to learn discipline and how to take your orders with grace.
Accept your lesson and we will move onto one where you will learn inner bliss.
Hopefully peace and the ability to move as one with me, an extension of me in
all things.” The Master thumped his cane butt on the floor to silence Altaïr.
“Kneel.”
When Altaïr did not comply, tensing with the memory of this very old lesson he
didn’t want to relive, the Master’s cane snapped on his right knee. It buckled
and with a grunt the Master shoved Altaïr down onto that knee and held him firm
till Altaïr was on both knees compliantly. In a deep breath, Altaïr shoved the
pain aside. The cane tapped Altaïr’s shoulder, close to his ear that still
smarted from the cane’s impact earlier.
As the pain subsided, the cold stone of the floor seeped up Altaïr’s naked
body. It made him shiver before he could fiercely grip control of that. He knew
this lesson too well. He never liked it. You had to keep thinking through it.
Otherwise, you either bit down and got caned for that, or choked and got caned
for that.
“Begin,” commanded the Master. “If I am pleased by your acceptance, we will
move on to better lessons and then I will let you rest.”
From where he kneeled, he looked up at the Master. There was no hiding under
his hood here. His punishments were the cane or the waiting tub of water. He
stiffened as faltering memories crept invasively to the surface of people
drowning while he watched. He took a steadying breath wondering where his own
fight and willpower went when he entered this room. In this room he felt twelve
or fifteen all over again. He reached under the Master’s robes with his hands
and loosened the strings of the pants. They snagged slightly on the stitches
still in his palms. The room felt uncomfortably hot for evening. He closed his
eyes and felt the Master shift his weight slightly to lean a hand on the table.
Altaïr’s jaw clenched against what he knew he was about to do.
Malik would disapprove and say this is wrong. So this must be wrong. Would it
be wrong if he did this to Malik? The cane tapped his shoulder to bring him out
of his mental drifting and back to his lesson of accepting the Master. Resigned
he took hold of the wrinkled shaft with a base of mostly grey curling hairs.
The wrinkles slowly smoothed as that shaft grew and stiffened in Altaïr’s
hands.
“Why are you resisting? Altaïr, if you are going to be the best, you must learn
to accept me and my guidance.” Al Mualim removed the cane from Altaïr’s
shoulder so the end tapped onto the floor. “Well? Do you accept me or not?”
That was a loaded question if ever Altaïr had heard one. He answered as he knew
he should, “Yes, Master.” He tried very hard to not let the offending penis
touch the stitches of his palms. First of all, he didn’t want the Master
displeased by the sensation. Most of all, though, he did not want anything
contaminating something Malik had done to him. Am I becoming contaminated? Is
there a way to purify myself of this later?
Reluctantly, Altaïr opened his mouth as he scrunched his eyes involuntarily.
“Relax, Altaïr. Acceptance is a little like surrender. Just like taking that
leap of faith.” Altaïr breathed slowly, his hot breath warming the Master’s
member as Altaïr accepted it into his mouth. He had learned a long while ago
how to breathe through this, as well as how to relax his throat. “Yes,
Altaïr... that is much better... Good boy.”
Altaïr’s head bobbed slowly back and forth knowing at some point he’ll have to
just swallow. Then it was anyone’s guess how the Master wished to continue. One
ejaculation never ended these lessons. The Master usually had about three, two
if Altaïr was very good. Altaïr strived to be very good. He intended to be the
best after all.
***** Malik: Gnostic Sophia *****
Chapter Summary
     1192 was a hotbed of many religious movements, all fighting for the
     Kingdom of Heaven, all with their hands in the treasure chests from
     the Temple of Solomon beneath Jerusalem.
Malik dreamed all night of the last things he had read in the notebook, of
Altaïr shoved to his knees to ‘please the Master’ as it were. He didn’t want to
really read that, but he could not stop his eyes. All the next day he worried.
He could hardly focus on the map of Acre he was working on. Acre. That was
where Altaïr had been retrieved. He almost tore up the map. He took a deep
breath and rolled it carefully, shelving it with other maps. He tried to scribe
some pretty prayers. Hymns and Psalms were popular among the Christian folks.
Trying hard to distract himself, as boredom lead to worrying, he found
something to finally scribe. He spread out a fresh piece of parchment and
looked through all the colors of his inks. He selected a muted blue. Onto the
parchment he scribed a selection of verses from Wisdom’s Call. It was a proverb
from the Old Testament of the Christian Bible that originated in the Jewish
Mishle Shlomoh, one of the books of Solomon. The barely budding offshoot of
Gnostic scholars favoured it and he thought he might try to provide something
for them. It would be a gift to them as a way to offer his services, and in
turn he could possibly gain some inside knowledge. Proverb 8 was his choices
and the lines were selective.
                   Choose my instruction instead of silver,
                      knowledge rather than choice gold,
                   for Wisdom is more precious than rubies,
                 and nothing you desire can compare with Her.
                   "I, Wisdom, dwell together with Prudence;
                     I possess knowledge and discretion.
                          I love those who love me,
                        and those who seek me find me.
             The LORD brought me forth as the first of his works,
                           before his deeds of old;
                        I was appointed from eternity,
                 from the beginning, before the world began.
                    Then I was the craftsman at his side.
                   I was filled with delight day after day,
                      rejoicing always in his presence,
                       Now then, my sons, listen to me;
                      blessed are those who keep my ways.

                           PROVERB 8: Wisdom’s Call
 
That took him most of the morning. After lunch he brought out a few more inks
and quills and a charcoal stick. He illustrated all around the border of the
page and added coloured ink to brighten it. Yes, this would make a fine gift.
That occupied his afternoon. When it was dry he rolled it up and sought one of
his informants for the location of the Gnostic sect. They had been braving the
dangers of Solomon’s Temple for a century. The Templars invaded a couple times,
as did other groups to raid it of its treasures, much as Al Mualim had the
Assassins do. There were secrets in there. The Gnostics knew them. Malik wanted
to know those secrets, too.
He didn’t think himself very religious, even though he mostly identified with
the Arab Muslims. He attended the Mosques, the Synagogues and the Churches
indiscriminately. As he walked through the streets, he pondered this. No, Malik
didn’t think himself a God-fearing man. He definitely didn’t consider himself
an atheist like Altaïr. Maybe that was part of Altaïr’s problem, he had nothing
to believe in, no spiritual or religious foundation.
It struck Malik then why he was doing this. Sophia. Wisdom. This was something
he could worship in a way. This was something that might in the end be good for
Altaïr as well. He tried not to feel like he was shopping for a God. He rolled
his eyes at his own foolish thoughts. No, he was shopping for a God for Altaïr.
He had to be honest. All religions had a spiritual core, echoes within each
other that made them the same in many ways and only mankind twisted and
interpreted the kernels of truth.
His informant gave him some clues discreetly and Malik was again on his way. He
stumbled as his thoughts stumbled onto Adha. Altaïr had held, not just held but
was on intimate terms with one of the sought after treasures. If his hand was
not already occupied holding a scroll, he would have slammed it into his own
face. Something stabbed at his own heart, how could I ever compete with that?
He shook his head. I am not competing with Adha. She is gone. I am competing
with Al Mualim. He shook his head again as he walked. That was a horrible and
disgusting thought and reminded him of the notebooks he was reading. I am not
competing. We have no relationship. He ended that in Solomon’s Temple. I ended
it when I cut him up for his honest confession.
He puffed his cheeks as he exhaled. Life was so complicated now. He felt too
informed and yet left in the dark at the same time. He had the creed. The creed
will have to be his guide.
He knocked on the door to the nondescript building. The old man who answered it
shocked him! It was the old Dai!! Malik’s mouth dropped open. The old man
gently tapped Malik’s chin and he snapped it shut. “You are not ready for this
Malik. Why are you here?”
Malik numbly held out the scroll.
The old Dai took the scroll. “Come find me later if you want to talk. But now
is not the time.” The old man closed the door before Malik could find his
voice. He stood a long while staring at the door.
His life just doubled in its levels of complicated. He retreated back to the
Bureau to the comfort of the familiar and recited the Creed as a reminder of
what he adhered to. He meditated with incense and a candle after dinner seeking
inner peace before opening the notebook. Peace in the world begins with peace
and harmony from within.
***** Altair: Nothing is True *****
Chapter Summary
     WARNING... WARNING... this is a BAD very bad YAOI abuse chapter. You
     have been WARNED! And yes... this is worse than before. Didn’t think
     it could be, did you? Double Yaoi... There are no safe places.
Chapter Notes
     please do not hate me... I do promise to make things better...
     really... kinda...
Altaïr swallowed. He tried hard not to gag and swallowed again before drawing
away. He hoped the Master found his acceptance of this lesson pleasing. He did
not want to have to submit to that again. He hadn’t done this for many years,
not this particular lesson. He supposed that since he was stripped to a novice
status and relearning lessons that this would be among them. He drew his arm
and the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away any remnants of the act.
Without looking up for he knew that was forbidden, he could see that his Master
was still stiff. Internally he cursed. He was not yet good enough to sate him
in the first round. The master hitched his pants back into proper place. “Your
acceptance of my guidance is adequate. However,” Altaïr winced at the Master’s
words. “However, I can tell you have not yet found inner peace. Altaïr, holding
onto such anger and arrogance will only poison you. This was your folly at
Solomon’s Temple. This is why you failed, not only me, but Malik and young
Kadar as well.” Altaïr sank to sitting listening to his crimes again.
“Show me your hands, Altaïr.” The command was simple. Altaïr kept his head
bowed but turned his palms up. The Master’s voice was remarkably gentle, like a
comforting father. “These are recent. How did you earn them?”
Altaïr’s eyes strayed from one palm to the other. “Malik and I had a... We...
I.. We fought.” His voice sounded too rough and husky even to his own ears.
The Master raised a grey brow. It seemed odd for it was the one over his
blinded eye. Altaïr suspected the Master likely used some kind of sorcery to
still see out of it, for he missed very little. “I see. You tried to ask for
forgiveness?” Altaïr refused to answer. The whole incident was emotionally
painful. The Master gently took both of Altaïr’s hands. “When you achieve peace
and harmony within. When you learn to move smoothly within your own body and
with those around you as one. Then... Then you will find peace and forgiveness.
It starts with you Altaïr. Find the peace and forgiveness for yourself, then it
will be there from others.” He drew Altaïr up to standing. “I suppose I should
teach you the next lesson anyways. I think it will help you.”
Altaïr was not sure whether to be disappointed or hopeful. The impression was
that his skill at pleasing his Master was poor. He knew that already. Of course
Al Mualim would know the Altaïr was resisting and didn’t truly surrender and
accept the lesson. It was a kindness that the Master saw fit to consider Altaïr
for a new lesson, one that would help him settle the torment in his mind and
heart. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but could not hide the hope in
his eyes. Hope, that he might gain inner peace and thus gain Malik’s
forgiveness. Everything the Master said made perfect sense. It always did.
The Master moved around the room collecting a large soft towel and a jar of
what looked like healing salve. He set the two on the table. This was new for
Altaïr. He watched his Master’s movements, especially the cane. The room seemed
to be cooling and he struggled not to shiver in his nudity. The cane tapped
once the table. Altaïr cleared the markers from it and set them in a nearby
basket. Al Mualim removed his black robe, neatly folding over a chair. The cane
tapped with each step he took. Altaïr found himself counting them to see if the
steps were the same. They were. His mind was already slipping into the resigned
state of what was to come. Then the cane’s tap tap quieted. Altaïr turned to
face his Master. Al Mualim was opening the jar of salve.
“Spread the towel over the table, novice. Then give me your hands.”
Altaïr obeyed. He spread the towel out over the table. It did little to hide
the map he knew too well. He offered his hands again to his Master who rubbed
some of the salve into them. It tingled slightly, but that was all. The cane
tapped the table twice. Altaïr turned his back on his Master and placed his
hands on the towel covered heavy oak surface. He leaned a little so his fingers
could curl over the opposite edge and brace him.
He reigned in his focus and shoved everything aside. He tried to relax. This
was going to be a similar lesson, but maybe there was a kindness to it with the
salve and the towel? He willed his body from its tension, everything but his
fingers over the table’s edge. He wondered if he would bleed from this lesson
as he had with others like it. The cane came to rest on the table and Altaïr
took a deep slow breath. How was this lesson going to help him? How could doing
this guide him to find inner peace? How could this possibly help him forgive
himself or earn Malik’s forgiveness? Altaïr hated himself. He hated that he
could not seem to just say no.
He felt a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. He leaned down till his
head lightly thudded on the towelled surface. Malik...
The Master huffed softly a moment before coming closer to Altaïr. “You will
need to relax and take a leap of faith, Altaïr. Surrender yourself to me.”
Altaïr steadied his breathing, it was almost meditative. A year from this and
he still had not forgotten. His body knew what to do even if his mind could not
clearly think. That part of him shook in a corner hiding under a hooded cowl
waiting to run to its secret place. The first push and breach snapped him back
to the room. He gasped and bit his lower lip to keep quiet. The experience was
not so painful as surprising. He did not feel himself tearing, but a smooth
push and pull from behind. The Master never fully sheathed himself. Altaïr
never pleased him enough for that. He tried to breath in time with the motions.
He stood stock still to let this happen, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping
the table more tightly.
“I will teach you how we can fly as one. Harmony within will lead to harmony
without.” This was followed by the removal of whatever had originally breached
Altaïr and was replaced by a thicker shaft, warm and slick. “You are an
extension of me, Altaïr.” The Master pushed himself deeper, though as usual
never completely.
Altaïr’s breath caught at this and he steadied. Why must the Master speak? Why
can’t he just do this and be done and leave me be? He wanted to fight back all
of a sudden, but the position was impossible. The sensations were confusingly a
mix of pleasure and horror.
“Peace within, Altaïr... Move as one with me and you will move as one with
everyone.”
Little by little, Altaïr slipped away from this reality, moving in time with
the long slow pushes and pulls of his Master.
He was laying on the grass near the water. Malik and he stared up at the clouds
overhead. “Malik? I want to try something with you. Will you trust me?” His
hands strayed over his friend’s naked body. Then reached past him into the
little medical bag for the healing salve. Dark charcoal and brown eyes followed
his movements. “I want to know... want to know what it is like to ... to be one
with you. Will you let me?” Malik had some trepidation, but the idea of
crossing that boundary was exciting. They were plenty old enough; both well
past fifteen, Altaïr was almost sixteen. Malik rolled onto his side and looked
over his shoulder. Malik had used salve on his fingers when learning to examine
Altaïr. He was impressed that Altaïr remembered and was going to make sure this
did not hurt. “It might hurt a little,” Altaïr warned him. “It’s ok,” said
Malik.” I trust you. I want to be one with you too.” The excitement and
anticipation built as their blood rushed and their breaths shortened.
“Good Altaïr. You are starting to learn. Mmmm... yes... move with me and you
will find that moment... everything will cloud and light will burst before
you.” His words were in Altaïr’s ear. His breath chuffing in time with his
thrusts.
The excitement and anticipation built as their blood rushed and their breaths
shortened. Altaïr sloppily slicked his member before pressing himself against
Malik they shifted and wriggled till he pushed within that tight little ring of
muscles. Malik gasped aloud. They stilled only for a moment. Altaïr used his
hand to please Malik and help him relax. Soon they were moving in time with one
another. The whole world rocked with them.
The fog surrounded them, they floated on it, were cradled in it. Malik gasped
and moaned as their pace quickened, thrusting into Altaïr’s hand as Altaïr
thrust into him. The tight friction was intense and grew only more so with the
fog’s presence.
“I can feel you close, Altaïr. We are coming close to the edge. Do you see it?
Can you feel it?”
It took effort to clench his teeth and not say Malik’s name. Malik filled his
thoughts, thrummed through the sudden intense flashes of pleasure as something
pressed deep inside him. His eyes fluttered and he wanted more.
“Let us leap together, Altaïr” Al Mulaim sheathed himself to the hilt his hands
gripping Altaïr’s hips as he stood up to be deeper.
“Yes... yes...” The words came unbidden from Altaïr’s lips. He could do nothing
more than pant and gasp through the explosion of light and sensation. The fog
had faded and the private room and towelled table came suddenly into focus.
Al Mualim pulled out, limp and sated. “That is bliss, Altaïr. That is union.
You will always be mine... an extension of me.” He used a cloth to wipe himself
and pulled his pants back into place, tucking in his shirt and letting his
tunic drop to cover it all. “Get cleaned up and rest, Altaïr. You have done
very well. Tomorrow I will restore another rank to you and give you your next
mission.” The tap tap of the cane was again heard on the floor, pausing only
while the Master pulled on his black robe. He left the room, closing the door
behind him.
Altaïr was still panting from the shock of the orgasm and the shock of the
reality with whom he had that experience. The odd merging of dreaming of that
safe place with Malik and the reality of Al Mualim were too incongruous to
comprehend. It was incredible. There was a sense of total union and bliss,
peace and harmony and surrender. It was like being with... Altaïr did not want
to admit it. He was an adamant atheist, or was he? It was like being one with
God for a few seconds. But then, he wasn’t. He had been with his Master in
another lesson. How did this moment of total inner peace have anything to do
with ... with... ANYTHING!
Altaïr started to shake uncontrollable as he laid ragdoll across the table. His
fingers ached. His muscles twitched. His ass was sore and leaking his Masters
seed relentlessly down his thighs. He gripped the towel as his knees buckled on
him and he thumped to the floor in a heap. He half covered his privates with
the soft towel. He made in incoherent sound through clenched teeth before he
strangled out a whimper, “Mm... Maliik...” After a few moments of
hyperventilating and fighting to bury as much of this experience as he could,
he regained that numbness just like he had been taught, the kind you shifted to
when you were too badly wounded to deal but still had to go on.
He staggered to the private waste room with the bathing tub and stepped into
it. He sank to a sitting position in the cold water and scrubbed himself
practically raw. Still shaking, he got out and dried off. He registered
nothing. It was like he was a zombie on automatic. He made sure the room was
spotlessly clean and all the items that were on the table had been replaced
precisely. He dressed in the new uniform and collected his armor and weapons.
He didn’t remember any of this. He had no idea how he woke in the middle of the
night to find himself in his bed in his room in Masyaf. He was in sleeping
pants with a heavy blanket. The air was cold as it always was at night, but he
woke having sweat through it all.
I have done very well. Tomorrow he will restore another rank to me and give me
the next mission.
He flopped back. This was not the Bureau in Jerusalem. There was no comforting
incense or slamming of books.
***** Malik: King of Swords *****
Chapter Summary
     Because *I* needed some lighter fluff... here is some Tibah AND some
     little novice boy.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik slammed the notebook on the floor and threw the one he had finished
reading into the wall. He hated himself for asking Altaïr to describe
everything Al Mualim did to him. After about an hour of pacing and slamming
things and hating Al Mualim, Malik switched from coffee to water. He paced in
the outer room and stared at the stars through the lattice. None of that
horrible two-books worth of writing was contemporary, so to speak. Nothing
happened in the last five years. No brutality, no sexual violations. Maybe
because Altaïr had gotten too old? Maybe Altaïr was just doing exactly as he
needed to? Maybe because Altaïr was always out on mission? Maybe he had grown
too arrogant and could not be so controlled? He really was an arrogant ass.
Nothing in the last five years. Nothing while they were solo. Nothing till the
mission to Solomon’s Temple a year ago.
Why had Altaïr never told him of any of this? Malik felt horrid for having been
semi-sexual with Altaïr as a teen never knowing what he had been through. Did I
worsen the situation? No, he had been a stabilizing help. It explained so much
of Altaïr’s younger reactions at night. Quiet, brooding, clingy, insecure, and
willing to obey and be sexual. Altaïr was so not the person he thought he was.
How much of that arrogance was cover for what happened to him? The secret sides
of Altaïr that he did know he saw so rarely. They were gentle, curious,
mischievous, but also serious and driven. As cocky as Altaïr had been, he was
usually shy and watchful. He was never really a dominant boy or even man. But
how much of that was truly Altaïr and how much of it was what happened to him?
Malik slept so poorly. He wanted to hug something, or rather someone. He wanted
to hug his brothers and Altaïr. None of them were there though. He wondered how
many went through what Altaïr did. He was so glad he hadn’t and more glad that
his little brother never did. His older brother, Faruq, seemed to know too much
by the way he looked at Altaïr. Maybe he knew, maybe he experienced it. That
was impossible. Faruq had been not that much younger than Al Mualim. They were
all gone now.
He had no idea when or if he would see Altaïr again. He couldn’t send word
either.
Malik needed a serious change of environment. He had spent almost two solid
days glued to these notebooks. Outside. Yes, he needed to be outside. He rolled
up some maps and scrolls. He picked up a basket and a list of things he needed
to get in the market square.
As he approached the market square, he saw the apothecary stand with Tibah
serving clients. She waved at him. He nodded to her, unable to wave with his
arm full. He took a couple steps back and blended into the crowd. He had NO
IDEA how he was going to deal with her. His cheeks were still burning long
after he vacated the market. He wove through the rich district past several
merchant estates to a sector with smaller housing. Each had a little garden
with benches. He came to the door he sought and stood there for several moments
feeling like an idiot unable to knock.
The door opened and a small boy of ten squeaked in surprise, “Rafiq! ----
- Saftey and Peace!”
“And to you. Novice, your timing is again commendable.” Malik offered a polite
smile and was truly grateful to be saved from feeling stupid. “I thought I
might speak with your mentor.”
The novice suddenly hugged Malik and dragged him inside, taking the basket and
scrolls and setting them on the nearest table. “GRANDFADDER! The rafiq is here
to see you!!” Malik winced at the yelling. “I am supposed to call him
grandfadder. It is part of our cover,” he whispered loudly.
“Safety and Peace Malik. Junayd, lead the rafiq into the closed garden. I will
bring us some breakfast there.” The old retired Dai patted the boy on the head.
Junayd smiled and nodded, with two front teeth missing, which explained the
mispronunciations. He took Malik’s hand and led him through the house to the
back door and into a garden that resembled the lounge of the Bureau in that is
was entirely walled with a lattice roof. It was a garden though with many more
plants that Malik’s. There were carpets and cushions and a low table so you
could play games upon or eat at. Two fountains bubbled happily. Malik was
immediately glad for his decision to leave the Bureau today.
Junayd, the little novice, flitted back and forth helping the old Dai bring out
breakfast. “How is Altaïr?” he asked curiously. “Did he heal alright?”
“I suppose,” lied Malik. It wasn’t really a lie. Altaïr did heal from the wound
the boy had helped with. But Malik would not consider Altaïr a healed man, not
by the longest flight of an arrow.
“Junayd, don’t be late now,” chided the old Dai. Junayd dashed back into the
house for a Bible and a notebook and a little pouch of various items. “Don’t
forget breakfast,” called the old Dai, Junayd dashed back into the garden and
snagged a bun and shoving it entirely into his mouth. He skipped a couple steps
away then back again to snag a couple more and stuff them into his pockets
while he chewed with stuffed cheeks. Then he ran off.
“I see your curious look, Malik. It is Sunday. He is off to church. He will
learn mass and stay for Sunday school and learn what the Christian children
learn, then he stays with the priests to learn Greek and Latin. Fridays he does
the same in the Mosque and Saturdays at the Synagogue. It is easier to let
other’s teach him languages. They have more energy for him than I.” He poured
come cold sun-steeped tea from a jug into glasses for them both. “Junayd is a
good boy. But he will make a far better assassin than informant. He ought to go
back to Masyaf.”
“No,” Malik protested. “Not till we figure out who the traitor is. It already
cost the boy his mentor and nearly his life.”
“Is the boy then why you are here? Or is the pleasure of this visit about our
crossed encounter the other day? Hm... more like something is deeply troubling
you.” Trust the old Dai to get to the heart of the matter.
“All three and more, I think.” Malik felt lonely and just needed company. He
couldn’t engage in this kind of company often. There were risks. But the risk
was too deeply needed today for his own sanity. “I wanted to see the boy and
how he was. He seems well.” The hug did Malik a world of good, but he did not
want to admit that to the Dai. “Maybe once this traitor is dealt with a new
mentor could be found for him.”
“You would make a very good mentor, Malik. You were an assassin, a very good
one. You could teach him. I have always been an informant.”
Malik had not known that. He thought all Dai were first assassins. “Uh... no.
My hands are too full right now with other things to take on a young novice. I
am sorry I shunted him over to you, but ... you were the only one I thought I
could trust with this.”
“I see. Then there is more going on than I thought.” The old Dai nibbled some
fruit waiting for Malik to open up. Something drove Malik here, something big.
“I understand that training is sometimes very hard on some to specialize them.
But has training in the past, before Al Mualim ever involved breaking someone?
Like torture or rape?”
The old Dai’s eyes widened in surprise. “That sort of training has not been
done since maybe Hassan’s time. And Al Mualim’s training methods have been
excellent for the growth and survivability of the members of our Order. Has...
something happened? Does this have something to do with the traitor? Do you
have a suspect? I don’t think Junayd has ever experienced that sort of
traumatic training.”
“I have learned some very disturbing things that raise many questions. But
maybe the results justify the means? I just don’t think assassins need be made
that way. It might just be a difference in philosophy. I am not sure yet. I
only just recently learned of it in confidence. Trust has been a hard issue
with this member of our Order and I do not want to break that trust without
very good reason.” Malik wore his usual pensive look that often made him appear
dangerous and bitter.
This old Dai knew Malik well enough to know otherwise. He reached across the
table and patted Malik’s hand. “You are a good and trustworthy man. You have
Faruq’s patience and your father’s intense intellect. I am sure you will figure
this out. This member of our Order is lucky to have you as a friend.”
Malik wasn’t sure yet if he would call himself and Altaïr friends. He nodded
still sorting the puzzle pieces in his head. After some breakfast he finally
asked, “So, why were you with the Gnostics?”
The old Dai chuckled. “Seeking information of course!”
“But you are retired.”
The old Dai chuckled again. “Yes, I am, but I am also very much more bored than
when I was the Dai.”
Malik smiled. One could never truly just retire in this Order. It was in the
blood. “What did you mean when you said I was not ready?”
“You are still not ready, Malik. You have many things on your plate that you
must attend to and mysteries aplenty of your own to solve. Once those are
resolved, then seek out the Gnostics.”
It seemed cryptic and Malik wanted to scream. Is this what Altaïr had to put up
with old Al Mualim? Does everyone get cryptic in their old age? Malik hoped he
never ended up like THAT! Wise was one thing, confusing was something else. It
crept too close to being senile. They talked about other things, including the
lives of the other informants in their command.
Junayd returned for lunch before he had to run to his other lessons at the
Church. He was whacking things about with a stick babbling how some of the kids
are sons of city guards or even Templars. “They know how to use a sword. I got
walloped good. Can I learn to use a sword? When do I get that in my training?”
The old Dai and Malik exchanged looks. Before Malik could protest, the Old Dai
announced, “We were just discussing training. Did you know Malik is one of the
very best swordsmen of our Order? He bears his name well. Malik A-sayf, King of
Swords. And so, my young grandson, Novice Junayd, you will start lessons in
blade handling with him twice a week very early in the mornings. I’ll kick you
out at dawn, because that is when Malik is up. You start tomorrow.”
Junayd jumped and yelled joyously. He hugged Malik and the old Dai. He ran out
with his pretend sword to his next lessons still whooping and cheering.
“There, Malik. Problem solved! He gets some assassin training and you get some
company.” The old Dai leaned back against the cushions very pleased with
himself.
Chapter End Notes
     Fanart for this fic by DreamerAngel17 from Deviant Art
     https://dreamerangel17.deviantart.com/art/A-Visit-from-the-Dai-
     170327381
***** Altair: New Mission *****
Chapter Summary
     Thank you everyone for enduring that ROUGH set of chapters! Altaïr
     now walks a fine line between together and deadly... and totally
     losing it and deadly.
Altaïr woke still feeling like everything was surreal. Did yesterday really
happen? There was a moment he fought curling into a tight ball and screaming
for no reason. Or maybe it was for every reason. He listened to the quiet in
the room without opening his eyes. The sun blanketed his feet that stuck out
from his covers. He didn’t remember undressing to sleep. He pulled the blanket
over his head and remained still as the sun slowly heated his back. It was
soothing and reminded him of the Bureau in Jerusalem. He wondered if his next
mission was there.
Some novice knocked on the door and asked for entry. He muttered out permission
but did not move. The novice set down breakfast and then prepared a basin of
water and towels for washing. “Master Al Mualim is waiting for you.” When
Altaïr said nothing the novice whispered, “Sorry,” and slipped out as quickly
as he could to not disturb the sleeping assassin. He could just barely hear the
young novice telling another who he just brought stuff to. The rest of the
conversation was lost and Altaïr snarled as he filled in the missing
conversation with the hate and spite most everyone gave him.
He stayed in the bed for another hour trying to think of nothing. As the aching
started from not moving, he gave in to the need to move. Sitting felt
uncomfortable. He washed slowly. He ate slowly. Now and then his hands would
shake and he would glare at them, willing them into obedience. He had to report
his mission of the Regent still. He took his time to go over the details in his
head, sorting what to say and what Malik likely already said in notes.
Several thoughts clamoured for his attention. The thoughts that had risen from
the fog conversations with his dying targets. He did not want to expose what he
worried was his own insanity. Treachery and betrayal echoed in his heart. He
fumbled his cup of water and cursed aloud. It took a few minutes to reign in
the sudden rage. It took several more to shove aside everything he thought and
felt about anything but the things he was going to address in this meeting.
Eagles can do this... so can I. I am the Eagle of Masyaf.
The Master turned from the great window behind his desk as Altaïr approached.
“Come, Altaïr. I trust you’re rested; ready for your remaining trials?” It was
a reminder to Altaïr that he was still a novice, still a traitor striving for
redemption.
Altaïr weighed his thoughts. “I am. But... I would speak to you first. I ...
have questions.”
“Ask them, I will do my best to answer.” Master Al Mualim was in a very good
mood and his tones were inviting like the mentor Altaïr had always wanted to
speak with as a child, the one he tried to please for moments like this when he
could ask anything.
Altaïr supposed he had somehow pleased his Master last night. “The Merchant
King of Damascus murdered the nobles who ruled his city. Majd Addin in
Jerusalem used fear to force his people into submission. I suspect William
meant to murder Richard, and hold Acre with his troops. These men were meant to
aid their leaders; instead they chose to betray them. What I do not understand
is why?”
“Is the answer not obvious?” Altaïr hated this phrase. It meant he was stupid
and missed something he ought to know. The Master started to explain as though
to a child, “The Templars desire control. Each man, as you noted, wanted to
claim their cities in the Templar name; and the Templars themselves might rule
the Holy Land, and eventually beyond. They must not succeed their mission.”
Puzzled, Altaïr blurted out his next question, “Why is that?”
“Their plans depend upon the Templar treasure, the Piece of Eden.” Al Mualim
smiled both bemused and pleased. “But we hold it now. They cannot hope to
achieve their goals without it.” The older man stroked his beard then picked up
the silver and gold ball to admire it.
“What is this treasure?” Altaïr wanted to know why it was so important to risk
so many lives, including Malik’s and Kadar’s.
Al Mualim approached Altaïr and held the ball up to eye level. “It is
temptation,” he said seriously.
Altaïr shrugged unimpressed, “It’s just a piece of silver.”
That response didn’t seem to please the Master. “Look at it!” he commanded as
Altaïr took a wary step back.
Still not really seeing the point of this, Altaïr looked anyways, “What am I
supposed to see?” Is it a diviner’s ball like the Romanians and their crystal
orbs and cards?
For a moment Al Mualmin seemed confused. Altaïr thought maybe something special
was supposed to happen and didn’t. The old Master frowned as he paused. “This,”
he started to explain, “piece of silver cast out Adam and Eve. It turned staves
into snakes. Parted and closed the Red Sea. Eris used it to start the Trojan
War. And with it, a poor carpenter turned water into wine.”
This was too fantastical for Altaïr to believe, being the atheist that he was.
“It seems rather... plain for all the power you claim it has. How does it
work?” He wondered briefly who was the insane one now.
Al Mualim set the ball into a box on his desk. “He who holds it commands the
hearts and minds of whoever looks upon it. Whoever tastes of it as they say.”
That didn’t make sense. The Hospitalier was doing so without the ball, but
hoped to have it to make his task easier. So Altaïr asked, “And Garnier’s men?”
“An experiment.” The master spoke with distain. “Herbs used to simulate the
effects so they might be ready for when they finally held it.”
As ever, the Master made sense. Altaïr tried to sort the pieces of this puzzle.
“Talal supplied Garnier with slaves. Tamir equipped them with weapons and
armour. They were preparing something. But... what?”
“War.” It was a plain and simple statement.
“And the others... the other men who ruled the cities, they meant to gather up
the people; make them like Garnier’s men.” Altaïr could see it now, yes, the
Master made perfect sense. It was a terrifying sense.
Al Mualim nodded to Altaïr conclusions. “The perfect citizens. The perfect
soldiers. A perfect world.” It didn’t sound so awful, yet it was a place of
total slavery, no free will.
It made Altaïr shudder. “Robert de Sable must never have this back!” The very
idea of the world as perfect according to that man was sickening.
They discussed the plan to destroy the Templars with these key members that
have been already dealt with. There were nine in total. The next two targets
were Sibrand in Acre and Jubair in Damascus. “They know you come, the Man in
the White Hood. They’ll be looking for you Altaïr.”
That only made this a more interesting challenge with more noble stakes. “They
won’t find me. I am but a blade in the crowd.”
The Master uncovered something from the desk’s surface. It was Altaïr’s Eagle
Sword. It had been a gift to him from Malik long ago. A small secret between
them. They each had one. Faruq had a friend who forged blades and was having
one made for Kadar too when he would be old enough. Altaïr wanted to leap
forward and snatch back what had been lost to him, but he held his ground with
a neutral expression.
“Here,” The Master offered, “My gift to you, in gratitude for the good work you
have done.” He then left for his private study with the Piece of Eden.
Altaïr lifted the sword almost lovingly from the desk. It had been a year since
he last saw it. He thought it lost forever with his disgrace. He set it down
again as his hands shook and emotions clawed their way forward only to be
roughly rammed back into the bottle within him. Neutral again, he examined the
blade to be sure it was in fine condition before sheathing it where his old
sword was. It had more weight at his hip. It felt more solid and grounding. It
felt right.
He didn’t want to waste time thinking about anything but his duties. He had two
lives to take. Best be swift, numb, and invisible. He strode from the library
with a dangerous glower. Some hurried from his path. Others stood stoic,
perfectly guarding, and never even seemed to register his passing. He paid them
no mind. They hated him anyways. No mind. That was an Eastern philosophy that
the Chinese Buddhists preached. He could be no mind. No mind had its own peace.
Peace within leads to peace without. If I feel nothing and think nothing, then
there will be peace in me, quiet, and I will find peace outside me.
The horse outside Masyaf knew better and shied from him. He had to coax it with
fruit before he mounted and rode off through the Kingdom.
***** Malik: Dawn Novice *****
Chapter Summary
     More little novice... it fills Malik’s heart with joy... and mine
     too.
Chapter Notes
     The Muslim dawn Prayer is called the Fajr. That was the best I could
     work out. If I have it wrong, I hope someone can correct me.
Malik was barely awake when he heard the clumsy collision of child and pillows.
He rubbed his eyes and combed his fingers through his still damp hair from the
wash he was having. The hot morning soak had pulled him back into sleep and his
fingers were all wrinkly. He figured the noise was Junayd tumbling off the wall
in likely a horrible tangle of arms and legs and pillows. He smirked and dried
off. Not hearing the boy call for him had him worrying that maybe the boy
knocked his head and was hurt. Malik tugged on his pants and tied them as he
walked out into the main Bureau.
There sat the boy on his knees, looking serene just before he bowed his head
down in traditional dawn prayers. Malik smiled and joined the youth on the
carpets. He quietly translated as they prayed.
Allaahu Akbar
     “Allah is great”
Ashhadu Allah ilaaha illa-Lah
     “I bear witness of none more worthy of worship but Allah”
Ash Hadu anna Muhamadar rasuulullah
     “And that Muhammed is His messenger”
Hayya' alas Salaah
     “Come to prayer”
Hayya' ala Falaah
     “Come to peace”
A-Salaatu Khayrun Mina-Naum
     “Prayer is better than sleep”
Allaahu Akbar
     “Allah is great”
Laa ilaaha illa-Lah
     “None are worthier of His worship”
The boy then sat back up and rubbed his hand over his freshly shaven head
unhappily. “Is the prayer true?”
Malik wanted to ask about the baldness, but the boy’s question seemed more
important. He found himself quoting something he never thought he would,
“Nothing is True and everything is permitted.”
“So... it is true only if we believe it to be.”
Malik thought the boy’s interpretation was likely the best he had heard and
committed it to memory to tell Altaïr. The statement was a fact... but a very
mutable one. “Now Novice, what has happened to your hair?”
Junayd hung his head and muttered with embarrassment. “Granfadder found me with
lice last night. So he shaved it all off and scrubbed me with a brush.”
Malik thought it completely endearing to have this fake cover story of the boy
being the Old Dai’s grandson. It made for a good explanation should anyone ask.
Sent from Acre like so many to family in safer places. “Well, we can’t have
lice about. Come, novice. I will treat this and you can assure your...
grandfather, that there will be no more lice.” Malik led the boy into the back
room and prepared a cream that he rubbed into the boy’s head.
Junayd made faces and complained how it burned a bit. Then blushed as he stood
stark naked in the emptied tub while Malik dusted him down with some powder. He
sat in the dusty tub as instructed.
“We will begin our lesson with theory. Have you learned how to care for a
blade, clean it and repair the leathering on it and its sheath?” Malik was
pleased as the boy explained the steps he learned from his previous mentor.
They moved on to discussing the Creed and how the blade was related as a tool.
“Stay your blade from the blood of an innocent. This includes that you are
responsible for protecting them if you can. Hide in plain sight. They will help
hide you in exchange for your discretion and protections. Never compromise the
Brotherhood. Do not expose yourself or draw undue attention. Drawing a blade in
a crowd of innocents will certainly do that.”
The boy snickered. “Only a really stupid novice would do that!” Malik had to
snicker, too, then all he could think of was Altaïr. “Can I wash this powder
off? And get dressed?”
“Hmmm... no.”
Junayd gave his best pleading eyes.  The answer remained no. “How am I going to
learn anything about sword fighting like this?”
“By first learning to listen,” instructed Malik. “The assassin is a master of
the art of listening before he is a master of the art of using.” Malik wandered
off and returned with several items, laying them out on the floor. He pointed
to one after the other naming the types of throwing knives, the daggers and
short knives, the swords and even a wrist blade. The last had been his own that
he could no longer use on the now missing left arm. He made the boy recite the
Creed and the meanings they just discussed and then recite the names of each
blade several times. Then he taught him the names of the blades in other
languages.
By the end of the early part of the morning, Junayd was allowed to towel off,
but not wash. Washing is what he could do just before he goes to bed at his new
home. He  dressed and was given paper where he learned to write the blade names
in all the languages he had just learned (Arabic, English, French, Latin, and
Greek), until he had them committed to memory. Malik started work on a new map
of Jerusalem while the boy sat in the middle of the floor doing the work
assigned to him. Only after Junayd could recite them by heart, did he earn
breakfast.
Malik sent him home after that with the instruction to be here in three days.
“Safety and Peace, rafiq.” Malik called the greeting back to the boy as he
watched the boy climb and scramble and struggle up the fountain. He had grown
an inch in the last month, so this was an easier climb than it was the last
time he made it. Malik felt thrilled to have had the company, to be... teaching
someone. He almost wished he had chosen to apprentice the youth himself now.
But how could he? Someone might see the boy and then Malik’s lie to Master Al
Mualim would be known. He reminded himself that Al Mualim, for all his faults,
knew best what to do with the assassins. And with this war, this crusade, Malik
was sure no one else could be dealing with it any better.
***** Altair: Lone Rider *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry about how short this one is...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Altaïr rode hard. His mind kept wandering into insane thoughts and he never saw
when the sword arced and took down his horse. He hit the ground in a terrible
sprawl, barely remembering to roll to save from breaking bones. He dodged the
tumble of the heavy horse. His vision shifted to see the flashes of red
movements around him. He was surrounded. He had ridden into a small marching
battalion of crusaders!
His mind blanked, and he was in motion. A flurry of steel talons and white
fluttering robes. Now and then, his vision shifted to spot the shining red
aggressive targets. Soon there were no red aggressors. Two cowering neutral
white figures pleaded mercy in English. The strange vision was soon flooded by
real colors. Eleven men lay dead by a variety of truly brutal means, tangled
broken bones and ravaging gashes. One of the two cowering men dropped and
vomited.
Altaïr staggered away from them not even knowing what had happened, but knowing
it was his doing. This was not assassination. This hardly even qualified as
self-defence. This was Altaïr... the killer. Except... he didn’t take these two
now innocent shining white lives that cowered before him. He didn’t recall
encountering these soldiers on the road at all. But clearly... he had
encountered them. Their blood stained his blades and speckled his white robes.
What makes me different from the men I am killing?
Feeling a rise in panic, he turned and ran. He ran full tilt till he was
stumbling and the sun was setting. The terrain became, rockier. A large village
rested ahead. He snuck through between buildings trying to get his bearings. He
found another horse he coaxed from a pen and walked it down a random road. He
was asleep in the saddle when the night terrors plagued him and was woken by
his horse charging in fright. He reigned it in, unsure what spooked it. Finding
a stray dilapidated hut with a stale bale of hay, Altaïr let the horse rest and
graze while he tried to sleep.
He woke in a sweat, damp with chilly dew. His chest heaved as he frantically
fought his memories back into the hidden corner of his mind, hammering them
down till he felt numb again. It was easier to feel nothing, to be a stone.
Cleave a piece of wood and I am there. Lift up the stone and you will find me.
As above, so below. As within, so without.
Altaïr’s hands clawed into his hair and he fought the yell that ripped in his
throat. After many minutes of hard panting and a curious horse wandering over
to nuzzle him, Altaïr felt as normal as he could pretend to be. He pulled
himself into the saddle. He traveled like this with similar episodes all the
way to a city wall. He barely registered even which city. He just let tired
feet and a tired mind act on their own till he dropped through the lattice roof
of the Bureau. He didn’t even bother to remove armor, weapons or boots as
usual. The moonlight lit the way to the carpets and soft pillows where he
curled up with familiar smells.
Chapter End Notes
     I am pleased my secondary characters are great secondary characters
     (Junayd the little novice and Tibah). Also I hope my tertiary
     characters are good, too (Tibah’s brother, the Old Dai, and the
     Informant and his family with little Elli). I will be bringing in
     another secondary character soonish.
     Altaïr is away from AL Mualim physically, but not mentally. It will
     catch up to him. He is dancing this edge of shocky state vs total
     breakdown. Somewhere... at some time... he will snap and lose it
     somehow.
     There will likely be no more Al Mualim x Altaïr moments. I hated
     writing them and do not care to write another. It is not a pairing I
     favour in any way and am totally squicked out by people who do favour
     it.
***** Malik Discovers Shock *****
Malik had about four days of getting back into his usual routine of scribing,
logging informant information, creating maps, and dealing with people in the
Bureau as public clients that he generally detested and had to be polite to
anyways. The breaks in his routine included Junayd in the morning of the third
day, the nightly reading of Altaïr’s trance notes, and his inner debate on how
to handle Tibah. He saw no more assassins or even novices coming through the
Bureau. That was less and less frequent the past few months. He didn’t see
Altaïr either, though found himself hoping and sometimes checking the fountain
area for a sleeping form in white robes.
The second lesson with Junayd was more of a test. Could the youth actually
clean all the blades and sharpen them properly. Could he clean and repair all
the leathering on the blades and the sheaths? Could he name them all by heart
and write those names in several languages? The intermixed joy came with the
curious religious and philosophical questions the boy felt he could ask Malik.
They debated the nuances of the Creed and the structure of the Order. It got
Malik thinking how and why people were chosen for what tasks and reminded him
of his ideas of new training techniques that he wanted to try, but really
needed an experienced assassin to test them out with.
He earned the usual few bruises pretending to be a helpless crippled scribe
when he went out on errands. Those moments soured his mood and always ended in
things being thrown or broken in his back room. It reinforced his sense of
helplessness and challenged him to want to fight back like the assassin he used
to be. But he couldn’t fight back. It would blow his cover and that would break
the third tenet of the Creed.
Altaïr’s journal did not help his mood and often raised more questions than
answers. He read how Al Mualim had taken Altaïr from the docks of Acre, saving
him from thugs who were killing his parents. It was one incident of several
that explained Altaïr’s fear of water. The question was, in light of what Malik
now knew of Faruq’s death, was who killed Altaïr’s parents? He read about
Altaïr’s two failings and the treasures. There were consequences to failing.
But why punish Altaïr when the failings were out of his control? Altaïr was not
a God, you could not expect miracles from him. Why punish him for things that
were not his fault at all? Malik knew that it was his blood trail that lead
Robert de Sable to Masyaf, not Altaïr. But maybe he had not made that clear in
his pain and the loss of Kadar and his arm.
It tore his heart apart to read how Altaïr had tried so hard to keep Malik and
Kadar safe from the dangers of the treasure hunts and the dangers of training
directly under Al Mualim. It tore him apart, too, to read how Altaïr viewed
himself as not human, and nothing more than a prized beast to be used. Pleasing
like a lap dog, and obeying commands without question. Except now, now that
Altaïr was forced to relearn the meaning of being an assassin, he had started
to question. Maybe only privately in his head and too embarrassed to discuss
it, but still, he was questioning.
Malik came to understand that the treasures were meant to help bring peace.
There have been references of them in various religious texts. But in corrupt
hands, maybe they could be used to control others, abused for the selfish
reasons of a few and not the benefit of all. He was glad then that the treasure
found in Solomon’s Temple was in the hands of the assassins. We would never use
it to control others. We seek freedom and peace for all. He had to trust that
although Al Mualim did unforgivable things to Altaïr, they did make him into
perhaps the only man who could fight this battle and retrieve these treasures,
to take out of people who threaten all the people in the Kingdom.
Malik was just about to read more this night. He had just scribbled in his
questions. Did Al Mualim kill Altaïr and bring him back to life? By what
sorcery? The treasure? Can it do that? Who were Altaïr’s targets? Malik thought
that maybe he could help Altaïr figure out the links between these people. He
lifted his head sure he had heard something in the night, something landing in
the other room. All was quiet. It must have been just a bird. Again there was a
sound, or a movement out the corner of his eye. A flutter of black and white
feathers. He was reminded of the angel Tibah spoke of, the image that helped
him find the drunken bleeding Altaïr. He looked over and saw his curtain
rippling. There must have been a breeze. Malik set down the notebook and corked
the ink. It was time to stretch anyways. He would go to the other room for
water and take a moment to gaze at the stars.
He jolted to a stop at the entrance. There on the carpets and pillows was a
white robed figure, hooded and huddled and shivering in the chill night air. It
was no other than Altaïr. He rubbed his eyes to be sure, and secretly thanks
the angel. It was definitely Altaïr by the armour and robe markings. The
assassin was curled in a tight ball murmuring in a night terror. Malik jumped
at the sound of the wrist blade impaling a pillow as reflex to the dream. He
resisted the urge to rush over and hold Altaïr. Startling the armed sleeping
assassin would only end badly for them both. Malik looked over at the pigeons
to see if maybe he missed word from Al Mualim of a new mission here for Altaïr,
but there was none. Then why was he here? That could be answered later.
Malik removed his black robe and called Altaïr’s name a few times to rouse him
a little before approaching, and draping it over him. The assassin looked like
an exhausted wreck. The dry blood spots told of battles on the way here, but
there didn’t seem to be any cuts or punctures in the fabric. Altaïr sat up
though was completely unfocused, still half asleep. Malik helped remove blades,
harnesses, belts, armor and boots. Altaïr rolled back down into the pillows. He
pulled his hood far down to cover his head and face and curled hand around the
end of the black sleeve of Malik’s draped robe, pulling it to him and burying
his face in it.
Malik frowned deeply as he stood to get another blanket for Altaïr. He had seen
Altaïr like this before. That numb blankness of expression, yet the foetal
tense ball of a sleeping position. It was never anything he could do anything
about but blanket him. Getting close only worsened it. He wondered what Altaïr
did to end up like this. Or what was done to him. When he returned, Altaïr was
shaking. This looked more like a state of shock. Malik abandoned the potential
dangers and searched Altaïr’s body for wounds, loosening Altaïr’s clothes as he
did.
He checked Altaïr’s temperature with the back of his hand, cold and clammy.
Altaïr’s pulse was fast and weak. There were no wounds, but this was definitely
the beginnings of shock just the same. Altaïr breathed rapidly and shallowly
and his lips were starting to take on a pale color. Malik struggled to get a
pile of pillows under Altaïr’s feet and bundle him with the blankets. Altaïr
kept trying to curl back up into a foetal position, so Malik lay down beside
him and held him anyways, partially to help keep him in the proper position to
get blood flowing back to normal and partially to offer what comfort he could…
and a little extra body heat.
It was a long night of repeatedly checking Altaïr’s state before Altaïr was
actually in a normal sleep. Malik was almost ready to follow suit. Altaïr
rolled over and curled up again, but this time facing Malik, burying his hooded
face into Malik’s chest. Malik wondered over and over what horror befell Altaïr
and knew somehow that he would never find out.
***** Altair: Comfort of Jerusalem *****
Chapter Summary
     Sometimes the lie is necessary... even for a little while... in order
     to cling to the fraying fabric of sanity.
Altaïr tangled his fingers into the soft fabric of the blanket and robes. He
inhaled the familiar scent of parchment, ink and Malik’s own unique muskiness.
He let out a strangled whimper that almost sounded like Malik’s name. One and a
half arms held him tight. Panic rose in him and he almost shoved the figure
off, but as he cracked his eyes open, his vision was blurred by the bright blue
light of a trusted being. He almost smothered himself in that being. He tensed,
as fingers worked their way into the forbidden territory under his hood and
into his hair. Little by little he started to relax again. He turned his head
enough so he could breathe fresh air and drifted into exhausted sleep.
The sun started to bake his bare feet and he mumbled plaintively. He didn’t
want to move though. “Safety and peace, Altaïr.” The voice seemed distantly
familiar in the soft tired whisper. His hood was pushed off and he squeezed his
eyes shut as panic again rose. “Shhhh... easy...” Malik’s hand turned Altaïr’s
face into him as it rested over Altaïr’s head in place of the hood. Altaïr
drifted again off to sleep, more deeply.
Malik had very slowly and carefully extricated himself to check Altaïr’s pulse
and temperature. Annoyed mumbling and the random shove told him clearly that
Altaïr would be fine.
Golden eyes blinked blearily open. At first all Altaïr saw was the swath of
bright blue light shimmering before him. The gold of the sunlight permeated
that and forced him to blink several times. The room came into view along with
the familiar figure of a concerned Malik frowning down at him. It made no
sense. He was supposed to be in Damascus. Why was Malik in Damascus? Altaïr
shut his eyes tightly trying to piece together the events that lead him here
and trying to firmly identify where here was. The Bureau. The orris and
sandalwood incense smoke drifting on the air. The sound on only one fountain,
the other two Bureaus had two fountains. Jerusalem. Two horses. He had to ride
two horses to get here.
He sat up suddenly with a gasp, “Blood!” Malik’s hand gripped his shoulder to
steady him.
“Yes, Altaïr, you are covered in blood. Feel up to undressing and cleaning up?
I’ll get you fresh robes.” Malik backed away before the panic that rose could
crest and cause Altaïr to bolt.
Altaïr gave Malik an uncertain nod. He slowly tugged off each piece of
clothing. He discarded them away from him along with the memories they revealed
in the dried brown blood splatters upon them. A metal wash basin and cloth
seemed to materialize. He looked up to Malik’s retreating back. Altaïr filled
the basin with water from the fountain and washed himself, choking back a sob
as he washed more intimate parts and again when he washed his face. Malik set
the robes down and retreated again, giving Altaïr space to sort his emotions.
Once dressed, Malik sat on a pillow near Altaïr. “I have not had word of your
arrival. Why are you here, Altaïr?”
“I’m... supposed to be in Damascus.” Altaïr welcomed the sliced fruit and cup
of water for a sparse breakfast.
Malik frowned, puzzled. “This is not Damascus, Altaïr. Why are you here?” He
was digging for information, digging for the truth.
Altaïr was not going to give him that truth. He stared as his still stitched
hands and found his answer for Malik. “Take out the stitches.” It almost
sounded like a question. He hoped it didn’t. He heard the sigh of Malik
frustrated with another excuse and knew Malik knew his lie to be that, a lie.
But he refused to say more. He simply held still for Malik to remove the
stitches.
The closeness was confusing. He wanted Malik closer. Not just closer but deeply
intimately closer. He wanted that inner peace, that moment of bliss. At the
same time, just being touched made his heart race with the need to run away.
However, he promised Faruq he would not run from Malik. He needed a reason to
get away, before his said or did something and unravelled to end up like those
wandering crazy people.
Malik ran his thumb across Altaïr’s second palm once the stitches were out.
Altaïr snatched his hand away. “Altaïr, I hate when you lie to me.” Malik’s
reproachful scowl twisted in Altaïr’s gut. “I wish you’d talk to me.”
“I can’t, Malik. I have a mission to do.” He stood with all intentions of
fleeing. Malik daringly grabbed Altaïr’s arm. “No Malik! I... can’t. I have to
do my missions.” He pulled free and pulled on his weapons and armor and fast as
he could.
Malik pursed his lips and scowled back at the rebuke. “Who is your target?”
“Jubair of Damascus... and Sibrand of Acre. Safety and peace, Malik.” Altaïr
dextrously leapt out through the lattice roof.
“Tell me about them! Come back between them! Altaïr!! Did you hear me?! Come
back between them!”
Altaïr stopped at the edge of the roof, hearing Malik’s call. He turned and
took a couple steps back till he was in view of Malik. They gazed at each other
for a long minute. “I will, Malik.” Then he turned and flew from the roof.
***** Malik: Puzzle Pieces *****
Chapter Notes
     You may have notices by now my switch to drop the word "SOUK" from
     the story because I was using it wrong. The word "SOUK" ( سوق )
     actually means Market Place or Bazaar. I will have to go back into
     Chapters 1-20 and fix that later.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Altaïr stopped at the edge of the roof, hearing Malik’s call. He turned and
took a couple steps back till he was in view of Malik. They gazed at each other
for a long minute. “I will Malik.” Then he turned and flew from the roof.
Malik stood under the lattice staring up into the sky sorting his own feelings.
There was the deep worry of what had happened to Altaïr. He had arrived in a
state of shock and even woke in disorientation. Yet, he was off again. Malik
felt a little used and abused. Altaïr comes in states of need and comfort,
never explains why and is gone again to abandon Malik. He always leaves me
behind!!! And then there was this... the flip and skip his heart did when
Altaïr actually turned back to confirm that he would return.
Malik felt like a woman.
He kicked cushions in frustration. He wasn’t even sure why he was frustrated.
He knew Altaïr needed him. He knew Altaïr needed serious help. But how could he
possibly do anything stuck here?! He kicked a few more cushions.
“Stupid NOVICE! He didn’t even fill his water bottles or take food for the
road! It is at least four more days to Damascus.” Malik wondered how in Allah’s
name Altaïr did not starve to death, dehydrate in the desert, or simply...
simply... fall prey to ... to... MICE! “He can barely take care of himself!”
Malik paced out his frustration till he remembered that he had asked Altaïr
about his next targets. It was generally forbidden to ask about targets that
were not your own. It was none of his business. And yet, Malik felt it was
entirely his business. Kadar died over that treasure. Faruq might have died for
getting too involved. This was totally his business. He pulled out Altaïr’s
trance notes, hunted the section on targets and scribbled in the two new names.
Then he opened out maps and was about to get involved in trying to solve this
new puzzle, this new yet old mystery, when he remembered he was supposed to be
open today for scribe business. He cursed in Arabic.
Having to wait till evening was going to kill him! Or, he might kill the first
client that pissed him off.
Thankfully, no one died by evening.
Malik concluded that if he could not be at Altaïr’s side to be of any help,
then he could help him by unravelling, hopefully, the mystery of the nine lives
for Altaïr’s. He put bottles of salve and ink on the pages of the notebook to
hold it open. He used a variety of other heavy items to hold maps of Acre,
Jerusalem, and Damascus spread out on the floor. He made sure there was space
for him to pace around everything as he preferred to be in motion as he
thought.
In one of the unused notebooks, he started to put the puzzle pieced together.
He gave each important name a page with a few pages between each to leave room
for many notes and stuck in a little marker to easily find the beginning of
each. He included King Richard, Saladin, Al Mualim and Altaïr. He added Robert
de Sable. Then he added himself, Kadar and Faruq. He then dug out an old map of
Masyaf to add to the spread out maps. If he was including assassins, then he
had to include their city as well. He returned to the notebook and added some
new names: Adha Calisse the Chalice Treasure, Nina, and The Piece of Eden or...
Apple of Eden.
This was the mystery. Who or what were they all? How were they connected? Why
was Altaïr ordered to target the men he was, including the two new ones? Who
was his ninth target? What did the treasures have to do with any of this? Maybe
if Malik could come to understand this, he could help Altaïr deal with the
issues he was having and maybe better resolve his situation and redeem himself.
His pages seemed so empty and sparse. They looked a little like this:
Tamir
*dead* Damascus, Black Market Merchant, Saracen
Talal
*dead* Jerusalem, Slave Trader, Saracen
Garnier
*dead* Acre, Doctor/Torturer, Templar (French)
Abul
*dead* Damascus, Merchant King, Saracen
William
*dead* Acre Fort, City Ruler, Templar (English)
Madj Addin
*dead* Jerusalem, Regent, Saracen
Killed in Poor District during attempted hanging of innocent lives.
Used an assassin as bait to try to draw out Altaïr.
Jubair
Damascus, ....., Saracen
Sibrand
Acre, ....., Templar (French)
King Richard
English King and Crusade Leader (Templar?) against the Saracens
Saladin
Saracen Leader against the Crusaders
Al Mualim
Masyaf, Leader of the Assassins
Fighting against the Templars
Seeking sacred treasures
    * Chalice (Adha... lost to Templars)
    * Apple / Piece of Eden (in his possession)
Altaïr (Flying Eagle, Son of None)
Elite Master Assassin hunting treasures for Al Mualim
Blood of “Those Who Came Before”
Heals faster, moves more accurately, endures longer
Sees shining colors on people
    * Red: aggressors
    * Blue: trusted friends (I am blue)
    * White: the innocent
    * Yellow/Gold: a target
Sees fog when kills and speaks with the soul of the dying, or that of the dead
Parents drowned at docks of Acre (Altaïr age 8)
Subject to physical and sexual abuse at hands of mentor Al Mualim
Suffering post trauma symptoms
Given coercion drug and ordered to kill Faruq
Failed twice to retrieve treasures
Apparently executed by Al Mualim as a traitor after failure to retrieve Apple
of Eden treasure
Was intimate with Adha the chalice
Married to Nina (child pending)
Stripped of rank to Novice status to relearn the Creed of the Assassins
Not the arrogant ass I thought he was... though still quite arrogant
Robert de Sable
Templar, right hand to King Richard
Previous possessor of Apple of Eden treasure in Solomon’s Temple
Killed Kadar
Still alive
I hope he is a target, if not, I will commission a contract on him myself
Malik (me)
Jerusalem, Bureau Dai, Assassins
Former assassin, lost arm to wound from Robert de Sable in Solomon’s Temple
Arm amputated, though might not have been necessary
Brother of Faruq and Kadar *both dead*
Kadar
*dead* Novice Assassin
Brother of Faruq and Malik
Admired the arrogant Altaïr
Faruq
*dead* Master Assassin
Doctor, due to retire and serve assassins in Masyaf after last mission
Killed on last mission by Altaïr, who was under coercion drug (by who and why?)
Adha
First woman in Altaïr’s life
May or not have had a child by him
Blood of “Those Who Came Before”
Taught Altaïr to see shining colors on people
Was actually the Chalice Treasure (Sacred Vessel)
Lost to the Templars across the waters, might have been running from Al Mualim
I think Altaïr might have loved her or at the very least felt kinship with her
Nina
Hellion married to Altaïr as punishment for losing Adha
Ran away while pregnant with Altaïr’s child
Marriage considered null and void
Al Mulaim has an open hunt for her (why?)
Maybe it is because of the child who will of course have Altaïr’s strange blood
and skills
Apple/Piece of Eden
Silvery golden ball stolen by Assassins from Robert de Sable from Solomon’s
Temple
Retrieved by Malik (me)
In Al Mualim’s possession
Malik stared at the notes. He paced around the maps marking in the
assassination places at least in Jerusalem. He frowned deeply at the lists.
There were Saracen deaths and Templar deaths and Assassin death. But how did
they all connect? He was missing too many pieces. He packed everything away
neatly and hid it in a nook. With sudden surety, he wrote two small notes
requesting information on Altaïr’s targets from the Dai of each Damascus and
Acre. He sent two birds on their way with those notes. He expected a rebuke and
reprimand for poking his nose into another city’s affairs, but it was worth a
try. He had the logs for Jerusalem, so he could dig out those and add
information on the Jerusalem targets.
Malik felt so awake and alive at this moment. He may not be running alongside
Altaïr, but he was in a sense on a mission. This was uniquely something he
could do to help that was not one of Altaïr’s skills. Maybe together, they
could sort out the mystery and end this war. That would certainly please Master
Al Mualim and bring peace to the Kingdom.
Chapter End Notes
     Information on PTSD
     www.medicinenet.com/posttraumatic_stress_disorder/article .htm
***** Altair: Distraction *****
Chapter Summary
     The dumb things we do to distract ourselves...
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It was a hard, hot several days to Damascus. Altaïr made a detour to take some
narrower routes northward. It was a bit of a shortcut, if you could call riding
through many crusaders, saracens and their archers a shortcut. It gave him a
way to vent the irrational aggression within him. He was sure these men would
be replaced by the time he made his way back through here. He refused to look
back. There was too much blood and it told him he was a being killer and not an
assassin. Also, if he lingered, there might be that fog. He could not handle
all those souls talking to him. Let them find their own way to their God.
He kicked the horse into a full run, squeezed with his legs and let go of the
reigns, spreading his arms wide. It was like taking the leap of faith. It was
like flying. Closing his eyes helped this feeling and allowed him to forget.
He opened his eyes lying on his back on the ground, the horse nibbling grass
nearby. Everything ached. He sat up with a groan and brought his hand to his
brow where he found a large painful lump. He pushed his hood back and looked
around. The sun was starting to set. He frowned, which hurt, because he thought
it was morning. Was he attacked? He spotted his attacker, a large overhanging
branch from a nearby tree. He groaned and flopped back again. “I am such a
stupid novice!”
So much for shaving a day off the ride to Damascus. Altaïr must have been
knocked out cold all day. Even his face was sun burned from lying on his back
face up all day. If any guards or crusaders had happened upon him, they surely
must have laughed and left him for dead. He hated them all.
That hatred nearly resulted in a massacre at the next fort. Altaïr turned his
horse back and forth debating how he was going to deal with passing through the
fort. His mind slid smoothly into analyzing the terrain, counting the men,
locating the archers, calculating distances. It would be eighty some odd deaths
in his wake. He ran the blockade full tilt instead.
It was fort after watch tower after fort after blockade. Some he ran through.
Some he fought through. It became routine after the tenth. He surprised a
Templar in one of the narrow shortcuts. Or was that the other way around? He
leapt from his horse to face him. The Templar yelled, “ASSASSIN!” Altaïr yelled
back with an equal snarl, “TEMPLAR!” And they clashed blades. It lasted but a
few moments. Altaïr was cleaning his blade on the Templar’s robes.
He stood with a hard cold glare. A guard was running up to see what the noise
was and nearly stumbled to a halt. Golden eagle eyes evaluated their next prey.
The guard bolted in panic. Altaïr mounted his horse and rode the rest of the
way to Damascus.
The Dai of Damascus was especially welcoming with his platitudes and requests
for news of Altaïr’s adventures. Considering some of the previous odd
encounters and the refusal to heal him, Altaïr was not particularly interested
in being social, not that Altaïr was any good at being social anyways.
According to the Dai, Jubair was the city’s top scholar. It made little sense
why Al Mualim would want this life. Altaïr was directed south into the middle
district of the city to hunt for his information about his target. There was
some sort of preaching of a New World, or so the Dai mentioned. Altaïr was
eager to learn more.
He eavesdropped on a conversation and returned to the Bureau with the news as
he would in Jerusalem after each juicy bit of information. The rafiq dared
suggest that Altaïr was under some occult spell, perhaps narcotics, when he
should be in the academic district and not... “Yet here you are, Altaïr,
stumbling around the Bureau.”
Altaïr repressed a growl. “I am not stumbling.”
“So defensive,” the rafiq didn’t even bother to look at Altaïr as he searched
his shelves for a new pot to paint. “Feeling... paranoid? Out of sorts?”
“I’ll be going now,” Altaïr spat and almost stomped into the open-roof room.
The rafiq called over his shoulder, “Keep mind and body pure, Altaïr. Resist
further temptation!”
It was the most bizarre thing he had heard from a Dai or rafiq. It reminded him
a little of what Al Mualim had said and yet rang with a vague familiarity to
the same strange ramblings of the men he had just eavesdropped on.
Chapter End Notes
     I ran into writer’s block half way through this chapter. I ranted and
     paced my house and all I wanted to do was write Malik stuff!! WTF!! I
     had to go back to the game and PLAY this whole mission over just for
     ideas. If you do not get the minimum investigations done and return
     to the rafiq of the Damascus Bureau, then you get this interesting
     freakish dialogue. It creeped me out the first time it happened.
***** Malik: God and Blades *****
Chapter Summary
     Sometimes children are exactly what the doctor ordered.
Chapter Notes
     prayer taken from this website: http://
     prayersbeforedawn.blogspot.com/
Malik stared for two days at the notes he had taken. He could get no further
without information from the other city Dai’s logs. Waiting with little to do
was what Malik hated most about this job. He wanted to be out there, gathering
information himself, feeling his blade bite deep into a target. He took up his
knife and a handful of little throwing knives. Tonight would be about practice.
The night air was brisk against his skin as he stood in just his pants in the
main Bureau room. He had a target mounted on the back of the front door. The
throwing knives lined the counter beside his incense pot. His dark eyes
narrowed as he imagined his target as a Templar or more often as Robert de
Sable. THUNK! Thunk thunk thunk! He threw with rapid succession. CLATTER! His
last blade flew wide and bounced off the stone wall. He hadn’t really aimed it,
but flung it with annoyance. The others had hit the target but not in the
grouping he had wanted. They were grouped with maybe six inched between the
widest. He scowled at the group like they were a reminder of his crippled state
and uselessness. He wanted no more than three inches. He packed them away to
practice again later.
Malik gripped the knife in his hand with the blade pointing down toward his
elbow. In knife fighting, he preferred this reverse grip. It was harder for
opponents to predict the pending sting. He breathed letting his back and chest
adapt to the cool air before moving very slowly through each fighting position,
honing precision, refining stances and holds, working the muscles, before he
sped the moves to normal. His blade whooshed through the air; the silvery edge
glinted in neat sparks from the reflection of the lamp on the counter. He
stilled after the workout and just held the ready pose with his elbow up.
He knew he was still good, still a master with the sword, but he had neglected
some of the other blades. Since he seemed to have acquired a blades trainee,
who was due in the morning, Malik felt he ought to refresh himself. He didn’t
want to admit how much he looked forward to the intrusion of the little novice.
He loved their little talks about philosophy and the way of the assassin. He
relished the boy’s fascination and curiosity with anything Malik could teach
him. He remembered how wonderful Altaïr had been with the boy when he saved the
boy’s life. He wished Altaïr were here. In a way, it would be like having a son
of their own to train together.
Where did THAT unexpected thought come from?!
He knew though. It was part of the last things he had reading in the trance
notes before training.
I wish we could have adopted one together as we had planned.
I still love you. But so much has happened between us that I know you no longer
love me.
Malik set down the knife feeling tension and pain in his chest.
You had said it would only be fair if I died.
Don’t die out there Altaïr. You promised to come back to me. Don’t you dare
leave me behind that way. I would rather you lived. Allah, help him to listen
to me for once. I would rather he lived.
He shivered in the cold night air and returned to his room to bundle in his
black robe and a blanket. He lifted a tile and placed the trance journals into
the deep hole there, along with the maps and notes about Altaïr’s missions and
targets and treasures. He almost added Altaïr’s personal journal when he
decided he wanted to keep that out. It got tucked under his pillow. Malik
replaced the stone tile and kicked the corner of his bed mat back over it.
Altaïr had wanted Malik to hide his insanity. Malik didn’t think Altaïr was
insane, suffering post trauma, but not insane. Altaïr experienced things
differently from other people. Altaïr had started to think and question his
actions, evaluate the morals of them. That was not insane. If it was, then
Malik shared that insanity in spades!
Malik woke with a start to the sound of a voice in the Bureau. He shook his
head and rubbed his eyes, shocked he had slept in. The voice continued in its
still high pitch in a rhythmic prayer. It stumbled here and there through the
Hebrew words that were obviously still unfamiliar. Malik came to check on
Junayd, leaning in the doorway to the open air room and a smile he didn’t
realize was on his face. “Recite it again, novice. Your Hebrew needs work.”
Malik prepared breakfast for them as he listened offering the occasional
correction.
Junayd recited the Hebrew prayer for a fifth time:
                        Yigdal Elokim chai vehishtabach
                         nimtza ve'ein et el metziuto
                         Echad ve-ein yachid keyichudo
                         nelam vegam ein sof leachduto
                        Ein lo demut haguf ve-eino guf
                          lo na-a-roch elav kedushato
                        Kadmon lechol davar asher nivra
                       Rishon ve-ein reishit lereishito
                         Hino adon olam, lechol notzar
                           Yoreh gedulato umalchuto
                             Shefa nevuato netano
                         el aneshel segulato vetifarto
                          Lo kam beYisrael keMoshe od
                            Navi umabit et lemunato
                           Torat emet natan leamo El
                          Al yad nevio ne-eman beito
                         Lo yachalif haEl, velo yamir
                            Dato, leolamim lezulato
                           Tzofeh veyodeya setareinu
                          Mabit lesof davar bekadmato
                         Gomeil le-ish chesed kemifalo
                          Notein lerasha ra kerishato
                       Yishlach lekeitz yamin pedut olam
                        Kol chai veyeish yakir yeshuato
                          Chayei olam nata betocheinu
                         Baruch adei ad shem tehilato
When the boy was done and Malik sat to eat breakfast with him, Junayd asked,
“What does it mean? I have to memorize it, but I want to know what it means.
And why can’t we say God or write God? They hit my knuckles when I did and made
me pray for forgiveness.”
Malik sipped his Turkish coffee, now part of what he was making the morning
routine with the boy. “The name of God is so sacred to the Jews that it is
taboo to speak it or write it. It is a matter of respect. They don’t write it
in any place that might on purpose or by accident be discarded, because you
never want to discard God. YHVH is rarely spoken and only by the priests and
rabbis on holy days. As a Jew, it should not pass your lips unless you are
devoted to the Jewish God and becoming a rabbi or priest.”
“But you just...”
“I am not Jewish,” Malik stated plainly. “Also, I believe God would prefer you
understood properly in order to respect him properly. There are no secrets
between you and God, and never should be. Learning, understanding... lead to
wisdom.” Malik then translated the prayer for Junayd:
                     Exalted be the Living G-d and praised
                 He exists - unbound by time in His existence
              He is One - and there is no unity like His Oneness
                    Inscrutable and infinite is His Oneness
               He has no semblance of a body nor is He corporeal
                      Nor has His holiness any comparison
                   He preceded every being that was created
                 The First, and nothing precedes His recedence
            Behold! He is Master of the universe to every creature
               He demonstrates His greatness and His sovereignty
                        He granted His flow of prophecy
                      To His treasured splendrous people
                    In Yisrael none like Moshe arose again
                  A prophet who perceived His vision of truth
                     G-d gave His people a Torah of truth
          By means of His prophet, the most trusted of His household
                   G-d will never amend nor exchange His law
                      For any other one, for all eternity
                He scrutinizes and knows our hiddenmost secrets
               He perceives a matter's outcome at its inception
            He recompenses man with kindness according to his deed
           He places evil on the wicked according to this wickedness
                   By the End of Days he will send Mashiach
                To redeem those longing for His final salvation
               G-d will revive the dead in His abundant kindness
                     Blessed forever is His praised Name.
So their morning lesson began with discussing the nuances of Hebrew prayer and
comparing it to the Muslim dawn prayer. This moved into the Creed again and a
discussion on whether the assassins had their own religion or god. Malik told
the boy to hold that question for their next lesson or they would never get to
hold blades today. All calm was gone instantly when the boy realized he would
HOLD a blade today.
Malik chuckled as he set up the target and instructed Junayd how to throw
little knives. When he boy left with a throwing knife in a sheath he was
instructed to care for and return (unbloodied), Malik felt like he would want
this every day. Teaching, training, company. But that would mean admitting his
loneliness and need for assistance. He was not prepared to reinforce the notion
that he was a cripple.
***** Altair: Lone Eagle *****
It was hard to say what Malik’s passions were. Altaïr would easily say it lay
in three directions: being an assassin, being a scholar, being a doctor. The
first was no longer an option for Malik, not that Altaïr was so sure about it.
Malik was still very good with a blade in his right hand. The second, while not
forbidden from Malik did happen to be an inconvenient path since the great
library was in Masyaf and not easily accessible by Malik stuck in Jerusalem.
The third, well, he got to practice in secret on those who passed through the
Bureau whenever they had need.
Altaïr wondered why Malik didn’t try to make the Bureau into a little hospital.
Then he recalled all the people in the hospital in Acre. There would be no
privacy or way for the Brotherhood to reach Malik discreetly. He equally
wondered why Malik didn’t live the life of a scholar in Jerusalem. He had the
skill and could easily pass. Why lean on Malik’s less obvious talents and make
him a map maker?
Why were thoughts of Malik plaguing Altaïr’s mind and thus this mission?!
Because this should be Malik’s mission. Jubair was the top scholar in Damascus
and he was teaching and rallying people into handing over all their books and
parchment scrolls to be burned. Burning them, destroying the knowledge of the
past, was supposed to somehow allow for a better future. But for who? Why breed
ignorance? Unless all you wanted was blind faith. Al Mualim’s words about
perfect citizens in obedience echoed back to him. This was exactly how to
achieve it.
Altaïr followed some of Jubair’s students as they collected books for the daily
burnings and then listened to their daily lessons. They preached a New World
Order. A New Dawn or Age. Malik would lose his mind watching all this knowledge
being destroyed.
The days merged into weeks as Altaïr collected information and avoided the
Bureau of Damascus. Altaïr wondered if Malik was ever bored. He stretched on
his belly looking over a roof’s edge into a courtyard at another book burning.
Malik could not possibly be bored. He was ALWAYS busy. Altaïr always felt like
he was interrupting. Maybe if Malik had an assistant or apprentice, then he
would have some free time to do the things he liked doing. Maybe then, he would
be less... grouchy?
Altaïr rolled swiftly out of view as someone looked up in his direction. The
back of his left elbow connected with the corner of a stone wall. The first
thought was that a thin blade slid in above his elbow all the way to a finger
he no longer had. Then everything from the elbow down went numb. His wrist
blade jumped out to cut one of his fingers. Good thing that third finger was
already severed, or he would have that new pain to contend with. He lay on his
back gripping his elbow refraining from cursing aloud. Each focused breath
brought waves of tingles and pain. Soon came more normal sensations. He had to
forcible shove the wrist blade back into place. After several minutes, he
wondered if he had somehow fractured his elbow; he breathed a huge sigh of
relief to have both sensation and mobility return. There would certainly be a
bruise there later.
He sucked at the blood from his cut fingers as he slunk away from the scene he
was spying on. He quietly grumbled around the fingers in his mouth till he
found a covered roof garden with strewn carpets. He rolled into it for the
evening. In the fading light, he inspected the cuts on his fingers. They were
not so bad. He pulled off his fingerless glove. He bandaged the fingers with
little roll of gauze from a belt pouch, already hearing Malik criticize him for
not washing it first. He cussed and washed the cuts with water from one of his
drinking bottles, THEN bandaged them and replaced his glove. He inspected the
blade and made sure it was clean too.
He closed his eyes to rest. The stinging in his fingers stirred long forgotten
memories of when he endured the loss of his third finger.
The rite of passage of all those destined to be assassins approached. Malik and
Altaïr would go through it together before all those of the Order who were
present. They were so excited they behaved like children all morning. Faruq
came for Malik and walked away with him. Altaïr suddenly felt left out. Faruq
was giving Malik instructions on what was to come and why, as well as care
afterwards. They wandered off to be alone together and discuss the meaning of
the Creed and of being an Assassin. Golden eyes tracked the eighteen year old
Malik till the brothers were out of sight.
No one came for Altaïr. No one supported his new life change to come. No one
explained the new challenges ahead. No one advised him of medical care. No one
sat with him to discuss the Creed or the meaning of being an Assassin. Altaïr
climbed a roof and sat to wait till he was summoned. His thoughts alone were
guidance. He knew this was a serious matter. Below the Brotherhood gathered and
organized themselves for the rite. He kept reminding himself that he was not
going through this alone. All the members of the order present would be there,
and he would be going through this side by side with Malik.
Altaïr held his left hand in the air to look through the spread fingers at the
sun. He had to blink lots, but it was like the wing tip of a golden eagle. Soon
there would be a gap, a clipped feather, to make room for a deadly talon. He
hoped to meet up with Malik before the rite, but that was not the case. Malik
and Faruq arrived below with the rising of the noon sun. Faruq was to do the
rite for Malik.
Al Mualim arrived and asked the whereabouts of Altaïr. All thoughts of
childishness flew on panicked wings leaving behind a too adult young man of
sixteen. Altaïr leapt gracefully off the roof, diving into the oblivion, into
the hay stack only a few feet from the gathered men. He stood and brushed
himself off. As he walked past Malik to take his place before Al Mualim, he
heard Malik snip, “show off.” It wasn’t like Altaïr had intended to make a
dramatic entrance.
Both young men placed their left hands upon a block. Malik was sweating. It
dampened his hair and dripped down his face. Altaïr breathed evenly, finding
that pattern that allowed him to be blank and not feel. He closed his eyes and
felt a familiar aging hand over his. There was a cold sharp edge over his
finger and he was instructed to take a deep breath. As he did so there was a
dual crunch. Malik let out a strangled cry and clamped his other hand over his
mouth to smother any others. Altaïr grunted. There was this burning tingling
and stinging all through his hand.
They were instructed to stand. They did, though Malik wavered a little, looking
unusually pale. The slightly bloody block was pulled away. Al Mualim approached
Malik fist and asked him to kneel. He dubbed Malik with his eagle sword,
welcoming him among the Brothers of the Order of Assassins. Malik was
recovering from the initial shock of pain. Euphoria taking over with the rush
of adrenalin. Faruq guided Malik away after that for treatment and a bath and
later a meal among the full assassins. Altaïr kneeled next without instruction.
He kept his eyes down as Al Mualim dubbed him too on each shoulder with the
eagle blade. Altaïr felt a hand rest almost fatherly upon his head. “Rise
Altaïr, you are now one of us, one of the Assassins.”
Altaïr held his hand up to look through the fingers at the thin veils of the
covered roof garden. The barest soft glow of the crescent moon illuminated the
patters of the fabric. Altaïr did not feel like one of the Order members. He
felt very alone.
***** Malik Makes a Deal *****
Malik stared at the new notes that arrived in response to his request for
information from Acre and Damascus. He felt like he was working alone.
The Great King of Swords needs to remember he is only a Dai barely, really just
a rafiq, of the city of Jerusalem.
The affairs of Damascus are none of his.
Considering your earlier harsh words to me regarding the “lack of care” given
to a man who never even sought it, I am disinclined to assist.
If you are plotting revenge for your Brother’s death, you will have to wait
till after the Master is done with Altaïr.
The Master has been notified of your curiosity. Best clean your incense pot of
its narcotics when the inspector comes.
He pulled out the little knife at his belt and stabbed the note. He stabbed it
maybe a dozen times as he vented angrily. If I ever become Master of the Order,
I will have you replaced!! Not that Malik ever expected he would become Master
of the Order, not with one arm.
Malik, you know better than to ask for such information.
Master Al Mualim best knows the connections of Altaïr’s nine targets.
I suggest you ask him.
As you seem to have calmed your anger with him, I promise to keep a good eye on
our eagle when next he is in my city.
Safety and peace from Acre, Brother.
Reading the second note at least did not anger Malik, but still left him
feeling alone and left out. He wrote a short note to Al Mualim:
Master Al Mualim. Safety and peace from Jerusalem.
I wish to understand the punishment more clearly given to Altaïr and the
connection of these nine targets,
especially in light of the growing threat to our order and my messages to you
about a potential traitor yet again in the midst of Masyaf.
Have you any information you can share with me?
~ Malik A-Sayf.
The pigeon took flight immediately upon release.
Just to make Malik’s day more complicated, his front door opened. He shoved the
dagger and notes away under his counter and drew out a half finished stupidly
artistic map for a wealthy merchant. He politely ignored the argument that
happened in his doorway.
“Tibah, this is TOO bold. The rafiq is respected. These kinds of private visits
are becoming indecent.” The brother, as a family guard, grumbled harshly at the
young woman.
“Considering your... affairs, Kadar, I don’t think you have any right to tell
me what I can and cannot do and what is indecent or not.” Her words bit back
angrily.
Malik’s head snapped up at the name Kadar. Tibah’s brother was also called
Kadar. He wondered if that was a sign. No, he knew it was a sign.
Tibah entered and approached the counter, tugging her veil down under her chin.
“Hello, rafiq. I came to see if you were in need of anything and if you had
considered my request. Also, I have word from my father especially for you.”
She placed a sealed message tube on the counter near the intricate map. “Oh...
pretty. I did not know you could draw so well!”
Malik blushed and cleared his throat. She wanted his trust. How much of that
could he give her? He was of the Order of Assassins and she was not. Yet, he
broke some of his secrecy with her already, or rather Altaïr had when Altaïr
had stormed half-naked from the back room into the main Bureau as Tibah had
entered. So the back room and fake wall-curtain were no longer a secret to her.
By the rules of the Bureau, he should have broken off contact with her and
moved, and even requested a replacement. Why he had not, he was not sure. Maybe
it was because she was able to provide the medical supplies he needed and
craved that he could not even get from Masyaf. Maybe it was that she was
considerate enough to always check in on him to see how he was doing lately.
Maybe it was the strange dream with the angel that he too had seen. Now, it was
the brother named Kadar. Would it be so bad to take a wife?
Then he remembered the horror and embarrassment of her realization that his
interests do not lie in women, but men and that he was by her standards way too
old for her. “Miss Tibah, I am well and need of nothing you can provide today.
Though, your company is most welcome. Safety and peace.” He almost thudded his
head into the counter when the words slid from his lips. She smiled prettily
back at him and dipped a little curtsey. “I have considered your request. It is
still quite impossibly for me to take you on as an apprentice. Even if your
father permitted it, your brother is right about the indecency of studying
alone with me.” Her eyes and smile both fell and Malik felt like he smacked a
kitten.
He fumbled for a solution. The risks he was taking here already were not good,
or maybe were totally amazing. He found he wanted to teach her. She knew more
about medicines than he could ever try to understand. He had never studied the
mysteries of making them. She had ingenuity that was exciting and a willingness
to explore those ideas. She had given him gut threads and curved sewing needles
to develop new surgical techniques.
“Maybe, if we were far better at being discreet, we can arrange something.
Please wait here.” Malik stepped through the fake wall into his back room
asking himself over and over what he was doing. This was NOT taking care of the
situation! This was engaging with it and worsening it. Yet, it gave him such a
thrill. If he was going to be left out of the loop on some things, then he
could return the favour and leave the Order out of the loop of some of his
affairs. Altaïr was the only one who knew of Tibah. Maybe Malik’s informants
did too, but they were purely loyal to him and the old Dai, whom he also
trusted and who had his own secrets.
Malik returned from the back room seeing Tibah watching the fake curtain with
amazement. He glanced back over his shoulder. “I sleep back there and have all
my personal amenities. The curtain I painted myself so the average person would
think it were just part of the wall. It is an optical illusion that serves
well, till someone moves it.” The pride swelled in his chest as she commented
how amazing it and he were. It was so rare that Malik had heard praise directed
at him these days. He found himself smiling with that pride and wanted to earn
more such praise.
He places a large tome on the counter. “Miss Tibah, if you want my trust, I
need first your promise that nothing we do together, nothing that you witness
within this Bureau is ever mentioned in any way to anyone, not even family.”
Tibah nodded and swore to Allah her loyalty and her silence. “Good. Then you
will begin with this. I expect you to have read it through entirely, be able to
draw any image, and identify every part by heart in the two languages of this
text on anatomy. When you know this book better than your own body, then you
may return for your next lesson. You must NEVER call me master; I am rafiq to
you always unless I say otherwise. I will never call you apprentice or novice,
you are Miss Tibah. It is of utmost importance to keep these formalities
especially in public.”
Tibah drew the book to her and hugged it like the greatest treasure in the
world. Malik smiled gently, and so knowledge should be regarded as such, sacred
and a great treasure. Only then did he open the message tube, breaking the
seal. It was in her father’s hand which was rare. Something must be very
important indeed. He read the first part of the message:
In one of the boats I had secured for shipping, I found a crate.
None of the crew knew how it got there. I
t was heavy and wax sealed with a label on it I do not recognize.
I was about to sink it over the side, then thought maybe it was of some
importance.
I wished not to open it in case it is some foreign dangerous plant or substance
that needs special care.
I thought it best then to contact you for a translation. Vellum – Vélin.
Malik gasped. Tibah’s father had a whole crate of vellum sealed and ready to
use. It was worth, well, almost a king’s ransom. Such crates only went to the
Churches for their manuscripts. “Miss Tibah, you may tell your father, that the
mystery crate is nothing he can use. I wish him not to sink it in the sea
though; I will happily take it off his hands. Advise him to remove any labels
as soon as he can. He can relabel the crate mapping supplies. If any Templars
or crusaders from the western world find him with a crate of vellum, he would
be executed. Vellum... is fancy paper. That, I can definitely use. I will pay
him well for it if he wishes.”
Not that Malik had any idea how he would come up with that amount, but by Allah
he would do his best. Vellum, properly waxed after it has been written upon,
made the very best manuscripts that could survive centuries! Torahs, Qurans,
Bibles, codices were recorded on them. Maps that went to sea were drawn upon
them. Anything you wanted truly preserved could be written or drawn on vellum
and then waxed.
He stopped advising Tibah on something she clearly did not know about having
not read her father’s note to Malik. He pulled out a parchment and wrote his
message upon it, then read the other half of the note:
I am pleased by my daughter’s interest in you and yours in her.
I hope perhaps that you two are engaging in further conversations together.
I noted your shyness with her. She is a good girl.
She would make a good wife.
We will talk more of this when I return.
I am so honoured that it is you, a respected rafiq, which has caught her eye.
Malik choked. He turned crimson all the way down his neck. At Tibah’s inquiry
of her father’s message, he reddened further and turned the note over. She did
not need any further encouragement or ideas. He wrote to her father the last
things of wanting and that he too looked forward to meeting with the man upon
arrival to discuss the matter of the man’s daughter. Why did Malik feel like he
just put a noose around his own neck?
He folded his return note, sealed it in the message tube and instructed Tibah
to get that to her father right away. “And take very good care of my book, Miss
Tibah. Knowledge is power. Respect it and learn from it and use it wisely.”
After Tibah had left, all Malik could think about was his sense of betrayal. He
did not want a wife. He did not need a wife. He shamefully only wanted...
Altaïr. He felt lonely, deeply lonely without that very annoying company. He
wondered what Altaïr was doing now. He worried about Altaïr in Damascus with
that... that... Malik had no nice, not even neutral word for the Dai of that
Bureau. He hoped Altaïr was alright.
***** Altair Screams like a Girl *****
Chapter Summary
     There are some things little boys NEVER forget.
Altaïr’s weeks blurred together as he gathered information. He refused to enter
the Damascus Bureau until he had everything he could learn, as well as a plan
for his assassination. Each thing he learned made him grind his teeth. Malik
would be freaking out over the loss of books and knowledge. It angered Altaïr
in Malik’s stead. The fact that Jubair that day shoved one of his followers
into the pyre of burning books and watched him scream and die in the flames for
hinting at saving something only further secured Altaïr’s understanding of Al
Mualim’s wish to end this man. Jubair even had his own wife executed for hiding
books of her own.
He knew what his target looked like. He learned the man’s schedule throughout a
week. He obtained maps of locations to where meetings were held. He formulated
a plan of action. Feather in finally hand, Altaïr was flying over roof tops to
the Madrasah Al Kallasah, square courtyard of sorts where the scholars met
regularly.
Altaïr blanked his mind of all other worries, all concerns, all desires. The
mission, the target, the rush of that single kill became everything. As much as
Altaïr promised to remain invisible, but a blade in the crowd, it was far
easier to leave a blood bath behind when discovered. If they were all dead,
then they would not chase him and he need not run away.
He arrived a little too late; the last bloody push for the book burning had
begun. He knew his main target was Jubair, but he had this moment where he
could feel Malik distressing about the books and the innocent lives. The moral
line was very thin. With a snarl, Altaïr ran off to deal with the smaller of
the troubles, five of Jubair’s trusted. They were easy kills with throwing
knives from discreetly chosen perches high above. Jubair was another matter. He
wounded him, and then had to chase him through the city. He wanted to hack him
to bits or burn him on a book pyre for the trouble of the chase.
In the end, Jubair’s soul spoke in the fog of death to Altaïr. He tried not to
listen, but the fogged moments forced him to and then faded leaving him with
more questions. It left an ill taste in his mouth. These men did not work for
either King Richard or Saladin. Templars, then. The enemy needed a name.
He made it to the Bureau with the city alarm ringing loudly as usual. The Dai
there praised him for his deed as he accepted the bloodied feather. He glanced
at Altaïr’s wounds and pretended they were not there. Altaïr did not ask for
aid.
Altaïr knew he should either go to Acre or Masyaf after this kill, but he made
a promise. It was a relief to kick up sand out in the Kingdom, flying on the
back of a horse. Although, this time he pulled no more foolish stunts that
might land him on his back with a bump on his head. His first overnight in a
ruined hut with stale hay for the horse allowed him to rinse his wounds and
bind them tightly with the remainder of his gauze. There was a working water
pump, so he filled a bucket and washed the blood from his robed, scrubbing them
with bluing balls from his belt pouch. That brought them back to mostly white.
He filled his water bottles and tried to sleep.
It was easier to forget what had happened to him in Masyaf being so far away
and having just experienced the rush of a successful mission. It was like all
the horrors were just dreams, bad dreams, but still just dreams. The worn
carpet in the hut was soft. He stretched out on his back mostly nude with just
a scratchy horse blanket. He didn’t care. He dreamed something pleasant for a
change and chose to ignore the itchiness to stay with this wonderful dream.
It was a partnered mission with Malik. One of their first. They were alone and
lying in a ruined hut much like this one. Maybe it was this one. Or was it one
of the covered roof gardens? It must have been one of those for there were many
plush pillows. Malik had become the most comfortable weight upon his chest with
a familiar muskiness. Altaïr liked turning his head now and then to just smell
Malik’s hair. Malik always slept more solidly. He rubbed Malik’s back as other
naughtier thoughts filled his mind and warmed his loins. For this, Malik woke.
By dawn they had soiled the pillows. Snickering to themselves, they stepped out
nude causing a woman doing laundry to run screaming off the next roof. The fun
was over as she was yelling for the guards. Together they pulled on clothing,
armor and weapons. They had a mission to complete and it did not involve
getting caught by the guards with their pants down.
Altaïr groaned, waking feeling uncomfortable and chafed in all the most wrong
places. Cursing he cooled the sensitive parts with some water and dressed. The
sun had not yet risen, but that would happen soon. He mounted the horse with a
wince, cursing again. This is precisely why he preferred soft things! Now he
would have to pay extra attention to his man parts and wash them every chance
he could. He had a memory of true childhood horror to ensure he washed it
carefully and well.
It was early in his arrival to Musyaf. Altaïr and Malik had become something of
friends by night and rivals by day. It was a mutual arrangement and they seemed
to enjoy it. Malik had started medical studies and Altaïr was his main tool for
study. “Wherever you poke me, I swear... you better let me do it back to you,
Malik. I don’t want to be the only one taking it.”
Malik laughed. “Stop being such a baby, what are you going to do when you get
sick or hurt? Go cry in a corner till it heals itself? Turn around and face me.
I’m studying boy parts tonight.” He opened his anatomy book to the images of
men’s penises both circumcised and not. When he saw Altaïr’s, he quickly
stripped himself to compare. Altaïr was not circumcised and he was. “Well... I
wonder why you haven’t been snipped. You should be.”
Altaïr asked incredulous, “What? Snip it? No way! Why in heaven and hell would
I do that?”
“Because it is how you keep it clean. You don’t wash often enough. And if THAT
is not washed properly...” Malik dramatically shuddered.
“Then what?” demanded Altaïr growing concerned.
“Well, then it gets infected and diseased and rots on the end turning black
till it has to be cut off.” Malik flipped a couple pages in the book to show a
line sketch of an infected penis.
It was the first time Malik had heard Altaïr scream like a little girl. Altaïr
shrieked and shrieked. He grabbed his privates with one hand and bolted naked
from the room. He ran through the halls using his other hand to shove people
out of the way till he got to the wash fountain and tried to scrub it clean.
Malik pulled on his sleeping pants and stepped out more calmly to follow where
he had assumed Altaïr had run. He was intercepted by Faruq, “What have you
done, Malik?”
Malik smothered his grin and failed. “We had a lesson in hygiene. I showed him
the infected man parts.”
“Oh Malik...” Faruq tried not to be amused, but it was funny. Faruq had to
remedy the situation by taking Altaïr aside and giving him more grounded
instructions about hygiene. When Altaïr demanded to be circumcised, Faruq
denied him and reassured him that he would not get an infection there even if
he had skin there. Circumcision was a religious thing.
Altaïr was always careful after that day to wash his parts thoroughly and
ensure they never got infected. He washed at every stop lengthening his ride by
several days. He heard the distant yell, “ASSASSIN!” and bolted instantly for
cover. It was several minutes before he realized the yell was not at him.
***** Malik: Surprised *****
It was a long couple weeks. Junayd was a joy that broke up the monotony of
Malik’s weeks. The boy still had lousy aim with throwing knives, but he was
mastering the basic moves holding a dagger. Malik changed his night training to
mornings to time it into the new routine of sometimes having a ten year old
present to train with.
The informants of the city brought in their news and updates. Malik made a
small list of potential targets. After not seeing anyone but his own informants
for weeks, he sent a note to Al Mualim requesting news and maybe some assassins
to take care of a few targets. Even the clientele diminished. Malik hated these
lulls almost as much as he did waiting for an assassin to return from a
mission. They were BORING. He was BORED.
 Malik had started reading Altaïr’s personal journal. The first several pages
were about the nightmares Altaïr suffers. The personal journal was also harder
to read. It was very much like reading code. He had almost forgotten. Altaïr
normally had very poor writing and spelling, it showed less in the trance
journals but was still there. In this personal journal, the sentences (if you
could call them that) moved from language to language randomly. Having read the
trance notes, though, made the nightmares make sense. They were a mix of fog
bits, walking dead, attacking Templars, being beaten into silence, sexual
violations, and more and sometimes all of the above mixed together. Malik could
see how sometimes Altaïr could not discern friend from foe. It took Malik the
better part of the past few weeks to read and decipher the nightmare writing.
Last night’s reading of the journal struck Malik hard.
What is trust? Does it have anything to do with friendship? Altaïr explored the
notion of trust. He quoted a variety of bits of text that Malik was sure Altaïr
had not studied. Maybe Altaïr was listening to him after all during those study
sessions? Altaïr touched on intimacy and trust where it confused him the most.
People are intimate with each other and care nothing for each other, and yet
sometimes trust is needed to cross that line from friendship to intimacy. The
writing went on to explore the concept of friendship in a similar fashion. It
ended with: Trust takes time to develop, but bare seconds to be lost. Once
lost, can it ever be restored?
Malik read on about how Altaïr had purposely pushed him away and distanced him
to protect him, but didn’t think anyone would know or understand why. After the
trance notes, Malik understood why. The Altaïr he thought was Altaïr at
Solomon’s Temple was not the Altaïr on these pages and not the Altaïr that was
before or after the Temple incident. In fact, what he thought was Altaïr then
at the Temple really wasn’t, but was a commanded soldier obeying the orders of
a master against his will. Altaïr had made mistakes on that mission, but so had
Malik. As he thought about it more, Altaïr’s exposure to Robert would have been
the perfect opportunity to sneak off with the treasure while everyone was
focused on the distraction of an attacking assassin. Malik’s mistake was that
he had forgotten how to work in tandem.
He reread Altaïr’s journal notes on trust and friendship and intimacy, then
packed the journal under his pillow. He paced through the Bureau, missing
Altaïr. He even flopped onto the pillows and carpets in the open air room and
gazed through the lattice roof at the stars till he fell asleep. He hadn’t even
really undressed, just loosened his robes to be slightly more comfortable as
the warm morning breeze and dawn sun soaked into his bones. He had been up way
too late reading the journal and was now sleeping in sprawled across the soft
pillows. Bits of leaves drifted from the plants in the lattice along with dust.
It felt like the falling dust of Solomon’s Temple. Malik frowned and stressed
as his dreams drifted to the time of Kadar’s death, never hearing the figure
almost clumsily navigating the lattice to the opening.
A scrape and high pitched yelp shot Malik from his slumber. An informant lay
turtled on his back trapped in the position by an oversized heavily packed back
pack. “Rafiq? Rafiq?! Please! Help!?” That was NOT one of Malik’s informants.
His were never this clumsy, not so young as to have a cracking voice. Maybe a
novice from Masyaf? But that made no sense. Informants were usually raised and
trained in a city.
Malik shook the confusion from his mind then helped the informant unstrap the
backpack. “From where do you hail and why are you here?” It was a grumpy
greeting, but then, Malik HAD been asleep.
“Uh... uhm... Safety and peace, rafiq Malik.” The voice was altogether either
too young, or too feminine.
“Safety and peace,” Malik said suspiciously.
The informant tugged the veil off her face and Malik gasped wide-eyed at the
woman before him. “Yes, safety and peace, thank you. I hail from Acre.” She
glanced about to see if Malik was alone. “My husband could not be spared to
come, I came in his stead. He is very ill and needs aid no one seems to be able
to give. My father-in-law said this was a good opportunity to come see you and
to bring something to you that you needed and asked for. No one would suspect
him or my husband if I ran this errand in search of aid. I’m sorry to deceive
you with my clothing.” She was very awkward, not really trained as an informant
but surprisingly trained enough to make her way here alive and unharmed.
Malik quickly gathered his stunned senses and invited her to rest on the
carpets. He fetched a cup and a meagre breakfast of fruit as hospitality. His
mind swirled around the notion of a WOMAN as an informant. Had she not shown
her face, he would have assumed her to be a tall young novice. She came all the
way from Acre, laden with such a heavy pack, past Templars and other troubles.
He noted the daggers at her waist, one was bloodied. So she knew even how to
use them to defend herself. But apparently she didn’t know how to care for
them. After eating, that was the first thing he showed her. It was almost a
sacrilege to leave blades bloody and uncared for. Only then was he ready to
really hear her out.
First order of business was the medical aid she sought for her husband. He
listened patiently to the description of his state and symptoms. He doodled
some pictures for clarity which she blushed and nodded at. His conclusion was
something he called testicular cancer. There was little help that could be
done. He suggested she hire a horse or goat gelder to geld her husband as
swiftly as possible to prevent the cancer from spreading. They would have to
consider adoption after if they wanted kids and be aware that a cancer like
this may show up again elsewhere in the body. It was not good news and she
cried lots that morning from it.
When she had finally recovered from the shock and grief of the news, Malik
learned that her pack contained a book of notes from the Dai of Acre detailing
Altaïr’s missions and some tidbits about the Sibrand mission. This was
dangerous material to be carting around. It was dangerous for Malik to have in
his possession. He vowed to read it then stash it with the rest of the hidden
things about Altaïr. Malik then helped the woman thin out the unnecessary
travel gear, shaking his head as he did. He sent her on her way better
provisioned. He tried not to fret about a woman on the road to Acre from here,
all alone. He reminded himself repeatedly that she got here alright on her own,
she will get back. Just as a precaution, he sent a bird out to Acre letting the
Dai there know that his fledgling is coming home.
***** Altair Saved Naheem *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr heard the distant yell, “ASSASSIN!” and bolted instantly for cover. It
was several minutes before he realized the yell was not at him. There was the
clash of steel and battle cries in the distance. Another assassin was being
attacked. For a few moments, Altaïr wondered if he ought to interfere. A bitter
part of him wanted to wait till it was over then go inspect the carnage. The
moral part of him kicked him furiously and yelled in Malik’s voice about
protecting the Brotherhood. He snarled and dove around a corner, dashed up a
ladder, skipped across a few roofs, and ducked behind some roof crates.
From here he could peek over and see the commotion more clearly. “RUN YOU
STUPID NOVICE!!!” Altaïr craned to see that the assassin was another mentor
with apprentice. The assassin was trying to fight off about fifteen men as he
was juggling the distraction of his inexperienced apprentice who only had a
knife on him to fight with. Two Templars, upon hearing the commotion came to
join the fight. Altaïr cursed. Both assassin and novice would be cut down.
Already the assassin was badly hurt. “I SAID RUN!!”
The novice turned tail and started to run as ordered. An arrow narrowly missed
the novice. Altaïr’s throwing knife did not miss the archer. A second archer
was more accurate. The novice yowled in pain and fell with a longbow arrow
through his thigh. Altaïr’s feet were pounding the roof in a dead run, sword in
one hand throwing knife in the other. One, two, three. Each of his thrown
daggers dropped men. A Templar yelled ASSASSIN and pointed at Altaïr. He was
blinding in his brilliant white robes and shining blades. The other assassin
made an insane lung to deflect a blade from crashing down on the novice. It
left him open for a deep stab. He was down. Altaïr took over as he made an
impossible leap off the roof. His landing was broken by a guard and a Templar.
The guard’s ribs were crushed on impact. The Templar took the wrist blade
through the gap in his helm visor.
Altaïr was deep in the battle now. His blade blurred in the brilliant sunlight.
He used the light to his advantage, stepping into blind spots. The second
Templar was his focus. He hoped the bloody mess he was making proved he was the
more dangerous target (which he was) and that they would need to focus all
their attention him. He was almost successful. The novice foolishly stood up,
balancing on the one leg, dagger in hand defensively. Altaïr cursed as a couple
men broke from fighting Altaïr. He leapt and landed with his knife in the calf
of one of those men. He spun and clashed swords a couple times with a dying
Templar. He turned and rushed the second man after the novice. His wrist blade
extending and piercing the chain mail at the soldier’s back. The brief moment
made the soldier’s blade swing wide and the novice struck terrible across the
belly and with a yell buried his dagger into the soldier’s throat. Altaïr had
stepped back from the soldier to let the novice finish him. It was the youth’s
right as an assassin novice, especially one with his finger already gone,
although he seemed too young for that rite and didn’t have a wrist blade. The
lost finger seemed very recent as well.
“Clean your blade, novice,” Altaïr ordered as he walked over to the other
assassin. He ignored the youth for the moment as he knelt. The novice had to
learn to deal with some things on his own, like cleaning his only blade after a
fight despite any injuries and dealing with his own pains. Altaïr knelt by the
assassin who was remarkably still breathing, barely. He touched his hand to the
man’s chest.
As the assassin turned, the fog swallowed them both, blotting out all else.
“Master Altaïr. My wounds... are too great to go on. Will you do me the
honour?”
“Of course brother,” Altaïr promised. How could he refuse such a request?
The man spoke again, “Before you do, is he alive?”
“Your apprentice?” asked Altaïr. “Yes, wounded but alive. You did right by
telling him to run. If he listened the first time, he might have fared better.
He’ll live.”
“We fled. I took him after his rite. He was too young for it, not ready. He has
only been training for a couple years. Now, I will not be able to complete that
training.” The man sighed sadly. “We saw things in Masyaf... Altaïr! Be
careful...” He started to gasp with the pain of his slowly dying breaths.
“Take... Take care of Naheem...”
“I will. Go to God, Brother. Safety and peace.” Altaïr ended the man’s agony.
The fog faded to reveal the novice leaning on a nearby wall surveying the
bloodbath Altaïr had created. He still had the long arrow through his thigh and
tried not to put weight on it. “Novice Naheem, head to the horses on the east
of this small group of housing.”
While the order was sharp, it was the use of his name that made the novice
jump. He had not said his name to Altaïr, nor had anyone else. He struggled
painfully toward the horses, limping badly.
Altaïr watched the teen, who was somewhere between fourteen and sixteen, with
cold hard eyes. When Naheem rounded a corner out of sight and into the safety
of cover, Altaïr stripped the mentor of almost everything so any passersby
would not associate this scene with the Assassins. The Creed demanded this kind
of discretion as far as Altaïr was concerned. Also, the weapons and gear were
too valuable to abandon and they, or at least the novice, might needs them.
Altaïr figured that if he had an apprentice novice and died, he would want his
gear to go to his apprentice. He felt Malik would approve. Thinking of Malik,
Altaïr smiled a little. Altaïr could not keep an apprentice in tow on the
missions he was assigned, but Malik could really use the extra help and
company. Altaïr felt Malik would be the very best mentor. Convenient since
Altaïr was heading for Jerusalem and the teen would need medical attention
anyways.
Done decision! Altaïr carried the collected gear to the hiding spot near the
horses and found the novice sitting awkwardly with a pained expression. He
dropped the gear near the novice and inspected the arrow wound. “It is a clean
puncture. I will have to remove it before we can go anywhere.” He saw how the
teen gave him a questioning look at the gear. “He no longer needs it where he
has gone, but he would want you to earn it and use it well in his stead. His
gear is now yours, Novice.”
Altaïr received a resigned nod moments before the teen thumped limp to the
ground no longer able to hold onto consciousness. It was just as well. Altaïr
snapped on end of the arrow and shaved it with his knife so it could come out
without splinters. Then with a swift tug, he pulled it from the boy’s leg. He
glanced at the unconscious figure and pulled the boy’s pants to the knees. He
poured his water bottle over the wound and used the gauze from the dead
assassin’s belt pouch to bind it tightly. He then lifted the boy over the
saddle of one horse and tied both boy and gear to the saddle. He tied the
reigns to the saddle of the other horse which he lead a ways out into the
carnage. He rummaged through the other gear of the dead soldiers and Templars
for food, water bottles, and bandages. Only then did he mount up and ride off
for a safer location.
He took the narrow pass between the mountains till it turned in a sharp way
near some water. Altaïr was careful not to misstep and fall in, but walked the
horses till the path dipped to an alcove with a small decline to the water’s
edge. Altaïr hated the water, but would tolerate it at the edge for the sake of
such necessities as washing and drinking. He laid out the horse blankets under
a tree in the shade and carried the teen over to them to rest. The horses
helped themselves to the lake water.
Naheem was still unconscious and had started to mumble and fever. Altaïr wished
very badly that Malik was here now. I am no good at this saving people thing,
Malik. That is your specialty. What the hell do I do? Malik! What do I do?! All
he could do was strip them both down, scrub them and their clothing clean,
bleach their white clothes white, dab ointment from a tiny jar onto their
wounds, and watch over the youth hoping he did not die overnight.
Chapter End Notes
     Name translations of interest:
     Altaïr ibn la Ahad = Flying Eagle Son of No One
     Malik A-Sayf = King of Swords
     Tibah = goodness, kindness
     Junayd = young fighter
     Naheem = (i made it up, but someone told me later that it IS a name
     in the Middle East)
     Kadar = powerful
     Naheem
     - Hindu girl's name to mean Praise the Lord
     - Non-gendered to mean one with a friendly nature
***** Malik: Bureau Inspection *****
Malik could hardly believe the cooperation of the Dai of Acre, even though he
had sent a negative answer via pigeon. He felt like he had popped up in the
middle of some conspiracy and worried he would have to choose sides somehow
within the Brotherhood. It chilled his blood to think that the Brotherhood
would be divided and might actually kill each other over it. There had been a
few, like Al Mualim’s right hand man a couple years ago who had betrayed them
and joined the Templars. He knew he could not keep this copy of Acre log notes
and hid them under the floor tile with Altaïr’s other trance notes.
Malik pulled out his own two journals and did some drawing in one as he thought
about the informant’s wife who had surprised him the other day. He drew a
picture of a random woman in informant clothing. Then for fun, he drew one in
novice clothes and one in master assassin clothes. She had given him much to
consider. She had had training, clearly, but with many gaps. She knew how to
manoeuvre through and between cities like an assassin. She knew the greetings
and the gestures of an informant. She knew enough self-defence with a dagger to
bloody it and keep alive and unharmed. Obviously, her husband kept the blades
clean and had not taught her that basic. He wanted so badly to inform the Dai
of Acre about that. A woman! Doing the equal of a man!
His mind was too full to write anything in his own journal. He tucked it away
under the floor tile with Altaïr’s journal. He didn’t want to look at all this
for a couple days. He saw how Altaïr called it insanity. The questions in
Altaïr’s journal were full of moral quandaries that were challenging for even
Malik. Although, Malik had a much better understanding of the Creed and leaned
on that for most explanations. He wished Altaïr were here so he could have a
talk with him about the Creed, talks like Malik had with the little novice,
Junayd. Now though, he needed a break. That wealthy merchant that annoyed him
so much wanted the fancy map and Malik was not yet done since he had distracted
himself so much with Altaïr’s affairs.
He made sure the floor tile was secured and adjusted his bed mat over it so he
felt no lumps. He slid his drawing journal between some medical books. There he
paused to consider his advice to the woman about her husband’s tumours. It was
late afternoon and the woman was long gone. He really hoped the cancer was in
the early stages and not the later ones. He sighed and returned to working on
that fancy map in the main room.
He had not put out his open flag today because he wanted the time to focus on
the damnable map. It was so fiddly with the art and all the colours. The soft
thud of assassin boots in the open air room did not deter Malik from his work,
though did make him frown. He was about to snap a warning at the newcomer to
not bump the counter until out of the corner of his eyes he noticed the strange
robes. It was one of Al Mualim’s personal informant-assassins. They get sent
out to check on major incidents and report direct to him. If Altaïr were more
schooled in manners and more educated, that would be the next rank for him to
move into once he redeemed himself. Malik fumbled out the standard greeting.
“Safety and Peace, master informant.” Why is he here?! Oh Allah, is this
because of the Dai of Damascus? That bastard! I am not a traitor to be looked
into.
“Safety and peace, Dai,” the informant spoke dully as he pulled out a wrapped
charcoal stick and a thick yet small notebook. He was already jotting notes of
things he saw in the open air room, tasted the water of the fountain and made a
note, looked into the grate of the non-functional fountain and made another
note, turned over cushions and pillows and made more notes. He then took the
pole and closed the lattice roof, checking the locking mechanism and ensuring
it remained closed and locked before he entered the main Bureau room.
Malik’s anxiety grew. He remembered Faruq’s fate. Maybe Faruq asked one too
many questions? Maybe he poked his nose where he should not have, just as Malik
had? His hand felt tingly and he remembered to breathe. He wondered what on
earth this man was doing and was eternally grateful for his diligence this week
to lock and hide the journals and notes. The old Dai had assured him that the
movable floor tile was a secret that he alone knew existed. It raised more
questions in Malik’s mind about the old Dai, questions he wanted to ask if he
survived this man. He already calculated distances and speed to blades,
observed the man’s entrance and counted the blades he could see on him and
added the blades he could not see but that likely were still there. The man was
missing his left third finger, so he had a wrist blade.
The intruder, for that is how Malik regarded him, poked around the entire main
room. “Do you play checkers or chess? Did you with Altaïr when he stayed here?”
He made notes as he opened the supply trunk making a full inventory of it.
“No,” Malik lied smoothly. It was not really a lie. They did not play but
communicate with the game board and it was while Altaïr was on mission, not
while he was staying and healing. “I doubt he could,” Malik added caustically.
Before Malik could say anything more the intruder made a demand, “I assume all
the informants are the same, so put out the all summons flag for them. I will
want to meet them all.”
Malik blinked and then frowned, “The... what? And... why?”
Now the intruding ranked informant looked directly at Malik, “You have been
here an entire year and don’t know the flag codes? Every informant knows them.
Every rafiq and every Dai.”
Malik felt stupid for not knowing. The man’s implication was that he was
incompetent. “No, I do not know. No one informed me that I had to know. I was
an assassin before I became a Dai.”
“Oh right,” the man said as if he had forgotten what was very much common
knowledge. He turned back to the supply trunk and popped open a secret drawer
that Malik did not know existed in the lid. He removed a thin booklet and
placed it on the counter. “I suggest you turn to page five and find that flag
code and then set out the proper flag. As for your question of why, this is the
one year anniversary so to speak of you being here. I inspect this Bureau
annually. I expect your full cooperation and transparency of all documents.”
This was worse than Malik had expected, but it was not a death sentence, unless
the intruder found something. Malik’s mind frantically ran through a mental
check of all things that could in any way be incriminating. He was loyal to the
Order, always had been. He had a good reputation and defended the Creed
fiercely. He opened the booklet to page five where there was indeed a list of
flag codes. Some he knew as informants had advised him along his time here.
Those included the open and closed for business, and the general summons if he
needed an informant for a task. He memorized the list after reading it a few
times, all but the more complicated patterned flags for summoning a particular
informant. As he read the inspector plopped the proper flag on the counter for
the all summons, indicating that they are all in the compartment hiding in the
trunk’s lid. Malik unlocked the front door with his key and set out the flag,
feeling bad about the all summons for this. He returned to devour the new piece
of information, being the remainder of the small book with regulations,
procedures, and advice for Dai of a Bureau.
He endured the repeated embarrassment of this man inspecting the very nit and
grit of the Bureau. The inspector criticized Malik’s lack of cleanliness and
poor methods of inventory when he climbed up to the wide ledge platform that
ran nearly the entire circumference of the main room. Malik wanted to kick
himself for not making more effort to get up there and see what was stored
there and to clean it. He wanted to kick himself more when the inspector found
crates with the items Malik had sent a request message to Masyaf for. Slapped
his palm to his face and groaned to himself.
The inspector recorded items and comments in his notebook. Malik wanted to burn
them both intruder and notebook. He tried not to glare at the inspector when
the man checked every single book in the Bureau and every single slip of paper.
Malik winced and turned red when the man flipped through his drawing journal
and stopped at the women in assassin and informant uniforms. “Fantasizing?”
asked the inspector. Beyond the humiliation of it, at least it negated
suspicion of his preferred interest in men.
The inspector then invaded the back room where Malik slept. He turned
everything over as he had every other room so far. Malik ground his teeth and
clenched his fist. Sweat dampened his chest and spine when the inspector lifted
each item of his bed, yet did not notice the floor tile. Malik’s heart was
pounding. “Are you looking for something specific or just searching for bugs
and mice?” Malik’s tone carried the hints of annoyance and venom he was well
known for and caused the inspector to look up at him.
“Dai, a report against you had been filed and it is my job to ensure everything
is as it should be, including you.” Short, curt, and accusatory.
Malik hated the Dai of Damascus even more and was certain now that this deep
inspection was on his request. He only hoped his complaint about that Dai for
neglecting his duty to tend wounded assassins earned him equal deep inspection.
Maybe this was revenge for that? When the inspector explored all the medical
supplies and medicines, Malik had to explain each one. He made sure to use the
most technical of terms and the greatest of details just to prove he was not as
ignorant as this inspector was making him out to be. Malik had a reputation of
healing everyone who passed through his Bureau and for saving every life. Then
he remembered that on paper, he failed to save one boy novice.
The inspector moved to the kitchen and waste room making notes there as well,
“You need to clean your sewage and drains. If you are incapable of doing it
yourself, maybe we should assign you an assistant.” Translation was that maybe
they ought to place someone there to watch Malik and make sure he obeyed their
wishes or remained appropriately ignorant.
“No, I can do it. I may have lost an arm, but I am not that crippled.”
“Good,” the inspector stated, “then when the follow up inspector arrives in two
weeks, he can expect to see the changes I have noted to you about the
cleanliness and inventory of the upper levels.” To add to that, the inspector
went up the stairs to go through everything on the second floor.
Malik hated this man, hated him almost as much as he hated the Templars and
Robert de Sable. The situation was the same with this second floor needing to
be cleaned and properly inventoried. Malik chastised himself for not doing so
all year during his moments of boredom. He followed the inspector to hear the
humiliating comments as the man scribbled in his notebook. The roof earned a
similar inspection and the crates there were opened. More supplies he had
requested were revealed. Face met palm again for Malik.
He locked the hatch when they re-entered. As bade, he opened the lattice roof
of the open air room so the informants could all make their way in throughout
the day and possibly evening. That meant this inspector was staying long. Malik
tried not to growl at him too much, tried to be a good host to a man he hated.
The inspector then asked for the log book. The inspector lifted a book from his
carry pack and sat at the table to transcribe all the year’s log records. Here
Malik blanched. The man miraculously missed the journal of training ideas for
the little novice and other plans that Malik had in another hidden wall space
under the counter. However, Malik had other things recorded in the large log
book that he scrambled in his head to explain for he would surely be questioned
about them.
***** Altair & Naheem *****
Meanwhile, Altaïr had slept very close to Naheem to offer his own body heat
when the youth shivered from the cold. The fever had broken and Altaïr next
worried the teen was going into shock. He offered a rare prayer of gratitude to
whatever god was there when he woke to find the boy also awake. Altaïr sat up
and helped Naheem to sit. “Safety and peace, novice Naheem.”
“How? How do you know my name?” Awe was clear in Naheem’s voice and face. The
Great Altaïr knew his name and did not just refer to him as an unnamed novice.
“Your mentor spoke well of you. You made a good kill back there despite your
wounds. He was proud and asked with his dying breath that I arrange training
for you with someone trusted.” Altaïr stood, feeling a little uncomfortable in
his nudity. Naheem was staring at all the scars, and yet was starry eyed with
the praise. Maybe it was glazed from pain. That was easier for Altaïr to
believe.
Altaïr rinsed at the edge of the lake. He would not coddle the youth, not if he
was going to be an assassin. He had to learn to take pain. It was how Altaïr
was himself taught. The sun warmed his brutalized skin. He dressed and let the
sun finish drying the clothes upon his body.
Naheem used the tree for balance to get standing, and then he hobbled painfully
to the water’s edge to wash as well. He nearly toppled only to be caught by
Altaïr who eased him down into the sand. “Don’t get dirt in your wound. Malik
would be upset.”
“Who’s Malik?” Naheem asked, ignorant of most people beyond his peers and his
mentor, and obviously certain famous people like Altaïr and Master Al Mualim.
Altaïr dropped his hood in the sand shocked. “How could you not... never mind.”
He considered a few moments. He picked up his hood, dusted the sand from it and
pulled it over his head. “Malik was an incredible assassin, one of the very
best who knows the Creed better than anyone. He took injury and lost his left
arm. In honour of both his assassin skills and his skills in such things as
language, books, writing, drawing and even medicine, he has been made Dai of
Jerusalem’s Bureau.”
“Woah, really? He sounds as great as you! Will I ever meet him?” His excitement
was only tempered by the pain in his leg.
The scarred corner of Altaïr’s lips curled up. “Malik is greater than I. The
truly great ones are so quietly. The loud arrogant ones only make asses of
themselves.” He handed the sun dried novice uniform to the youth and helped him
balance and dress. “Yes, you will meet him. We go to Jerusalem.” He let the
youth hobble to the horses on his own, but had to help him into the saddle. He
mounted the other horse after all gear was packed and their meagre camp
vanished invisibly into the terrain as if no one was ever there. “Ride beside
me, I am in no mood to yell.”
“Because the great ones are quiet, not loud and arrogant.” Already this novice
was learning.
Altaïr smiled to himself. Yes, Malik will like this novice. He is tough,
bright, willing. He listens. Malik will also be the best teacher for him. I
certainly am not nor could I be if I were remotely a good teacher.
They rode in silence for a long while till Altaïr pulled them to some rocky
shelter. They were about to engage forts and outposts and more guards. Altaïr
checked the youth’s leg wound and instructed him to do exactly as he said no
matter what. “This is how a team gets through a blockade.” Altaïr tied his
horse’s reigns to Naheem’s saddle. “This is your spare horse. You walk right
through. Let them stop you. They will all be dead if they cause you trouble.”
He showed a wing’s worth of throwing knives between his fingers. “Don’t try to
do anything heroic. I need you as a distraction so they never see me coming.”
“What if they attack? What if they yell assassin like the other ones?” He
looked pleadingly at Altaïr. He didn’t want to lose his second mentor so soon
after losing his first. He wasn’t even safe yet to properly mourn his loss.
“You will be fine. I promise. If they do attack or yell assassin, then run. Run
as hard and fast as you can till you are out of sight, till you find a hay
stack. I will catch up to you.” Altaïr urged the youth forward.
The plan worked mostly well. They repeated this two more times before they
stopped to rest. Altaïr lamented to himself how slow they traveled. Despite how
Naheem tried, the first ride was hard on him. He slept poorly that night due to
the pain. Altaïr inspected the bleeding wounds and knew they would never get to
Malik like this. The second day was worse and they didn’t make it as far as the
first. Naheem cried through that second night. Altaïr held him as he wept from
the pain, first trying to talk him out of crying, then trying to talk him
through it. The latter worked better. It had for himself, so of course it would
for the teen.
Naheem woke that morning whimpering. Altaïr was building a fire. A pile of
shredded fabric from the spare grey shirt was folded neatly beside him with all
their water bottles. “Take off your pants if you can. I am going to seal those
wounds so you stop bleeding.” The youth was unsure how that would happen,
sewing? He removed his pants and cried out. Altaïr came to help and bade him
lie back. He pealed the blood soaked pant leg off Naheem then the sticky
bandages.
“I don’t want to lose my leg!”
Altaïr’s spine stiffened recalling Malik crying out and pleading not to lose
his arm. He rested his hand on the boy’s chest, “You are not going to lose it.
But you are starting to leave a blood trail and that is a problem. Recite the
Creed to me.” Naheem recited as Altaïr set a blade in the fire. “And that last
tenet is exactly why we need to stop the bleeding.” He gave the teen a bit of
leather to bite on and used one of their water bottles to rinse the blood so he
could see the wounds more clearly.
***** Malik: Junayd's Lying Tears *****
Malik blanched. Masyaf’s inspector miraculously missed the journal of training
ideas for the little novice and other plans that Malik had in another hidden
wall space under the counter. However, Malik had other things recorded in the
large log book that he scrambled in his head to explain for he would surely be
questioned about them.
The inspector flipped through the log book to the last point he had been to,
over a year ago and started to transcribe in silence. He seemed to fly through
the transcriptions. Malik offered a cup of water, setting it on the table and
glancing at the transcriptions as he did. The inspector wrote in a kind of
short-hand code. Malik dared not speak yet in case his nervousness incriminated
him.
The first couple informants started to trickle in. “Safety and Peace,” they
greeted Malik with a curious glance followed by a very audible groan when they
saw the inspector. The man gave them sharp warning looks. By the end of the
day, all the informants had arrived, including the little novice. Malik wanted
to slap the child and send him home.
Without deviating from his writing, save for occasionally plucking something
off a meal plate, the inspector called out a name. That informant stepped into
the main room, straightening his clothing. Twenty random questions were asked
of the informant to ascertain his skills, usefulness, and reliability. Some of
the answers were compared to notes in both the inspector’s transcribed log and
Malik’s large log. Each informant could at least leave when he was done, hoping
his review was sufficient.
The day crept uncomfortably into night. The little novice snuck into the main
room during one of the informant reviews. He stood on his toes and whispered,
hoping not to be heard by the inspector, “Rafiq... what is going on?”
Malik hissed with annoyance. But could not say anything really to the child
beyond, “get back into the other room. And take off that green scarf.” Junayd
gave him a pleading look but found no gentleness this time. Malik watched small
sagged shoulders drag rejected feet over to the carpets where he dropped down
alone in the open air room. Junayd removed his green scarf glancing now and
then at Malik who was trying hard to focus on a map he was decorating.
The last informant climbed out the opened lattice to make his way discreetly
home. Malik brought some food over to the little novice and rested a comforting
hand on his shoulder. He wanted to warn the boy, wanted to advise the boy. “Why
are you here?” he asked as quietly as he could.
Junayd whispered back, “I saw the strange flag and told Grandfadder. He told me
as a novice of information, I should come, too. Who is that?”
“Some man inspecting the Bureau and its activities for the Order, making sure
we are doing what we should and have what we need.” Malik’s explanation sounded
so positive. If it were happening to anyone else, Malik would feel positive
about it. Right now, he only felt like a criminal waiting for his crimes to be
fully discovered and his sentence to be given for them. Malik returned to his
map while the boy ate.
The inspector continued to transcribe. There was a sudden pause in the
scribbling. “Malik, what is this about a child novice in your log with an
assassin mission? Is that the child? I thought the only child through here
died.”
Junayd was on his feet immediately and bouncing into the main room. Malik could
not find his tongue to save himself. Junayd stood as the other informants did
for his review. Malik finally answered, “This is not the same novice.”
“My name is Junayd. My grandfadder, the dai before Rafiq uh... Dai Malik... is
training me.”
Two sets of adult eyes focused in the ten year old. Malik wanted to die. He was
sure the boy might be recognized. The inspector seemed to knot know him, not by
sight. “Junayd... fourth son. How did you survive?”
“I was apprenticed to a fabric merchant last year, but when,” the boy lied so
smoothly that even Malik believed the sad wet eyes and the drop of the head,
“When my family got taken. The merchant I was with was on route from Acre. But
since word came that my apprentice fee was no longer being paid, he took me
here and sent me to my Grandfadder.”
“What is with the green scarf, it is not part of an informant’s uniform, not
even a novices. Get rid of it.” The inspector had hardly glanced at the boy and
truly cared little about the wet eyes.
“But,” pleaded Junayd, “But it was my dad’s... please...” He was met by a hard
cold look. Junayd stuffed the green scarf inside his shirt to hide it.
“When did you arrive, novice?”
Junayd was prepared for that answer too, although he stalled a little. “A bit
over three months ago, sir.” The answer put him too early to be the other
assassin novice that died.
“Malik, answer my former question.”
Malik narrowed his charcoal eyes and absorbed the lies provided. This was the
problem with lies, one built on another. He had to keep it as close to the
truth or the lie would unravel. “Junayd… I felt it was suitable to test him, in
case he needed to be sent to Masyaf for training.”
The inspector scribbled in his notebook and recorded the mission. “It says he
was successful in his mission. A neighbourhood dog is a suitable first mission
assignment to test the mettle of a boy. So why was he not sent then to Masyaf?
If he can kill, he should be in assassin training, not informant training.”
Malik was almost shocked how Junayd managed to cry on command. The lower lip
quivered. Then Junayd startled to sniffle. He seemed to struggle hard not to be
too loud as he cried. The inspector rolled his eyes, “I see. Well, that family
did mostly only produce informants. They were never very good with the blood.
He can go now.”
Junayd swiped the back of his hand across his face to wipe away his tears.
Malik asked him to go sleep in the back till morning. The inspector looked at
them both reproachfully. “He is training to be an informant. He should be able
to find his way home alone at night.”
Malik glared back, “He is only ten years old. The soldiers are tougher out
there and the Templars will still kill a child. He stays till morning.”
“Just because your little brother was killed, Malik, does not mean you need to
adopt another to replace and coddle.”
Junayd’s eyes widened and he cringed at the flash of steel. Malik drew his
short knife mentally calculating if he could kill this inspector or not. He
slammed the point down into the counter, ruining the map. “In the entire year I
have been here, I have lost only two lives. My job is to assign people their
tasks and keep them alive. How dare you presume and worse, suggest I am doing
otherwise.” Malik let go of the knife and rested a gentle hand on the gate. He
opened it and guided Junayd into the back. Junayd obeyed innocently trusting
Malik way more than he trusted that inspector. Malik and the inspector glared
daggers at each other across the counter. “I think you are more than done here,
Inspector. You are a grown man. YOU can find your own way home in the night.
Safety and peace on your way.”
Offended, insulted, but knowing Malik was still more assassin than he was
himself, the Inspector packed his things and left the way he had come.
***** Altair Teaches 'Blending In' *****
Elsewhere, Naheem recited the Creed as Altaïr set a blade in the fire. “And
that last tenet is exactly why we need to stop the bleeding.” He gave the teen
a bit of leather to bite on and used one of their water bottles to rinse the
blood so he could see the wounds more clearly.
Before he did anything more to Naheem, he checked for swelling in the thigh
between the entry point of the arrow and the exit point. There was a fair bit
and he tisked with annoyance. All the riding and movement was not allowing the
muscle to knit. He didn’t want to have to hole up somewhere out here without
resources. But if the boy did not get downtime to heal, he would be lame and
that might force him out of being an assassin before he really begins. By all
that is holy and unholy, Altaïr refused to be responsible for the crippling of
another member at his side.
Altaïr wasted no more time. “Take a deep breath, Novice Naheem. This is going
to hurt like the worst hell.” He timed reaching for the red hot knife to Naheem
breathing and pressed it to the rear entry of the arrow’s wound as Naheem
inhaled. He let Naheem scream as much as he wanted while biting the leather. He
gave him another little while to just relax. He hated how doctors tried to
surprise you by timing themselves off your readiness. “Breathe slower or you
will be sick or faint,” he instructed from his own experiences of doing this
for himself.
Naheem whimpered and plucked the leather bit from his mouth. “Can I, please,
have some water?” Altaïr helped the teen to sip some water. Three more sips and
Naheem reluctantly voiced his readiness for the next searing. It was a repeat
of the first, though Naheem knew what to expect this time. When it was over, he
could not help crying as Altaïr washed the cauterised wounds and bandaged them.
He soaked some fabric in water and wiped the youth’s face, too. Naheem sipped
more water and let Altaïr guide him to lay on his side to ease the stress on
the wounded leg.
Altaïr used some of the horse blankets to create some shelter and further shade
for the day. Naheem was not fit to ride. He wandered off to hunt for some small
animal to roast. The flesh of the body needed to eat flesh to help it heal.
That is what Altaïr believed and understood from Malik. It was a crude
understanding that Malik would have tried for an hour or five to explain.
Altaïr found himself wanting to hear that confusing lecture. He returned to the
little camp with a skinny rabbit and a snake. By happenstance, the rabbit was
supposed to be the snake’s meal, now both were ending up as his and Naheem’s.
While the meat roasted, Altaïr rubbed Naheem’s back. They spoke minimally,
Altaïr was not much of a talker, but Naheem asked questions and Altaïr answered
them. What was their route? Where were they going? What was Jerusalem like? Can
people die from a Leap of Faith? How were they getting past any further guards?
Altaïr’s answers were short, but very clear. They were taking a narrow south
route to Jerusalem because, while there were many more forts, they were small
with few soldiers and fewer Templars. Jerusalem was beautiful with sand and
stone housing, and all the big religions sharing space together. It had high
spires and many soaring eagles. Altaïr’s descriptions were simple, but
beautiful and Naheem smiled drowsily. “By the time one is skilled enough to
climb such incredible spires as those in Jerusalem for a Leap of Faith, they
are plenty skilled enough to not worry about dying from that Leap. Have you
learned this yet?”
Naheem shook his head. “I thought we learned that before we became full
assassins.” He raised his left hand with the still healing severed finger. “I’m
terrible at it already. A failure. Now I am lame and slowing you down in your
important...” He was silenced by a firm slap.
“Never tear yourself apart for the failings of others. That alone will ruin
your skills. You cannot be a failure at something you have not yet learned to
be or do. You are injured, not lame. Besides, if Malik can still kill with one
arm, I doubt you will be any less skilled once you are done healing. And yes,
you slow US down, but that is MY choice.” Too angry to say more Altaïr walked
away. He vanished into the shadows of foliage to scout.
Naheem had to get up to save the meat from becoming charcoal. He nibbled it
alone worried that he had been abandoned for his childishness. He struggled to
tend to his needs of nature and tried to get comfortable again under the
makeshift shelter. He dressed carefully to keep from freezing in the cooling
evening.
Altaïr returned as the sun set with another blanket that he bundled around the
teen. Again this night he slept curled around Naheem to help keep him warm. In
the morning they had a simple breakfast of whatever Altaïr could steal from the
fort ahead. On their horses, they walked through it together. Everyone was
dead. Naheem realized that this is what Altaïr had done all yesterday afternoon
and evening. He was clearing the path to smooth their ride and lessen the
chance that Naheem would have to ride hard.
The days crawled by. Naheem was often alone while Altaïr ‘scouted’ ahead and
cleared the way. Altaïr was often too tired to speak. Naheem watched Altaïr
wash both bloody clothing and bloody body after one such ‘scouting’ and felt
guilty, but he was firmly ordered to stay where he was till Altaïr came for
him. Finally they walked their horses carefully through civilians on the road
under great stone arches. As they rounded the bend, Jerusalem came into view.
Altaïr pulled the horses to a stop and let Naheem simply gawk open-mouthed in
awe.
“Novice Naheem, have you never seen a city?” Altaïr wondered if the novice was
a private apprentice, a rare thing, but not impossible.
“Only Masyaf. This is so... big!” He continued to stare as Altaïr reached and
leaned, grabbing the reigns of Naheem’s horse and guiding both out of
pedestrian way. He chose a very easy walk down the hill and glanced over to the
youth who was trying so hard to take in every sight on every side. And we
haven’t even gotten into the city, Altaïr chuckled to himself.
Naheem stood better when leaning on a horse. Altaïr unpacked their gear and
doubled up on the weaponry he could manage to hide on himself. Then he removed
the extra master assassin uniform and pulled it over Naheem ignoring the teen’s
protests. “Shut up. You need to have a white hood to get into the town.” Naheem
kept quiet and tried to listen instead.
Altaïr wandered off for a brief maybe fifteen minutes, and then returned. “We
leave the horses. Do you know how to blend into a moving group of monks?” When
Naheem shook his head, Altaïr wanted to groan aloud and curse. How could anyone
make him an initiated assassin and not teach him the bloody basics!! “Watch,
listen and learn.” Altaïr demonstrated the pose and the slow walk. He had the
youth practice, encouraging him to try not to limp, not for this, not till they
are past the guards. Then Altaïr taught him the prayer that was mumbled and
they practiced it together for several hours. “You will approach the group of
monks over there,” Altaïr pointed, “and start this blending in. They will walk
with you and guide you in.”
“They will let me?”
A tiny flash of an arrogant grin, “They and I have a rapport. I spoke to them
and they are expecting you.”
“What about you? How are you getting in?”
Altaïr pointed to the support bars through the entry. He carefully described
the various ways one could get to them and how to quietly hop along them to the
other side. The trick was how to get down on the other side without notice.
Being on this side of the city wall, you had no idea if there were crates to
hop to, or if there was an archer waiting on the nearest ledge. He describes
what to look for on the other side. “Move with the monks till you see the
church then step out of their group. Be sure to thank them for their
protection. Say something like... Thank you and may your god bless you on your
path... or whatever. Just be nice. They are risking their lives for us. They
are doing this favour for me. You will have to later earn their respect for
yourself.”
“Where will I meet you?”
“Don’t worry about that. Find the nearest bench and sit. I will find you.”
Altaïr waited and watched as Naheem, uncomfortable in his former master’s white
hood to hide his grey hood, limped to the group of monks and clasped his hands.
Naheem slowed his steps and bowed his head as taught. The other four monks
stepped neatly around the teen and they slowly processioned to the gate. Altaïr
lurked around corners and stalls watching to make sure Naheem passed through
safely. Only once Naheen was on the other side and out of sight, did Altaïr
make his own way through with masterful acrobatics.
Naheem’s prayers were stumbling from his lips once he was past the guards and
he had to stop with a smothered cry. An older monk guided Naheem to sit. Naheem
mumbled an apology and a thank you. “Son, may God bless you on your road to
healing.” The monk’s fatherly touch almost brought Naheem to tears but he
fought them, breathed through the urge. There on the bench he sat alone,
waiting, hoping Altaïr got through safe too, for Naheem had no idea how to find
the Bureau here or this great Malik. The woman on the bench beside him stood
and wandered away on her business. He watched her go as someone else sat beside
him.
“Well done, Novice. Well done.” Altaïr nodded to him but stayed sitting. Naheem
clearly hurt too much to stand and walk yet.
***** Malik: Doctor Day *****
Chapter Summary
     For those of you who thought it, Malik sure pwn’d the inspector. It
     might bite him in the ass later, but that depends on lots of other
     things. The inspector didn’t find anything out of the ordinary except
     really that Malik NEEDS an assistant to reach the storage places so
     Malik can stop requesting stuff he actually still has. Good thing a
     convenient assistant is on his way, eh? Better one of choice than the
     spy sent by the inspector.
Malik fumed for hours after the inspector was gone. Junayd could only guess
that Malik was going to fume for days. He had never seen someone so angry. He
stayed out of Malik’s way and curled up on the bed mat where he was told. In
the morning he woke to Malik gently brushing his fingers through the boy’s
hair. “Time to take you home, little novice. You performed admirably last
night. I am very grateful for your quick thinking and acting.” Junayd beamed
from the praise.
They walked through Jerusalem in the early morning sun all the way to the small
estate where the old Dai lived. Malik brought the guide book with him. Junayd
hollered a greeting to his ‘Grandfadder’ upon entry and they all sat for
breakfast and coffee. Junayd told the old man all about the inspector. Malik
remained silent to hear the boy’s impressions. Only after Junayd was sent off
for training with one of the other informants did Malik really question the old
Dai about the protocol on inspections and the guidelines from the book.
The day turned into a new learning experience for Malik. And he thought he was
done with training. The old Dai had truly thought Malik had received some
training before taking on the position. When he realized Malik had been winging
it this whole year, they made arrangements to meet once a week to teach and
fill in the gaps of experience. Inspectors were an annual bane to all Bureaus.
They had a responsibility to ensure the proper running of a Bureau, but they
could certainly be a pain in the ass.
They also talked a bit about the Dai of Damascus and how Malik had broken
protocol by addressing that Dai directly. This was a whole side of an
organization that Malik did not understand, having really only been trained to
be an assassin and a doctor. The last thing Malik brought up was his shame
about missing so much in storage and how maybe he actually does need an
apprentice or assistant. “You want to choose your own. If you want to have any
personal privacy, really pick someone you can trust. Otherwise, they will send
someone of their choosing who will not necessarily answer first to you.”
Malik learned that the organization of the Assassins was actually larger and
more complicated than he expected. There were the assassins and the fighters.
There were the informants and the spies. There were the Dai and rafiqs. There
were the doctors and the scholars, too. Then there were merchants and commoners
that supported all the internal affairs. Malik had thought the Dai and rafiqs
were all informants, and that informants were nothing but informants. To know
that some were trained for infiltration or some were partially trained to kill
was fascinating. To learn that Dai and rafiqs were made up all the specialized
educated people like doctors, inspectors, researchers, and even teachers also
fascinated him. He left appreciating the difficult role Al Mualim had
controlling all of this and making sure as many as possible lived safely and in
peace. It was reasonable that some might fall through the cracks. Malik wanted
to ask so much more of this Dai who, though retired, must have a wealth of
information, having lived through no less than three Grand Masters of the
Assassins. He was sent off and told to come back in a week with those
questions.
Malik felt there were just not enough journals and blank books in the world for
him to get all his thoughts down on paper. He practically vibrated with ideas
and questions. This experience actually turned his whole mood around.
Until he arrived home....
There banging on the Bureau door was Kadar, Tibah’s brother. He was a mess of
tears and stress, his fist almost bloody from banging and begging at the Bureau
door. Malik hurried over wondering what had happened, why he was there. “He’s
bleeding... so much... it’s all my fault.... Tibah said you ... you might be
able to help... Please... please... I don’t want him to die...”
Malik could get nothing more coherent out of the young man. The urgency though
spurred him to agree to return to the merchant’s estate to see what he could
do. He managed to learn that getting a doctor was out of the question, this was
too sensitive. With their father away with the elder brothers, and the elder
sisters married and away save for one who really was not good with the idea of
blood, Tibah and her elder brother Kadar were mostly running the merchant stall
in the market square and handing the household. Their mother had recently given
birth with great difficulty and was kept away from any and all stress with a
midwife till she was well enough to be more than just a mom to the new baby.
Malik had really thought the situation was with their mother and was running in
his head all the possible complications and experimental procedures he could do
to save her life.
What he was confronted with was not what he had expected. He was ushered into a
back room that had many basins and bandages and looked like a bloodbath. On a
blood soaked bed mat was a young man little older than the guard Kadar with
Tibah struggling to keep him from bleeding out. Tibah looked up teary, “They
stoned him. They caught Kadar and him in the alley and identified Abby. The
stoned him this morning. I can’t stop the bleeding!”
That answered everything. So, Kadar was caught with his lover in an alley.
Kadar must have slipped away without anyone being able to identify his face,
but the lover must have lingered long enough to be caught. Boys in love... and
human laws against the rare incident of same gendered lovers. The price was
excommunication from whatever religion you were in being the lightest
punishment, to being made a eunuch, to being stoned to death. No family would
accept you as their son, not matter how prominent, especially if they were
prominent. Malik could barely make out the boy’s face with the bruising and
blood, but managed to know he was the top accountant’s son, whose father served
the highest of city officials. The father would have turned in his own son for
this, and likely did. Malik pursed his lips while running these new
calculations lightning speed through his mind.
He turned to Kadar, “We need fresh water and fresh bandages and several clean
blankets and three clean bed mats. A tub of hot water for a bath, as well.
Kadar!” The young man jumped from his numbness. Malik felt strange using his
brother’s name for someone else. He prayed that maybe his Kadar could give
courage to this Kadar. “NOW!” The guard hesitated only a moment not wanting to
leave his lover, then bolted to get what Malik deemed might save the other
young man’s life.
Short sharp orders were given to Tibah who obeyed them swiftly as this Abby was
stripped washed, stitched, moved, stitched more. Hours and hours passed with
internal and external stitching. Malik really was not sure if the young man
would live. He had to resort to crudely searing some wounds shut to prevent
further blood loss. Tibah washed everything in the room in waves. Kadar got
shouted out of the room every moment he was in there loitering worriedly.
Malik stepped out and used a rag to wipe his own face. He turned a sharp eye on
Kadar, “What in Allah’s name were you doing? What were you thinking?! A public
place, Kadar.” The young man hung his shamed head and mumbled that all they had
done was hold hands and exchange one kiss, just one. “Outside the walls of your
home, there is no such thing as privacy. There are guards and archers on
rooftops. There are spies in dark alley corners. There are people who can see
out their windows... or even into your own. I will not condemn you for your
choice of lover. I condemn you for your stupidity that nearly got him killed.”
The young man choked on his sobs and covered his eyes with a hand. Malik calmed
himself realizing how he just tore apart the young man already a mess from what
happened. He rested his hand on Kadar’s shoulder, “He’s alive, just. He will
need lots of care. I told Tibah what to do. You help her. Help him. He will not
be able to leave here for a long while, a month or more. Take good care of him;
he has no one now but you.”
Kadar nodded and mumbled a thank you.
Malik made his own way home hoping the young man lived through the night. He
would have stayed but he dared not. It would be hard to explain why he was out
at someone’s home who was not a member of the Brotherhood. Having gone at all
was a risk to the whole family. But if he had not, that young accountant would
surely have died and young Kadar would be living with that guilt forever...
like he and Altaïr were living with the guilt of Malik’s little brother’s death
forever.
He opened the door to the Bureau and locked it behind him once inside. He stood
very still surveying the main room. Something was different. Something out of
place. He narrowed his eyes. The incense pot was tipped. There was a small
smear of blood on the gate. A young whimpering voice called out weakly from
Malik’s back room, “Master... Master Altaïr...”
Malik was met by the prone form of a fifteen year old novice with dark curling
hair and large brown eyes. Blood and other oozing fluid soaked the teen’s
thigh.
***** Altair: Struggle with Naheem *****
From the bench to the Bureau was a much longer walk than Altaïr had thought it
would be. Naheem was slow and limped badly. It was then that Altaïr realized
that perhaps Naheem was not healing as well as he had hoped. Making the boy
struggle to walk normal to blend in with the monks in order to get into
Jerusalem was the only way to get him in and was better than the other routes
(which Naheem would never have managed); however, it did more damage to the
muscles in the thigh than expected. When Naheem leaned against a wall in a
darkened alley, Altaïr touched the wound to feel how it was. Damp and swollen
was not a good sign, worse that it was hot through Naheem’s pants. He had to
get the teen to Malik fast.
He let Naheem rest on some stairs while he climbed to a roof to plot their
course and try to find a way for Naheem to get to the Bureau’s roof without
jumping buildings. There would have to be at least one jump. One would be
better than four or five though. He heard a yell and mad babbling and an
outcry. He ran back across the roofs to the already familiar sound of Naheem’s
voice. The maddened shambling man had attacked the teen, shoving him into a
wall and over crates, then down the stairs. Altaïr dropped from the roof with a
hard landing that made him wince, grabbed the crazed person, and pulled him
into the nook between two buildings. A moment later he walked out calmly and
knelt by Naheem.
Naheem was white and sweating, a few new bruises from the tumble down the stair
that would turn purple by the next day for sure. What worried Altaïr was how
Naheem clasped at his leg. The impacts tore open the fragile healing wounds.
They were still a few blocks away from the Bureau. Blood had started to soak
through the dark pant leg.
“Look at me, Novice Naheem.” Altaïr lifted the teens chin and waited till eyes
came back to focus. “You need to get up. We are not far. I’ll help you.” It
felt so strange to protect and save a life rather than end one. The more he was
doing this along this trip the more fiercely he clung to that responsibility.
This was an innocent life literally in his hands. It would survive or not
depending on his actions. He pulled Naheem to his feet and helped him through
the streets till they reached the ladder a couple buildings away from the
Bureau.
Naheem leaned against the wall whimpering and trying so hard to be brave. It
just hurt and burned so much. He begged to rest, but Altaïr would not let him.
He climbed the ladder painfully slowly with Altaïr right behind him to make
sure he did not fall. Blood smeared the ladder every few steps. Altaïr muttered
a quiet curse and tried to scrub it with his tunic as he passed. On the roof,
the Bureau could be seen. There was a small jump to the building beside the
Bureau then a set of wood planks to walk across.
Naheem panicked at the jump. He could not do it. He dropped to his knees almost
in tears. Altaïr hauled him up pointing to the blood mark he was leaving every
time to leaned on something. With Altaïr gripping his arm hard, they jumped it
together. Both landed badly on the other roof. Altaïr took a deep breath and
banished the throbbing feeling in his knee. He sat with Naheem on that roof for
a little while, giving the teen a chance to breathe, walking him through some
breathing techniques to help him endure the pain. Altaïr made mental note that
he would have to come back and remove the blood trail.
Naheem managed the wood planks between the buildings better than Altaïr had
expected, but dropped on the other side. “We are here, Naheem. We are here. You
made it.” He helped the boy limp to the opening in the lattice. “Roll over the
side and hang as low as you can before you drop. I’ll catch you.” So many blood
smears were going to need to be cleaned. Altaïr hopped down and wobbled a
moment. He had this mild urge to yell at his knee to obey, but didn’t. He stood
and watched as Naheem followed the guiding words inch by inch. He hung low till
his fingers gave up without warning. Altaïr caught him, but he still landed
somewhat hard and cried out loudly before fainting.
Altaïr held him tight to keep him from falling. He adjusted his stance and
lifted the teen in his arms, then carried him into the main Bureau room,
“Malik? Malik? Safety and peace, Brother… are you here? MALIK!” When there was
still no reply, Altaïr let loose a string of colourful curses in the first
three languages that came to mind. He bumped into the gate to open it and
winced as he knew the teens wounded leg brushed it hard. He walked through the
curtain into the back and laid Naheem on Malik’s bed mat.
Naheem was barely conscious and whimpering more. “Shhh… It will be alright. I
promise. Malik will be back soon; he is never gone long. We are here, Naheem,
no more walking or moving. Just rest. I have to clean the blood trail we left.
I’ll be back.” Altaïr cupped the teens dust smudged cheek and pushed the
matting sweaty curls out of the way. Is this what Malik would do? Would he look
after Kadar like this? Am I doing the right thing? “I’ll be back.” Naheem felt
too hot. Altaïr wondered when the fever had actually started. Why had he not
noticed it sooner? When did he last check? Two days ago? He felt horrible and
neglectful.
He pulled away and grabbed some rags and a pouch of sand to scrub away the
blood trail. Naheem would not be going anywhere. Malik surely would be here
soon. He had to protect them both. He climbed back to the roof and retraced
their path meticulously cleaning anything that looked like a blood smear. He
took a different route back to the Bureau. The sun was almost settling. Malik
HAD to be back by now. Malik wouldn’t be out at night, would he?
A young whimpering voice called out weakly from Malik’s back room, “Master...
Master Altaïr...” Malik was met by the prone form of a fifteen year old novice
with dark curling hair and large brown eyes. Blood and other oozing fluids
soaked the teen’s thigh.
How did he get there? What happened to him? Why is Altaïr not there? These are
but some of the questions that went through Malik’s mind.
Altaïr dropped into the open air room less gracefully than he wanted to. A
curse jumped through his teeth. Malik turned from his staring in the back room
at the newly wounded to Altaïr who limped two steps before adjusting and
ignoring the aching knee. “Altaïr,” Malik was about to snap something but the
boys scared whine silenced that. He can yell at Altaïr later. “Get me three
basins filled with water, Altaïr. And start water to boil for a bath. Then, get
out and wash yourself. You are filthy and I can’t afford you worsening this
situation.”
Altaïr knew that look and that tone. He shied from it. It was flat accusation
that he did something wrong.
***** Malik: Leg Surgery *****
Chapter Summary
     Altaïr can teach things other than being an assassin, as Malik will
     discover.
Altaïr dropped into the open air room less gracefully than he wanted to. A
curse jumped through his teeth. Malik turned from his staring in the back room
at the newly wounded to Altaïr, who limped two steps before adjusting and
ignoring the aching knee. “Altaïr,” Malik was about to snap something but the
boys scared whine silenced that. He can yell at Altaïr later. “Get me three
basins filled with water, Altaïr. And start water to boil for a bath. Then, get
out and wash yourself. You are filthy and I can’t afford you worsening this
situation.”
Altaïr knew that look and that tone. He shied from it. It was flat accusation
that he did something wrong.
Malik removed his black robes yet again today and tossed it aside. His shirt
and pants had been hidden by it and they were marked in many places from the
surgeries earlier today. He pulled them off and lit oil lamps for light. The
first basin of cold water that Altaïr brought he used to scrub himself clean
and he told Altaïr to take it away. Altaïr took it to the open air room where
he himself would wash up later. He was not going to waste the precious water.
Malik stripped himself and then donned just clean pants. He would have done
that when trying to heal Abdel (Abby), young guard Kadar’s lover, but Tibah was
there. Kneeling by the teen, Malik pressed his hand to the fevered brow. “What
is your name, Novice?”
Large brown eyes watered from how much he hurt. He managed to mumble, “Naheem…
Are you the great Master Malik?”
Malik’s eyebrows flew up and he shot a look to Altaïr who was well hidden under
his hood as he placed the third basin of water nearby and slunk away to the
kitchen to boil water. “I am not sure what you have heard, Novice Naheem.
Though, I am indeed Malik. I am Dai of this Bureau and know enough of healing I
think to see you through your injuries properly.” He helped the boy strip down.
Naheem was shy and uncomfortable about being naked, but knew there was little
choice really.
Before removing the teen’s pants, Malik had Naheem turn and sit off the bed mat
and over some towels on the floor. There he soaked the bloody pants well before
attempting to remove them. It was a slow process to remove the pants without
worsening the wounds. Altaïr filled the bath nervously with pot after pot of
boiling water. When Naheem yelped at an attempt to remove the bandages, Altaïr
abandoned the bath, ignored anything Malik might say and took the boy’s hands.
“Deep breaths, Novice Naheem. Like I showed you. Close your eyes and focus on
your breath.”
Malik had to pause. Altaïr had the teen’s full attention and was gentler than
he ever expected. It reminded him so much of how Altaïr sometimes snuck off to
watch over the much younger novices. Malik gave Altaïr a nod and appreciative
smile as he soaked the bandages more and carefully peeled them off. Only once
the bandages were off did Altaïr finish filling the bath and then escaped to
the outer fountain with the other basin to wash. Malik hoped Altaïr would come
back and help, especially since Naheem trusted Altaïr enough to be calm through
this.
It was going to be a day of moving from wounded to wounded to wounded. Malik
knew just by how Altaïr moved that the eagle was wounded too. It was in that
moment that Malik firmly decided he never wants to be a doctor. How they
managed to keep going patient after patient without breaking down emotionally
for each one of them, Malik could not fathom.
Altaïr returned clean and also just in pants. When asked to lift the boy into
the hot bath, Malik was sure Altaïr would bolt. There was a great deal of
hesitation. In the end, Altaïr did it because it had to be done. Amazing how
less afraid of water he could be if it did not actually involve him. Maybe when
all the whatever is going on with this war is finished with, if we ever get
some peace, I will teach Altaïr to swim. Malik refocused on the now soaking
teen who clung desperately to Altaïr, not because he thought he would drown,
but because he got a look at his thigh and became hysterical. Altaïr held him
firmly locked in his arms so Malik can work. Clipping the knotted matted parts
of Naheem’s hair was on the list too.
Well cleaned and again on towels on the floor, Naheem alternated between
panting and crying. Altaïr sat behind him so he could hold him braced against
his chest, facing out. Naheem leaned back into Altaïr, shaking. Malik met
Altaïr’s questioning golden eyes. “I am going to open the wound, clean it and
stitch it closed, so it can heal. Naheem, you will need to stay off it for a
long while. Altaïr and I will find you crutches. Right now, you need to hold
still, very still, so I can get a good look at it and decide what is the best
medicine to give you.”
At the little touches and inspections that Malik did, he earned yowls of pain.
He had to stop. He debated drugging the boy, but if he needed to administer
ani-infectional or anti-inflammatory medicines, they would react badly with the
sedatives.
Malik watched as Altaïr eased out from behind Naheem and laid the boy down on
his back. There was a desire to salve and stitch the wounds he now saw on
Altaïr’s bare back as Altaïr sat beside Naheem, back to Malik, blocking the
boy’s view to his terribly infected thigh wounds. Malik wondered what Altaïr
was going to do. He wanted to protest when Altaïr asked him to not touch Naheem
for a moment. He sat back and waited, annoyed.
Malik leaned so he could see what Altaïr was doing. Altaïr took the teen’s
right hand in his left and instructed the boy to hold his forearm with his left
arm. “Now take a deep breath. Good. You stay looking at my eyes and holding my
arm. Deep breath. Again. Slower. Good.” They just breathed in time with each
other for several minutes. “Now listen. Pull up from your feet all tension,
pull the tension up into your shoulders, arms and hands. Let your feet relax.
Deep breath. Let go of the awareness of your feet. Deep breath. Good. Relax now
from your feet to your knees. Deep breath. Let it go…. Good. Now from your
knees to your hips. Relax the muscles. Let go of the tension in them. Pull it
up to your shoulders and down your arms. Deep breath. Again. Deep breath.”
Naheem’s hand gripped Altaïr’s hand and forearm tighter and Altaïr nodded.
Malik stared amazed at this technique. Is this what Al Mualim had taught
Altaïr, how to handle pain? This was incredible. The boy’s leg was actually
relaxing. Dark eyes were locked on the golden ones, almost hypnotized. Altaïr
kept a slow low and steady tone. “Good novice. Breathe again. I am going to
touch you. I will place my hand on your right hip. When I do, you will not be
able to move that leg. If you feel pain, you pull it up and let the tension
fill your hands as you forget the pain in your leg. Breathe. Deeply again,
breathe.”
Malik saw Altaïr reach back and rest a gentle hand on the boy’s bare right hip.
The last of the tension in the leg melted instantly. Altaïr and Naheem still
breathed in time with each other. It seemed like sorcery. Malik had many
questions. Then he heard Altaïr’s low voice softly say his name, “Malik, now…
do what you must.”
It was a cue to work and work fast. He had no idea how long this state would
last or how long Altaïr could hold the boy like this. A quick glance told him
that Altaïr was going to have deep bruises where the boy gripped him. He
wondered where Altaïr was shoving that pain. Malik leaned over the wounded
thigh and inspected it thoroughly. There was not even a twitch in any muscles
as he touched, then pressed. He concluded he would have to open the wound
entirely; the infection was through the entry right to the exit wound. Altaïr
had sealed infection it. It was the right thing to do, if the boy was going to
remain prone for several days, but clearly they did not.
Malik wondered if maybe he could do the whole surgery like this and thus be
able to give Naheem a stronger healing med against infection after without
needing the sedation during the surgery. He took a tiny knife from his medical
kit and made a tentative cut in the already oozing wound. Again no twitch.
Though it oozed puss and Malik proceeded to push out the infection. Now and
then he heard Altaïr repeat the word breathe and the boy would take a deep
breath and relaxed again.
Malik took a different position with his stump touching Altaïr’s back as a
warning he was going to do something else to the boy now. He felt tension roll
along Altaïr’s back muscles and saw him nod in silent acknowledgement. So began
the actual surgery of deeply cutting into the teen’s leg from wound to wound to
open the flesh. Malik found a couple small invading splinters and cleaned.
Naheem’s breathing shifted to fast panting and Altaïr tried to guide him to the
deeper breathing. Naheem screamed in pain but miraculously did not so much as
have a flicker of movement in the leg. Moments after the scream, the boy was
quiet with slower even breaths.
“He passed out, Malik.” Altaïr’s words only confirmed what Malik had suspected.
Malik continued to clean the wound, slicing the rotted flesh away and washing
the blood. Then he poured a medicinal solution over the opened flesh before he
began stitching. He was glad he had placed towels over the teen’s genitals, for
as expected he had wet himself in the terror of what happened. He finished
cleaning the boy up and bandaging the leg.
He came around to check Naheem’s breathing. It was steady and his fever was
starting to drop. He took advantage and trimmed the boy’s hair and washed the
sweat from him. “I’m going to unroll the spare bed mat. It is thicker anyways
and better for him, I think. Will you put him in it?” Altaïr nodded as he
gathered the teen into his arms and carefully lifted him over to the other bed
mat as Malik set it up.
Malik placed a hand over Altaïr’s badly bruised forearm. “He’s going to be
fine. Maybe limp forever, but he’ll live and can still train… once he is healed
and not before. Altaïr, you did the right thing. Whatever happened, whoever he
is, you did the right thing.” Malik was stunned at how shocked Altaïr looked as
those golden eyes, so hungry for approval, met his own charcoal ones. “Now,
your turn. Don’t think I did not notice you were hurt.” Malik derived some
little joy out of catching Altaïr off guard, especially since Altaïr was not
wearing the hood to hide within.
***** Altair Asks for Help *****
“Now, your turn. Don’t think I did not notice you were hurt.” Malik derived
some little joy out of catching Altaïr off guard, especially since Altaïr was
not wearing the hood to hide within.
“I’ll be in the other room,” Altaïr stepped back feeling more drained than he
ever expected. If he could have absorbed Naheem’s pain into himself, he would
have. He walked out to the main room and wavered. Maybe it was the lack of
sleep over the many days bringing Naheem there. The boy’s screams of agony
still echoed in his mind and started to blur with imaginary screams of what
Malik must have dealt with when Kadar died. The echoes in his mind blurred with
the screams of some victims he fought or assassinated. He closed his eyes
trying to shut it all out. They blurred with his own early screams, the silent
ones he never let out. The room became a sauna as the sweat dampened his back,
and then chilly night wind sucked all the heat away along with the air.
He opened his eyes to find himself staring at the ceiling of the main room with
Malik leaning over him, deep furrows of concern in his brow. Malik was dabbing
at something on Altaïr’s temple, coming away with a bit of blood as he did. “I
should tell you to breathe, deep. You fainted, Altaïr.” Altaïr understood the
words but they still did not make sense. “You were caught in the temple by the
edge of the counter as you went through the gate. Easy! Slow… sit up slow.”
Altaïr sat up. He held the bandage to his own temple so Malik could do other
things, like bring Altaïr a cup of water to sip slowly. With the total
realization that he had indeed fainted came the humiliation that he had indeed
fainted. The great Altaïr fainted like a girl for no reason. He lurched to his
feet and staggered into the open air room to flop on the soft pillows and
carpets. He grabbed his shirt and hood with his free hand to get dressed.
“Oh no… no you don’t. Stay as you are till I am done with you. I refuse to have
to worry about TWO of you all night.” Malik sat on the carpet near Altaïr and
snatched the shirt and hood away; dropping the wooden jar he had been carrying.
He shoved a cup of water then into Altaïr’s hand. “Drink. It’s just water.”
Altaïr was too exhausted to argue and protest even in his own silent way and
clearly Malik was as well. Altaïr discarded the blood dotted cloth since his
temple stopped bleeding. Malik then fussed over each of Altaïr’s wounds,
checking them and salving them, but not bothering to bandage them. Altaïr just
wanted to roll over and sleep. Malik was not going to let him. Malik got up to
get a bottle and some other bandages. Altaïr immediately flopped back and
rolled over, back to Malik.
“I don’t want you sleeping yet, Altaïr. You hit your head and I want to make
sure you will be fine.”
“I’ll be fine…. I’ll stay awake. I just want to lie down.” Truth was that he
was feeling a bit woozy and did not want to fall over while sitting. That would
be even more humiliating.
Malik rubbed salve into the gashes in Altaïr’s back. “So tell me who he is.
Where did you find him and why is he with you?”
“Naheem?” It was a redundant question. Of course, Naheem. Altaïr pictured Malik
rolling his eyes, which Malik did behind Altaïr’s back. “I was on my way here
from Damascus. They were on the way. Naheem and his mentor. Even though he’s
had the rite, Naheem is just a novice, practically no training. They were
overwhelmed by crusaders, archers and Templars. I stepped in to help, but the
mentor was killed anyways.” Altaïr quieted for a long while remembering the
fight in his mind and the fog. “The fog came again, Malik. I had to end the
mentor. His wounds were too great. He asked me not to bring Naheem to Masyaf;
that they ran away from there. That something wrong is going on. But he died
before he could tell me what. I promised to bring Naheem somewhere safe, to
someone trustworthy to train him.”
“Altaïr! I cannot train him! I am a Dai, not an assassin anymore.”
“You can still teach him stuff. Better than I can.” Altaïr rolled over to face
Malik. They glared almost angrily at each other.
“You are asking me to be a traitor for a novice… twice now.”
Altaïr tilted his head confused till he recalled the other little novice. “No,”
Altaïr’s spoke in hushed apologetic tones, “no… I am asking you to protect
lives… till I can figure out who is the real traitor. I am asking you to… to…
help me. Help me do what I need to do. Help me make things right. Help me,
Malik.”
Malik dropped his eyes from Altaïr’s and rested his hand on Altaïr’s right
knee. It radiated heat and Altaïr flinched unexpectedly. Malik withdrew his
hand. “You owe me…”
It was Altaïr’s turn to drop his eyes and simply nod, knowing there is no way
he could ever repay Malik, ever really make things right between them. He
wanted Malik to walk away so he could just curl up tightly and hate himself
alone.
“And you’ll make good on this debt with Naheem by teaching him when you are
here. So you had better be here as often as you can and for as long as you can
manage.”
Altaïr looked up into Malik’s eyes again. There was no anger there. There was
duty… and determination.
***** Malik: Opportunity *****
Chapter Summary
     Altaïr has yet to really come to terms with the things that have
     happened to him. Burying them does not make them go away. Naheem
     provides an interesting solution to several problems that have
     cropped up.
Malik felt warm inside to know that Altaïr considered him GREAT as the teen had
called him, trustworthy too, and the best person to train someone as an
assassin… even if Malik was crippled. It encouraged his ego and he felt less
like a cripple and more like someone with a mission. Altaïr trusted him to
help, not just to train this boy, but to help find the traitor and to help keep
him sane through his missions. That last bit was what worried Malik most.
Altaïr was so unstable. Ferocious and feral like a wild wounded eagle ready to
rend the flesh of anything or anyone nearby and then timid and skittish and
fragile. He knew Altaïr would one day snap and hit rock bottom emotionally.
Malik just prayed Altaïr didn’t start to dig from there, or worse, hit that
bottom somewhere far from Malik.
Malik wanted to reach out and touch Altaïr’s face and shoulder to reassure him.
He could see dark circles under the assassin’s eyes. Altaïr must have been
worrying father-like over this teen the entire way here. “What you did back
there with Naheem… That was amazing. And don’t stress about the surgery. I
meant what I said, Altaïr. You did the right thing with him. Circumstances were
just foul.” He hoped that was reassuring. “Now, pull the pant legs up. I know
your knee is hurting. Let me see.”
Malik was grateful that Altaïr was being so cooperative. It was rare. Altaïr
rolled up each pant leg to expose both knees for Malik. His right was indeed
swollen. Malik placed his hand over it again and watched as Altaïr tensed from
head to toe. He stayed still there watching Altaïr shift his breathing pattern
as he had taught Naheem. When Altaïr reopened his eyes, all expression was
gone. “Altaïr, where do you shunt it, the pain.”
Altaïr’s brows came together as if the question were in a language he did not
know at first. “I don’t shunt it anywhere. I just… stop it. Stop feeling. It is
easier to be a rock and feel nothing, to shove it all away into a bottle inside
me and cork it.”
Those were some of the saddest words he had ever heard from someone. Malik
looked away from Altaïr and prepared two small folded cloths. He poured a dark
liquid that smelled strongly of vanilla from the bottle over each. “Hold these,
one over and one under your knee. I’ll bandage them in place.” Altaïr did as he
was told not that he understood what would happen by Malik using baking
ingredients on him. He was too tired to care. Once Malik was done bandaging,
Altaïr laid back and relaxed.
Malik stayed there quiet, waiting. He knew Altaïr would relax enough soon and
feel again. He wanted to be here for the reaction. He counted quietly in his
head and got to about 95 when Altaïr sat bolt up staring at the bandaged right
knee. His eyes looked like they would fall out of his head. “What sorcery is
THIS!?” Malik smirked at both the reaction and the demanding question.
“Vanilla extract,” He put a hand on Altaïr’s shoulder to keep him down and
relaxing. “An expensive medicine but effective at reducing swelling in a joint.
It seeps in and confuses the joint making the bones think they have been soaked
in ice.” Yes, Altaïr’s expression was everything Malik had hoped for and more.
“It is as much sorcery as your breathing technique with Naheem. Now relax and
let it to its job.”
Reluctantly Altaïr sank back down among the pillows watching Malik warily.
Malik collected the remaining items and returned them to his supplies. By the
time he checked on the boy and then came back to remove the bandages from
Altaïr, the assassin was very asleep and shivering a little in the chill night
air without enough covering. Malik draped a blanket over him after removing the
bandages. Altaïr woke a little but was easily soothed back to sleep. That alone
showed Malik how much trust he had managed to earn from Altaïr. It meant a lot
to him.
Naheem was now his focus for the rest of the night. He looked too sweet of a
boy to be an assassin. Malik raised the boy’s left hand and inspected the
severed finger. He dabbed a bit of healing salve on it to help it finish
healing. Fifteen was young to be made a full assassin and given the rite.
Altaïr had been the youngest that Malik knew and he was almost seventeen. It
took time to learn everything. Malik wondered what this novice knew and what he
was actually missing for Altaïr to think he need lots of training still.
Naheem scrunched his face and squirmed whining in his sleep as the pain started
to rouse him. Malik stroked his hair and soothed him, but pain was pain and
Malik didn’t really know this breathing trick that Altaïr did. Naheem opened
eyes that were as dark brown as his hair and shone like Turkish coffee.
“Welcome back to the waking world, Naheem. Try not to move too much. I have not
given you anything for the pain yet, as I wanted the medicines I did give you
to focus on healing the infection.”
“Did… did you cut it off?” Naheem’s eyes became watery.
Malik knew this terror much too well. “No, you are very lucky for the care
Altaïr had given you. You still have your leg. If you had to travel farther,
like to Masyaf, I could not promise they would think the same.” Fact was that
Malik was sure they would just sever it for simplicity. Malik though was
willing to be experimental and try his very best to save rather than sever.
Malik helped Naheem sip some water and nibble some bread soaked in left over
stew. It was necessary for Naheem to have something in his stomach before
further meds. Malik then gave him a sedative and rubbed a pain killing salve
gently into the leg. He rebandaged it after letting Naheem have a good look and
explaining the procedure he had done to save his leg. “It will have a terrible
scar. Something to show off and to tell a romantic liaison of your heroics.”
Naheem ran his fingers through his hair as his head felt odd. Malik clarified,
“I trimmed it. Some of the curls were too knotted to comb out. It’s all even.
You are still cute for the girls.” That earned a shy smile that caused one
cheek to dimple a little. They would have spoken more but Naheem was already
starting to nod off from the drugs. Malik waited till Naheem was completely
asleep before he took to his own bed.
Malik still wondered what Altaïr had said that labeled him the Great Master
Malik. Did Altaïr really think that highly of him? Malik had no idea where he
would start with training this teen. It all depended on where he was already at
in his training. An idea started to form when he realized the convenience of
this situation and offered an immediate prayer of thanks. Here was an
opportunity. He could claim the teen is crippled, which for the moment he was,
and thus state that he will accept this burden of training him within the
Bureau. That will give him an assistant that the inspector could not argue
about and it would keep the boy from being assigned elsewhere or from being a
true crippled burden on someone else. Malik had to admit at least to himself
that he needed help here, but this allowed him to accept that help without
asking for it.
Malik slept rather well with his decisions, till early morning.
***** Altair: Squicked *****
Chapter Summary
     I wanted to write something funny...
Malik slept rather well with his decisions till early morning. He had honestly
expected to be woken by the moaning of Naheem. What woke him was altogether a
different noise.
Grunts and growls and scraping filled the main room. Altaïr hacked and shaved
at a long piece of wood. He paused as Malik came scowling into the room.
“Sorry. You said Naheem needed crutches.”
“Altaïr! It is barely DAWN! He won’t be walking even with crutches for a few
days. Go the hell back to sleep.” Malik turned and grumpily returned to his
bed.
Altaïr frowned. He thought he was doing the right thing. He set aside the wood
and cleaned up all the shavings. His own knee still ached, but not as badly as
yesterday. Staring now at the wood pieces, he could see that there was no way
he was going to fashion crutches out of them. He really didn’t know how.
Building timber was perhaps not the right wood. He slunk back into the open air
room and sat there a while till he was bored.
At the slightest sound from the back room, Altaïr slipped in to sit next to
Naheem. The teen’s face was scrunched in pain. Altaïr shook Malik awake, “He’s
hurting. Make it stop.” That got Malik up and not in a grumpy way.
Altaïr watched Malik check the wound and change the bandages, rubbing a salve
into the wound after washing it, then rebandaging it. Altaïr felt useless,
helpless. He could not do the wonderful things Malik did. Malik saved lives.
Altaïr only took them.
A pat on his shoulder made Altaïr look up at Malik’s face. In less annoyed
tones, actually in fairly gentle tones, Malik told Altaïr, “I’m going to make
some breakfast. Why don’t you stay with him here while I do that? Your journal,
if you want it, is here.” Malik had taken it from hiding when he was first
woken; figuring Altaïr was up and needed to express himself somehow.
Altaïr stared at the soft journal whose pale leather was beautifully tattooed
by Malik’s own hand. He touched the surface before taking it into his lap and
scanning through it. “It’s all nonsense. I don’t know why I am bothering,”
Altaïr complained.
From the kitchen, Malik replied, “It is not nonsense. Not to me. And you need
to practice writing. You promised. Besides, writing things out will help you
sort them.”
Altaïr looked over at the resting teen and then at the open journal. He
continued to stare at the empty page while Malik nudged him over and started to
spoon feed some cruel into Naheem. Malik returned to the kitchen and prepared a
beverage as Naheem was truly waking. Altaïr saw Malik drop some drug into the
beverage and then help Naheem to drink it. As the drowsiness returned and drew
the teen back into deep slumber, Altaïr knew Malik had drugged the boy.
“Why did you do that? Drug him?”
Malik considered the question and how to answer it. “Well, he is in much pain
and while he is awake and aware, he moves and that could tear the stitches at
the moment. I gave him a mild painkiller and sedative. Later, He’ll have to
endure some pain while I use a different salve on the wound to help it heal.
Maybe you could use that breathing exercise on him again when I do?” Knowing he
could actually be useful helped Altaïr feel much better. He nodded looking a
bit more encouraged. Naheem murmured and frowned in his sleep, hearing them
talk. Malik suggested, “Why don’t you go to the carpets? I’ll bring breakfast
there and then we can talk while he sleeps.”
Altaïr took up the journal and gave a concerned look to Naheem before he headed
out to the warm air under the open lattice. He felt alone having not slept with
Naheem. Those were his first words in his journal. This soon flowed into his
thoughts about training and then his wish that he had a child of his own. He
snapped the book closed there. Good timing, Malik entered with some breakfast.
Altaïr glared accusingly at the bananas on the plate. Malik’s darker-skinned
hand reached over and plucked them off. Malik ate them and Altaïr was content
that he need not eat them.
Malik had set down some other items, a towel, a small basin of water, his own
breakfast, a comb and the scissors. Altaïr looked down at them then up at
Malik, his hood barely hiding his confused questioning.
“Several of the people coming through the city of late have brought some
unwelcome guests. Junayd had them and was shaved and treated. I trimmed
Naheem’s hair for the same reason and since you seem like you need a trim too,
I figured I would check and make sure you didn’t come with lice either.”
Altaïr’s expression was very visibly squicked as he cringed. “Lice?”
Malik nodded, “Yes, you know… the little bugs that get into…”
Altaïr leapt to his feet scattering breakfast and journal frantically brushing
imaginary bugs from him as he danced off the potentially infested carpets.
“By Allah, Altaïr. Sit your ass down! Stop panicking. ALTAÏR!” Malik commanded
him to sit. And when Altaïr reluctantly did so, he snatched off the hood.
Altaïr sat frozen trying not to twitch and flinch at anything that might feel
like a small crawling lice or flea on him. “By Allah, you fear nothing. Not
giant spiders, nor scorpions or poisonous snakes. Not Templars, nor the
invisible diseases of Acre. But tiny lice and fleas… and you bounce around like
a girl surprised by a mouse in the house.” Malik checked through Altaïr’s hair
and trimmed it neatly as he did. Malik smirked, “It would be funny of I said
they could get into your pants and…”
Altaïr leapt up again and checked! Malik rolled his eyes. Altaïr glared angrily
back at him. “Sit down, Altaïr.”
“No!” Altaïr grabbed his hood back and escaped through the roof opening,
humiliated.
Altaïr heard Malik huff a big sigh then yell up to Altaïr, “There is a merchant
in the poor district who makes and sells crutches. Get a pair from him.”
Altaïr tugged his hood back on and realized he left most of his weapons inside.
He was not in the mood to go back in to get them. He had his knife and wrist
blade. He can pick pocket throwing knives. He managed before without the large
knife at his back and without a sword. He could manage again.
He headed to the poor district of Jerusalem in search of that merchant. It took
him most of the day to get there and find him. He gruffly explained that his
friend’s nephew was injured and needed crutches. After some explaining of
height and weight of Naheem, the merchant named his price and told Altaïr to
return in two days for them. Altaïr offered a few coins to secure the purchase
and returned to the Bureau. He would have slept outside because he was pissed
off at Malik for spooking him, but he wanted to make sure Naheem was doing
fine.
***** Malik's Novices *****
Chapter Summary
     Little novice meets big novice… children bring out the very best in
     Altaïr.
Malik waited for Altaïr to return. He had hot mint tea and dinner ready. When
Altaïr dropped in through the roof, there was a still moment of silence between
them. Malik worried that he broke trust with the light-heartedness earlier that
day. Altaïr used to always pull practical jokes on Malik. Altaïr used to laugh.
It was rare to get a smile out of him now.
“Safety and peace, Altaïr. Naheem is doing better. He was sitting up today and
ate and washed. Were you able to find the merchant?” Malik broke the silence
first knowing that Altaïr would not.
“Safety and peace, Malik.” Malik really did like to hear his name spoken by
Altaïr. “I did. I gave him the rest of my coin, but he wants more for the
crutches in two days when they are ready.”
“That’s fine. We’ll manage. Will you let me finish trimming your hair while you
eat?” Malik hoped. Altaïr actually cautiously removed his hood and sat down,
taking up the plate of proffered food. Malik knelt behind him and finished the
trimming. His fingers ruffled through the soft brown and blond hair watching
the setting sun dance off the natural highlights. He used to trim Altaïr’s hair
all the time when they were younger, before they were separated. Malik frowned
to see Altaïr’s shoulders shake a couple times before tensing. It bothered him
how Altaïr would lock every pain up, even the emotional pains.
“Our new novice was asking for you.” Malik needed to speak, the quiet was too
much. “Why don’t you read with him for a little while? I need to restart a map
I accidentally ruined when the inspector came by.”
Altaïr turned so suddenly that Malik almost fell back. “Inspector? What
inspector?”
Malik related the events of the inspector watching the anger rise and fall in
Altaïr. “He never found the journals. But I cannot make notes in the back of
the log book anymore either. I understand why they come. I hope the Dai in
Damascus gets as foul a treatment as I had. He had the gall to write a formal
complaint about me and insinuate that I might be a traitor because I gave him
hell about not treating our Brothers’ wounds.”
Altaïr quietly listened through the whole ranting, sometimes offering a comment
here or there. Malik felt less alone in his plight. He brought his mapping
supplies into the back room and offered Altaïr a book that would be good to
read to Naheem and smiled as Altaïr recognized the gnostic text he had read
before. Malik figured that Altaïr would be more comfortable reading something
aloud that he was already familiar with.
Early the next morning, Malik was surprised by the arrival of Junayd, though
not nearly as surprised as Altaïr who got landed on with an OOF! Altaïr held
the boy in the air and yelled at him for landing on him, “I might have thought
you were the enemy and killed you!”
“Well, don’t sleep in the MIDDLE of the floor and I won’t land on you, Master
Altaïr! There are OTHER people in the Brotherhood than you, you know! And we
have to get in here, too!” Junayd boldly yelled back.
Malik figured he had better break them up before their yelling drew attention.
“Will you two shut the hell up! Naheem is still sleeping!”
Altaïr set Junayd down and asked, “Why are you yelling, Malik?” Junayd clamped
his hands over his mouth to try to smother his giggling as Malik quietly fumed.
The fuming evaporated as Altaïr smirked; a rare and welcome sight.
“Novice Junayd, you know the start of the training, you might as well start
with Altaïr while I check on our wounded.” Malik’s hand shot out to land firm
on the boy’s head and hold him in place. “No, you cannot go in back and see
him, yet. Training first.”
Junayd sighed, then knelt and performed the prayers for this day. He motioned
Altaïr to do them with him. Altaïr did them feeling like a heretic. Then Junayd
recited the Creed in the three languages he knew well. Altaïr recited them with
him, then continued in the other languages he knew. “Woah… how many languages
do you know, Master Altaïr? Will I know that many when I am a full informant or
assassin?”
Malik peaked his head out to watch them, smiling, before vanishing unseen again
into the back. As gruff and unpersonable as Altaïr was, he had this little
adorable charm that crept out and enjoyed the attention.
Malik quietly explained to Naheem about the novice that could be heard in the
other room. He treated Naheem’s wounds again and helped him to sit up. After a
little bit of food, Malik invited Junayd to meet Naheem in back and let the two
just talk about their experiences. Insatiably curious Junayd asked all the
questions Malik would have and other’s Malik never thought of. He learned much
from the conversation, like how very painfully little Naheem had learned before
his rite.
It seemed that the two were almost on par in weapons training. Naheem had more
field training, but had not yet learned the leap of faith. He could leap into
hay from a roof. So that was a start. Junayd was ahead in that he took a life
without help, even if it was a neighbourhood dog. Naheem had only ever had an
assisted kill, though he didn’t realize it. It was a kindness of Altaïr’s to
let the teen think it was his first kill. Naheem knew more languages and had
more education than Junayd, but that was expected due to the five year age
difference. Junayd was practically a master at blending in and adapting to
situations. Naheem had learned his first blending upon arrival into Jerusalem.
Naheem had to get more rest, so Junayd was ushered out and on his way home.
Altaïr hovered out of the way, hidden under his hood. Malik ushered him out as
well with the money for the crutches and a warning that the Bureau was open to
the public for the day. “And if you feel up to it, I have a few missions that
need doing. Imran of the weavers. He runs a weaving dying house in the poor
district. Women have gone missing from work there. My informant has watched it
but the missing women never leave, so unless the underground is being used,
they are not being smuggled out for slavery. It is likely that he is killing
them and using their blood in a new dye he developed to make a rich red brown.”
When Altaïr left, Malik stole the opportunity to read his journal before hiding
it away. It read less randomly than the rest and focused on Altaïr’s own
feelings about caring for Naheem and his deep wish that he had his own
children. The sadness weighed every word as Altaïr expressed the impossibility
of that now and how he felt like an eagle with a chain on his ankle.
Malik wished he could give Altaïr that child. He unlocked the front door and
changed the flagging outside to indicate he was open for scribe or mapping
business. A woman with a baby rounded a corner and out of sight. Malik’s heart
pounded in his chest, “Nina?” she was already gone and he could not be sure of
whom he saw, it was so brief.
***** Altair: Oops, No Feather *****
Chapter Summary
     Just a little death and mayhem.
Altaïr grumbled as he left. The money he double wrapped in fabric to prevent it
from jingling. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing to be caught because his coin
jingled in his pouch? It would be a novice mistake. Altaïr grumbled again.
Being treated like a novice annoyed him. Yet here he was running an errand and
doing a novice assassin mission... again….
He growled out loud as he climbed a building in plain sight startling several
civilians. He knelt in hiding on the roof silently reprimanding himself. Didn’t
he just go over this with a little novice? HIDE in plain view. Altaïr sat there
a long while till the crowds below forgot what he had done. Just because he was
treated like a novice did not mean he had to behave like one.
The sun beat down on his white robes and heated the metal of his blades to
almost burning hot. Altaïr tried to lurk in every shadow he could. He found the
weavers warehouse and the dying house. As he climbed in through a back window
into a smaller room, the stench made him gag. His overheated stomach protested.
His next breath failed to help. Altaïr dropped to his knees and vomited.
Four heat rotted corpses of naked women hung from the ceiling of the small room
Altaïr had snuck into. They had been clearly violated, hung by the ankles, and
bled like beasts into basins. The rings of the basins still marked the floor.
The unbreathable air clawed its way into Altaïr’s throat and made him vomit
again. He rushed from the room, running into a man in the hallway. His blade
bit through the underside of the man’s chin and embedded into the brain in a
blink. The entire dying house stank of various sour smells. Altaïr needed fresh
air. He whirled up some stairs to a roof access and out.
On the roof he gasped and gasped. Inside there was a yell about the dead man in
the hall. Someone struggled to shove a box over the hatch. Altaïr helped before
even considering who he helped or why. A young girl held out a canteen of water
and pressed her fingers to her lips before pointing to a guard on a nearby
roof, pacing back and forth watchfully. The guard was too far for a throwing
dagger, but close enough to call out if they were spotted. The two slunk around
the boxes.
“My letter… you got my letter…”
Altaïr washed the taste of vomit from his mouth before handing back the
canteen.
“One like you saved my mother a few months ago from some vile men in the
street. I promised if ever I could help. But then she never came home from
work…”
Now Altaïr studied his helper, a girl no more than twelve. “Why are you here?”
“Watching… I hoped I would see my mother. Sometimes I give a man notes. He
wears clothing like yours, but is wrapped in scarfs so I cannot see his face
well. He assured me help would come soon.”
Altaïr scowled at her, “Go home. She’s dead.” The girl gasped and Altaïr
regretted his irritable reply. “The dyes are made with blood. If she has been
missing for more than a few days, then she has been bled like the others. Now,
go home, go somewhere safe. Never come back here. I will deal with this.” It
was a harsh promise born out of this growing need to do the right thing and
this deep revenge for making him vomit mid-mission.
His strange golden eyes partially scared the girl into motion. She paused
before running and took a chance to hug Altaïr. “Make it right for me… for her…
for them.” She scuttled across the roof to a place where she could drops and
then to a ladder. He memorized the route, so he could use it later, maybe.
It took many moments to recover from the random hug. The day was then spent
lurking about the dying house to locate this Imran. “Chop the last four and
feed them to the swine. We’ll need new ones in a few days. Find me some who
have earned a promotion to work in the new factory.” Altaïr narrowed his eyes
to see in the cracked window shutter to the man talking.
“Yes, Imran,” said the underling who hurried off to obey.
Imran approached the window and opened the shutters. Altaïr’s hand shot out to
clasp the man’s head. His hidden blade snapped with a crunch and squelch
through the temple and out again. Altaïr clung to the window’s overhang and
swung into the office, pulling the now dead Imran with him. He scanned the room
and started knocking over bottles of alcohol and the oils lamps. Fire ate from
liquid to liquid hungrily consuming till it caught the wood. Altaïr fled out
the smoking window.
Screams soon filled the building as people abandoned it. The fire reached the
chemical pots of the strange dyes with explosive abandon. Altaïr was glad he
was on a very different roof. The guard from earlier sagged lifelessly to the
ground. Then Altaïr yelled in frustration for he did not yet have a feather for
this kill. And his proof was now burning up to nothing. At least the city alarm
was sounding. Malik would surely know the deed was done. It was Altaïr’s
trademark now after all, wasn’t it?
***** Malik: "NO! Allah!" *****
The city alarm was sounding. Malik would surely know the deed was done. It was
Altaïr’s trademark now after all, wasn’t it?
The customers in the Bureau perusing scroll styles lifted their heads and
exchanged concerned looks at the sounds of the alarm bells. Malik sighed and
rolled his eyes. I swear, Allah, I am going to kill Altaïr.He would have cursed
aloud, but then he would lose the business of people who thought he was a pious
scribe. He needed to maintain his cover. He escorted them to the door and let
them know they can return in a few days after the city calms down. He wished
them a swift and safe journey home.
The moment he changed the banners outside and the door was closed however, he
cursed colorfully. Moments later an informant dropped in through the roof to
let him know the reason for the alarm, “The dying house is on fire and well…
exploding. Rumour is that it was the work of an assassin.” Malik slapped his
palm into his face and groaned Altaïr’s name. Yes, Allah, I am going to kill
him.The informant confirmed that Imran was indeed dead. And what happened to
the Creed and the rules? How many innocents are dying in that fire?
Any and all thoughts of the blond hellcat known as Altaïr’s ex-wife Nina were
gone from Malik’s mind as he double checked the locks on the door and roof
hatch. He set out medical supplies expecting Altaïr to return wounded as usual
from the alarms. Naheem asked what was happening and Malik went through the
long explanation of protocol when people hear the alarms. Lock the doors and
let no one in was the law. If you were outside, you hurry to your home and lock
up, or got escorted by guards to your home. If that happened, you could expect
to be checked for verification and they would likely go through your home to
make sure no one snuck in while you were out. Malik ignored the loud knock on
the front door, explaining that the guards were now checking houses for the
criminal, and anyone not locked up would be thoroughly inspected.
Once again, the part Malik hated most, he waited. He shared with Naheem the
general duties of a rafiq and set up a little writing table where Naheem could
take his own notes and practice some writing to occupy time. “You have very
elegant penmanship, Novice Naheem.”
It earned Malik a sweet smile for Naheem was still thrilled to be called Novice
Naheem and not just Novice. Naheem moved from writing to doodling. He was by
far a better artist than Malik and almost hungry to do so. Malik called it
natural talent whereas Malik had to practice to be this good.
When night fell with no Altaïr, Malik served out simple food and helped wash
and re-bandage Naheem’s leg. Naheem went to sleep without a sedative this
night. Malik hoped he would be fine. However Naheem whined and moaned and moved
in his sleep. Malik stayed up to keep easing him back to sleep. In a fit of
night terror, Naheem sat bolt up and screamed, “DAAAD! TEMPLARS!” Malik
immediately embraced the youth who finally wept for his lost mentor as if his
heart were being torn from him. Malik knew this pain. He ached with it for
Faruq and Kadar, his brothers. He had wailed like this on many nights in this
Bureau.
Later, sharp yells outside on the roof foretold of guards in pursuit. Malik
dashed to the open roof, grabbed the pole, fought it into place and slammed the
lattice roof shut and locked. Footsteps pounded across the roof as Altaïr
landed on his belly on the lattice, exhausted from running. He and Malik looked
right at each other for three whole seconds before Altaïr was on his feet and
running again. Eight soldiers at his heels.
Malik felt his heart nearly stop. He dared not speak. He strained to listen. He
could do nothing else but stand there helplessly and watch through the lattice
as the fight ensued on his roof. A spray of blood dripped through the lattice
onto the carpets with a scrap of white fabric. I did not protect him….
Quiet fell save for the din of the alarm bells. There was soon no fighting on
the roof as it moved across to other roofs. Malik could not move from this spot
even as the sun rose more than an hour later. Only then did he realize the
alarm bells had stopped. That meant the threat was over. The danger quelled.
The criminal caught or killed. His hand shook so badly he could not get the
lattice unlocked and opened. He raged at it till it banged across the roof
showering him in little vine leaves.
This was supposed to be a small and simple novice mission, necessary but not
dangerous for a master assassin like Altaïr. Malik staggered through the
morning as Naheem slept. He could not banish the shock of no safety in Altaïr’s
eyes through the lattice. No! Allah! I… condemned him… Allah… I did not mean to
wish him dead. Allah, please… please…
***** Altair Lives *****
Altaïr hated when the guards poured out on a hunt. It made an already bad day
worse. He missed lunch and dinner and was thirsty. They chased relentlessly.
They knew what to look for as if well informed. He had almost made it back to
the Bureau when an archer spotted him. The chase recommenced. Just as he
managed to kill a swath of them and escape, he ran into more. He had just lost
their trail when he reached the Bureau, their yells all around. He only needed
to drop out of sight and be safely lost to his pursuers. He had dove for the
hole in the lattice, but Malik locked it shut at the last minute.
AAARRGGH!!This was NOT his day today. Malik followed protocol. Malik always
followed protocol.
He launched from the lattice. Soldiers climbed the Bureau and had him almost
trapped. Altaïr could not let this fight be here. NOT HERE! I will NOT
compromise the Brotherhood! I will NOT compromise Malik and Naheem!! NOT
AGAIN!!!He threw himself sideways to roll across the roof to his feet, sword in
hand. He accepted a cut in order to make a kill. He stepped within range of a
soldier’s blade. The blade sliced into his hood along his cheek and ear,
clipping his hood and exposing his face. In the same motion, Altaïr reached
back and swung forward with his knife, spraying blood across the Bureau and
dropping the soldier.
Then he ran, shoving men off the roof. He made an impossible leap across to
another roof, rolling again, diving through a roof garden, scaling up and up
and up. The soldiers threw bricks at him to make him fall. The landing was hard
and Altaïr heard something crack. Inhaling burned. Shoving the pain aside he
jumped for the ledge again and climbed. He had to stay far enough away to not
be identified. Wrenching his body over the top of the beam of the high point,
he gathered his feet below him. Muscles bunched and tensed. He pushed off, arms
spread like wings. A brick knocked his foot and threw his balance off. He
scrabbled in the air a moment before barely righting himself and vanishing into
the pile of hay.
The soldiers reached a roof they could look over but saw no one, not even a
splatter mark on the street. The grill to the sewer was broken. The body must
have landed there. It would not be found now till the pieces of it washed up
outside the city. The sun rose and word traveled that their criminal was dead.
Altaïr gasped and gulped painfully for air where he lay buried in the hay.
Every muscle burned from hours and hours of running. The bells tolled
deafeningly nearby. He dragged his bruised body from the hay feeling naked
without his hood. Slowly avoiding people in the morning and stealing a scarf
from someone’s laundry hanging to dry, Altaïr made his way back to the Bureau.
He almost decided to sleep in the roof garden a building over from the Bureau
but wanted too desperately for unknown reasons to be safely hidden in the
Bureau. Altaïr worried the lattice would still be locked. The bells stopped and
Altaïr staggered over on the roof from the sudden silence.
The scarf served poorly so he tossed it off the roof into a pile of refuse. The
noon sun was beating upon his pale skin and shimmering off the heated stones.
The wood planks to the Bureau wavered and blurred. Altaïr crouched and inched
across. The body was already gone from the roof, but the bloodstain remained.
He did not trust his feet on the lattice. He was too tired and too hot to
focus. The lattice was blessedly open. He lay on his belly on the hot stones
not knowing even for how long before sliding over the fountain inside. He
dipped his hand into the water and sipped, but he felt nauseous immediately.
The water stung on his fingers. The room with carpets and pillows shimmered in
tones of orange and red, bathed in blood, or just the setting sun.
Movement startled him as he startled the pigeons. He turned as Malik embraced
him tightly. “Malik,” he gasped out from a parched throat.
“You idiot novice!” Malik chastised while still holding Altaïr close. “It was a
novice mission.”
“He was going to kill more women… ordered it while I was listening… I forgot
the feather…” As painful as it was to be squeezed, Altaïr wanted to be nowhere
else than right here. “I killed a man on the roof… but he’s gone… there’s blood
on the roof still.”
“Then you will just have to scrub it clean later. Stupid novice soiling my
clean Bureau.” Malik had been bearing most of Altaïr’s weight as he walked
toward the back room and snapped remarks at him.
“Malik… please… stop yelling…” Malik quieted. The room went from hot and sunny
to hot and dim to safe and black.
***** Malik: Not So Smooth *****
Naheem half sat up as Malik half dragged Altaïr into the back and helped him
lay on his bed mat. Malik ignored the teen for a moment as he knelt holding
Altaïr’s unconscious form too relieved to see him alive. Thank you, Allah.
Thank you. I will never wish him dead again. I swear.Then Malik wrenched his
brain back to what needed doing, treating Altaïr’s wounds. “Stay down, Novice
Naheem. He’ll be fine. I can take care of this.”
“But I want to help.”
Malik shot a warning look over at the teen to pin him in place. Those large
brown eyes made him sigh and give in. “Fine. Watch his breathing while I get
what I need.”
“How come he is burnt, was he in a fire?”
Malik collected a basin of cold water and several cloths. He used his foot to
nudge the medical sewing box closer to Altaïr. “Look at him carefully. Is
anything else burnt?”
Naheem winced a little as he shoved a pillow over and wriggled onto it to sit
closer without moving his leg much. He studied Altaïr’s body.
There was no hood, or at least just scraps of one left. One side of his face
was more burnt than the other, red right into the scalp. There were some small
blisters forming on the reddened ear. Altaïr’s fingers were red too with the
right fingers showing some blistering too. The left ear and cheek were cut with
blood dried and matted with hay stuck to Altaïr’s face. Nothing else seemed
wrong though. The clothing was dirty and sweaty, dotted with blood not
Altaïr’s, but no burnt fabric.
“No,” Naheem finally replies. “That makes no sense.”
Malik had Naheem help him unbuckle the armor and weapons and remove them. “This
is not fire burn, this is sun burn.” He undid Altaïr’s tunic and pulled it and
the shirt off him to expose the very pale skin. “See how he is not like you and
I? He should not be exposed to the sun for long amounts of time. It is why we
are so covered. Even we can burn like this in the sun if we aren’t careful.”
Malik went on to explain medicine as he treated Altaïr for the sun burn and the
sun stroke. Talking kept him from worrying too much.
Naheem sliced open aloe leaves and Malik rubbed the gooey interiors over
Altaïr’s burned skin. Then he packed cold wet cloths around his neck and under
his arms to bring down his body temperature. Altaïr choked on sips of water but
did not wake. Naheem watched as Malik salved the cut on the right cheek. “It is
not so bad. But I will have to stitch his ear.” Washed carefully, the ear was a
clean cut through the cartilage. That he stitched. Altaïr groaned and winced
but still did not wake. Malik stripped Altaïr down completely and started a
full examination, seeking out any other wounds. The bruising on Altaïr’s back
already showed black and purple and too soft over some ribs that Malik assumed
were broken.
After tending all the wounds and wrapping them Malik prepared some dinner.
Naheem stayed vigilant over Altaïr to make sure he still breathed and to offer
water as often as he could. Malik returned to let Naheem eat and explained,
“The role of a rafiq or a Dai is sometimes this. Healing our wounded. Watching
that they have what they need for their missions like clean weapons,
trustworthy armor, good clothing, filled belt pouches, fresh water in the water
bottles.” He brought Naheem the supplies to clean Altaïr’s blades and armor.
“As novice, the weapons and armor are your task tonight.”
Naheem cleaned each blade carefully. When he got to the wrist blade he finally
asked, “My mentor…”
“I know. He was your father. Do you want to clean up his stuff, too?” offered
Malik. He brought over the sword, knife and wrist blade that Altaïr had left
for the teen. Malik also brought over an eagle feather and dipped it in the
bloody water from washing Altaïr then rubbed it on the bloody blades to gather
as much blood as possible. He stood and singed some of the edges from a lamp
flame. “And sometimes we need to be creative when we make a mistake and right
it. I should have given him a feather before sending him on a sure mission.”
The room was quiet with the simple sounds of work. Malik read through a medical
book he had, wondering if Tibah was studying the anatomy text he had loaned
her. When Altaïr roused hurting and headachy, Malik made him drink more and
nibble some bread and hummus. Then he rubbed more aloe over Altaïr’s burns.
Altaïr mumbled a promise to clean the roof later. “Later, Altaïr. When you are
not going to be a stupid novice in the sun and when your ribs heal some. Looks
like we get to keep you hear for about another fortnight. Aren’t I lucky?”
Malik’s sarcasm was not taken well.
Malik braced himself for the trek to buy the crutches for Naheem. He had one
set of the payment in his usual pouch and a second payment stuffed behind the
simple waist leather he always wore. Altaïr’s vomiting from the heat and sun
the previous day meant Malik could not count on him to buy Naheem’s crutches.
As expected, Malik was robbed. He earned only a couple bruises in places no one
would notice and returned very irritable. He handed the crutched to Naheem and
showed him how to use them. Naheem, of his own accord, moved to sleeping under
the stars on the carpets.
Malik remained watching over Altaïr who grew snappish with every touch unless
it was accompanied by the aloe. Malik asked about the mission. Duty persisted.
Malik needed to record the events which he started with a small fudge where he
marked in that he gave Altaïr all the details available and the feather to
sanction the death. The rest he scratched in as Altaïr retold the experience.
Malik slid the bloodied and mildly singed feather into place. Not having given
the feather to Altaïr in the first place was Malik’s own mistake. He should
have known there was enough information and that Altaïr would take the chance
if it arose, which it did. “You know, you don’t HAVE to set off the city alarm
every time you make an assigned kill. This man was not even a major city
official.”
Altaïr moved to the empty bed mat with his back to Malik.
***** Altair: We Carry Them *****
Altaïr moved to the empty bed mat with his back to Malik. Was Malik accusing
him of doing something wrong? Altaïr was not certain. He tried so hard to do it
right. This is exactly why he felt he should have no hand in training Naheem.
He brooded into the wall for the remainder of that night. Malik eventually left
the room to scratch out the events into the log book and check on Naheem.
The next couple days were miserable for Altaïr. He was hyper sensitive to the
sun and the heat. His ribs hurt badly in a variety of places, making it hard to
impossible to take a deeper breath. Altaïr decidedly hated thrown bricks and
hoped that when they fell back to the ground that they hit the thrower in the
face. He felt like a leper with his skin peeling where he had been sun burned.
It freaked him out if Malik attempted to peel him or touch him even with the
aloe.
“Well, Altaïr, if you would soak it would really help,” suggested Malik.
Altaïr watched Malik drag out the bath, his nerves tensing him up. “I am NOT
getting in that!”
Malik sighed heavily, “The first bath is for Naheem. Go get him while I fill
it. Warn him it is going to be cold.”
Altaïr escaped immediately. Naheem seemed so relaxed, but when alone was more
subdued than when others were around. Altaïr sat down on the carpets beside
him. “Malik is preparing a bath for you.” He noted how Naheem pinched at his
eyes and nodded. His mentor’s, his father’s, wrist blade abandoned on his lap.
Altaïr set it aside and rubbed Naheem’s back. “In everything that you do, he
will be with you.” Naheem’s large brown eyes met Altaïr’s. Altaïr placed his
other hand on Naheem’s chest. “You carry him with you, here.” Altaïr touched
Naheem’s brow, “and here. Now go take a bath before Malik comes looking for
us.”
He helped Naheem to his feet and handed him the crutches. Malik was behind the
counter having been watching the exchange silently. “The bath is cold, Naheem.”
Naheem nodded and moved into the back carefully on his crutches. Altaïr and
Malik stared at each other a long while. Finally, Malik raised his hand and
touched his own heart then his own brow before dropping his eyes and turning to
help Naheem in and out of the bath.
Altaïr leaned back against the wall. Those deaths, Faruq and Kadar’s, are my
fault. If I do what he wants of me… everything… will he forgive me? Will he
care? Is he just doing his duty?Altaïr stared through the vines and lattice to
the darkening sky. There would be no moon tonight. He picked absently at his
peeling skin then shuddered. Fine… I’ll do it.
Naheem came out of the bath in a long nightshirt. This afforded him easier
movement than the pants, especially when dealing with nature’s calls. The thigh
wound made so many things awkward. He was a striking young man with the
sweetest face. He smiled crookedly at Altaïr. “All done. Malik is taking his,
then you can have it.” He innocently had no idea of Altaïr’s deep aversion.
Naheem was used to Altaïr’s silences already and thought nothing of this one.
When Altaïr spoke, it was always something important. Unless it was a heated
hushed spat with Malik. Those happened often enough in just the past few days.
They argue like … like … lovers… Naheem smothered his inner goofy grin at the
total ridiculousness of two men, let alone THOSE two men being lovers.
Altaïr averted his eyes from the teen and tugged the new hood to hide his eyes.
Silent feet stopped dead at the sight in the back room of Malik in the bath…
bruised all over his torso. Something dark and ferocious rose in Altaïr.
“Malik… what happened?” he demanded.
Malik scowled back, “Nothing’s broken.”
“That is NOT what I asked.”
In the other room, Naheem rolled his eyes and muttered to himself, “There they
go again.”
Malik and Altaïr glared at each other. “The poor district and I do not get
along very well. People don’t much like cripples.” Malik spat every word out
harshly and as quietly as he could. Altaïr winced away from the reminder seeing
Malik’s stump out of the corner of his eyes. Malik sunk under the water a
moment to rinse his hair before standing and stepping out. He dried off and
pulled on some sleep pants. Then he dumped the water with a bit of struggle.
Altaïr gripped the edges of the tub and helped.
Altaïr was surprised and yet not as Malik prepared a basin of water for Altaïr
to wash. “Soak your hands in it for a while then gently scrub them. Your face
and scalp are another matter and no bath would help there really. I do have
some ideas.” Altaïr just sat his chest burned and he hated the broken ribs and
the bricks all over again.
Naheem closed his eyes to sleep knowing that the fight was pretty much over.
Altaïr relented to Malik’s administrations and dealt with being peeled, soaked
with wet towels, then soothed with more aloe. Malik did not make Altaïr get
into a tub for a bath for which he was deeply relieved. He stayed silent the
entire time mulling over Malik’s bruises and decided to stay without fuss and
run the errands for Malik till Naheem could run them and defend himself if
necessary. He weighed his timing with the mission in Acre. He could afford
twenty days but hoped Naheem would be healed sooner.
While Malik was checking Altaïr’s broken ribs, Altaïr quietly suggested, “Why
don’t you fight back? Any man has a right to defend himself. If thugs try to
rob you, why don’t you fight them off. You can, even with one arm.”
“Altaïr, I have a particular role to play here and it is supposed to be a lowly
scribe and map maker. I am not supposed to be a good fighter. It would raise
too many questions. I will not compromise the Brotherhood again. And yes, I did
before you argue that point. I am only ashamed that you paid for that sin
instead of me.” Malik rubbed aloe into Altaïr’s scalp to ease the burning and
itching pain there.
“You lost so much already…”
Malik could say so many hurtful things out of anger for what happened, but the
anger was gone. He touched his heart and then his head as he came to sit in
front of Altaïr. “I have also gained some things.”
***** Malik: Safety & Peace *****
Chapter Notes
     I would like to thank wikiquote for helping me with game quotes
     within this chapter and from other chapters. You can find them at
     this website:
     http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Assassin%27s_Creed
Malik could say so many hurtful things out of anger for what happened, but the
anger was gone. He touched his heart and then his head as he came to sit in
front of Altaïr. “I have also gained some things.”
Malik watched those golden eyes regarding him with sadness still lingering. He
wanted to somehow reach inside and truly ease it, but that was impossible. He
almost caressed Altaïr’s cheek but lowered his hand to rest over Altaïr’s
instead.
“I have gained a certain degree of autonomy I never would have had as an
assassin. I have the opportunity to learn about the organization and how our
Brotherhood was and is run, and to think about ways it could be run better. I
get to practice medicine like I have always wanted to. And I have gained an
apprentice… two if you count Junayd who comes in the mornings a few times a
week.”
Malik wanted to say that he also started to regain the Altaïr he had thought
lost forever too, but really was not sure how well that would go over. Malik
was not ready to admit he never was interested in women, was not ready to admit
he was only interested in men, was not ready to admit that he had been
interested in Altaïr since before they were split apart, was not sure he felt
strong enough to admit he was… in love, and sure as hell was not sure if Altaïr
felt the same kind of love in return. They were all feelings he dared not
address, even within himself. Except for that first one… that he has gained
back Altaïr. However saying so might get misconstrued.
Malik noted how Altaïr dropped his eyes to their clasped hands, so Malik let go
reluctantly. “In this position, I can help you find the traitor through other
means. The informants and some of the lower ranked assassins in Jerusalem are
mine to command, mine loyally.”
“Then you should have one of them escort you discreetly on your errands,”
Altaïr shot back weakly.
Malik wanted to rap his knuckles on Altaïr’s head for not entirely listening to
him. He sighed as he rose to his knees and leaned in close and to inspect the
cut and stitched ear. Altaïr turned his head to make it easier and then put his
right hand onto Malik’s hip to steady him. The contact felt too intimate and
Malik’s heart skipped a beat. Altaïr’s left hand almost rose to touch Malik’s
stump. Malik saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. “Your ear is
healing well. I think in a day or two I can take out the stitches.” Altaïr
turned his head back to look at Malik as he spoke. The sudden movement nearly
caused their lips to touch and both men tumbled back away from each other.
Altaïr stood immediately and retreated to his sleeping mat. Malik scowled more
at himself, that anyone else. His cheeks burned and he pulled on a robe against
the night’s chill. Or maybe against Altaïr’s chill.
Junayd arrived punctually with the dawn light. Naheem slept out of the way so
as not to get landed on. The two greeted with the usual “safety and peace”
greeting and engaged in morning prayers and discussion while Malik rose and
started some oats for breakfast. Altaïr’s bed mat was empty and he wondered
when Altaïr had slipped out and if Altaïr would return. The pale journal sat on
the bed mat with his weapons which reassured Malik that Altaïr would indeed
return.
He flipped open the journal to the last pages he had read and scanned the new
entry. Various languages seemed to have been vomited onto the pages. Altaïr
must have been woken by another night terror. Malik gauged his time based on
the cadence of the prayers and ensuing discussion in the other room. Rereading
the poor writing, he noted how the penmanship did indeed improve a little, the
spelling was still almost phonetic, but with more reading and writing, Altaïr
would indeed improve… or maybe not. Malik narrowed his eyes as he started to
recognize patterns. Maybe Altaïr really did have a reading and writing problem
that had nothing to do with practice. Malik had read some Greek medical text
about such things. People with various learning difficulties often have signs
of brilliance in other areas. Malik wished he could remember more about that
book or read it again, but it was in Masyaf. He wondered why he had not
considered this before about Altaïr. No wonder Altaïr was frustrated all these
years with reading and writing.
Rereading the couple pages a third time, he automatically translated them.
Pieces… targets… roles… Pawns… Are we all only pawns? The king is not the ruler
of either side of the war. Who moves the king pieces? What piece am I? I guess
I am like the Templars, knights hiding in plain sight to make a kill. Are we
like Templars? They do not act alone. Templars act on their own. They have
their own agenda. Pride will destroy us. My Greatest failure was borne of
knowing too much… I know too much. I wanted to see… but that is madness. I must
not repeat my mistakes. Where is the line between madness and ignorance? Is
Ignorance not just another form of madness that leads to more mistakes?
They were madmen, freed from their madness and condemned back to madness. What
right had I to do it? Shambling on the streets, shoving and wailing. I scream
with them and let them scream for me. I silence them. Why won’t their screams
stop?
Why must it always come to violence? The Brotherhood… whose Brotherhood? They
spoke of their Brotherhood. Is there another Brotherhood? Are we fighting
ourselves? How do I tear down the wall in order to see and understand? What
will I become if I do? Maybe just another madman… Was he helping them as he
believes? Cannot speak of the talk in the fog… We are not having this
conversation in Acre. It never happened. Why can’t the fog just… never happen…
it happens… it is not real… but I am there, I see, I hear, I go mad. Am I mad?
We are the same, are we not? We both kill… minor evils for a greater good
according to our own beliefs. What makes our decisions better than theirs? They
seek a New World… What kind of New World? One of Safety and Peace? One of
madness? One of freedom? One of control? Whose side are we on?
Innocence… there is no real innocence, is there?
Robbed of free will by choice or by drugs with promises of a perfect New World.
We obey leaders. They make us obey. Who is leading who and is the cause noble?
Our enemies believe they are acting nobly, helping. Yet they wage wars on
peoples for what? Differences in a similar faith. We kill people because we
believe we are acting nobly. We kill because we think and believe differently.
For what purpose? Is there a Purpose? Greater Purpose? Or is it just a purpose…
someone’s decisions. Do we follow blindly? Drugged by ignorance? Drugged in
fact and set out to kill. I kill. I don’t know why… I have killed under a drug
and didn’t even know who. Why? Who sent me?! WHO SENT ME?!
I am mad… raving mad… hide my insanity…
It was hard to digest. Malik didn’t even know where to begin, but this is
exactly what Altaïr had been deeply troubled by all this time, all this year.
It seemed like the ravings of a lunatic, except the undercurrents were too
logical. Altaïr was trying to understand things going on that were so much
larger than he was, yet he was a piece playing such a crucial part, the
assassin against key people, nine in fact. Malik closed the journal. He felt
like a victim, too. He lost two brothers and his arm to this too large
something that was troubling Altaïr. He wondered if Altaïr had questioned
before Solomon’s Temple. Malik could see how stripping Altaïr of rank and
forcing him to relearn the ways of the Assassins kept him from rising too high
or looking too deeply, or thinking too independently. However, it was the very
best thing Al Mualim could have done for Altaïr. It helped Altaïr have a
foundation on which to build and question and think morally. Malik considered
Al Mualim’s brilliance. Maybe Al Mualim needed help finding the traitor and
Altaïr was that key to doing so, as he was in killing the other traitor. While
Malik hated many of the things done to Altaïr, he had to also commend the man
for his wisdom. Malik set the journal back beside Altaïr’s pillow and returned
to his novices who sounded like they left training discussions and were
chatting about local gossip.
The morning’s official training began with the meaning of the greeting. “Safety
and peace, my novices.” They greeted him in kind with smiles. “And what do we
mean by this greeting?”
“It is… it means… We wish safety and peace on the person we greet,” Junayd felt
proud of his answer.
“It means more than that,” countered Naheem. “It means the promise of safety
and peace we request and offer each other. It is confirmed with each greeting.”
Malik added, “It is also the goal of our Order to seek and offer safety and
peace for all people of the world, a reminder of why we do what we do.”
He engaged the two apprentices in translation, having them translate the
greeting in each language that they knew. This was more challenging for Junayd
who still barely had a grasp on Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Naheem could
translate the greeting into Latin and Hebrew, but not Greek. He also translated
it into Italian and Spanish and fumbled through it in English. Malik helped
him. Altaïr dropped in and greeted them in German and for the fun of it,
Chinese, just to throw Malik, although there was no smile touching the corners
of his lips.
“Where have you been, Altaïr?” Malik tried to keep his tone casual.
Clearly Altaïr was unsure of what the tone was as he replied with a wary hint,
“I left a mark on the roof I had to clean before people woke to see me.” He
tugged the hood over his eyes and slipped past them all into the back room to
lie down.
Malik handed out paper for the novices to practice writing the greeting in the
various languages. Naheem tutored Junayd, while Malik looked in on Altaïr. “Are
you hurting? Did you strain your ribs?” as if he knew. Of course Altaïr
strained his injuries. Scrubbing the roof would do that. Altaïr remained on the
bed mat silently facing the wall. Malik hated these brooding silences. He’d
address this, but he had two novices who needed his attention. Altaïr can wait.
He didn’t seem in bad pain and had likely been up way too early and needed
sleep.
Malik returned to the novices to review the care of blades and leathers. The
two novices learned to identify several other blade types and how to care for
them. Junayd ooo’ed and ahhh’ed at the wrist blade that now belonged to Naheem,
although he was not allowed to wear it, yet. He had a long way to go before he
earned the right to actually use that weapon. Junayd practiced with the
throwing knives again, showing much improvement and asked if he could really
keep the one Malik loaned him. Alas, it was time to give it back. Malik wanted
to thoroughly check how well cared for it had been.
The time flew by too fast as Malik handed out breakfast to the novices. He set
a bowl of oat porridge between the wall and Altaïr’s face on the bed mat.
Kneeling, he hovered over Altaïr’s sore ribs. “Don’t… don’t touch,” Altaïr
breathed with difficulty. Malik rested his hand instead on Altaïr’s shoulder to
find him tense. With a frown Malik pushed back Altaïr’s hood to see the pained
expression. Altaïr did not move; he was too focused on trying to breathe.
Malik touched very lightly in various places about Altaïr’s torso, “Relax the
muscles in these areas.” He knew anatomy better and using what Altaïr knew of
the pain shunting technique, could advise him how to ease the pain best. “Good,
now slow shallow breaths… Deeper… deeper… there. Keep that up.” He ran his
fingers through Altaïr’s hair knowing how it would relax the assassin in his
sleep and hoped it might do so now. There was a moment of extra tension, but
with each breath and each stroke through Altaïr’s hair the tension eased bit by
bit till he was relaxed and his eyes began to droop. His breathing slower,
steady, unstrained. Malik considered telling him to eat before it went cold,
but decided not to bother. Altaïr was almost asleep.
Junayd had to wolf his food down and rush off to his next lessons. Naheem
watched the boy scrabble and scramble up the fountain and finally to the roof.
“Master Malik? Will I be… crippled?” asked Naheem when Malik re-entered the
open air sitting room.
The room seemed to have suddenly lost air. It took a moment for Malik to take a
breath. “No,” he said firmly. “You should heal well enough if you are careful.
You might limp, but with some training, I think you will manage well enough.”
We are all wounded people in this Bureau. I think maybe, I am the least wounded
at the moment. I cope well. I need to help them to cope.
***** Altair: Coping *****
The room seemed to have suddenly lost air. It took a moment for Malik to take a
breath. “No,” he said firmly. “You should heal well enough if you are careful.
You might limp, but with some training, I think you will manage well enough.”
We are all wounded people in this Bureau. I think maybe, I am the least wounded
at the moment. I cope well. I need to help them to cope.
Everyone copes differently with their various wounds. Naheem clung to the
familiar and hoped as any teen might that someone wiser would make things
right. He wept easily and openly for his losses. He smiled shyly with equal
ease. He was grown up enough to be considered a man by most, though still in
need of much training. He coped like one not exposed to so much harshness. He
had a good mentor, a good father, who cared for and supported him. It made a
huge difference.
Malik also had a family of support and had a faith to lean on when things
overwhelmed him. He would grump and slam books and throw things if he needed to
vent. That never changed from when he had two arms to when he ended up with
just one. It was how he coped with stress, vent it out. It always came out as
anger, and sometimes ended as misdirected attacks. Alone in the Bureau, he
could vent all he liked or needed about his own losses. The people in his life
were gone. His arm was gone. He thought hard every day about those losses and
weighed them with what he gained. He prayed, not to any particular god or in
any particular faith, but to… something, usually calling it Allah out of habit
rather than faith. Malik might consider himself agnostic in his beliefs with a
strong curiosity toward Gnosticism. He was never alone in that sense, even if
he felt alone sometimes.
Altaïr lacked most of the coping mechanisms of those he currently shared Bureau
space with. He coped by shutting everyone out. It was easier to not feel
anything, to put up a front of arrogance and confidence. He knew he was the
best at what he did. But what was it, really, to be considers an exceptional
killer. It meant one was little more than a hunter, a predator, a bird of prey.
Altaïr coped by hiding behind these masks that everyone saw and assumed about
his personality. He’d only just hit the 25 year mark in his life, and nothing
improved. Just as he had thought he might stand on his own and get a chance to
do as he pleased, stretch those independent wings, he found he had lost who he
was and became the horror of what people saw. Worse, he hurt the only people in
his life he held any respect and love for. How did he cope now? Hiding again
behind masks that frayed and sometimes fell away. He used his hood as a
physical mask, a shield to hide behind so others could no longer see the
damaged soul in his eyes. Malik sometimes saw it though, despite Altaïr’s best
efforts.
Altaïr hurt so badly from scrubbing the roof of the blood from his kill the
other day that he could hardly breathe. It was a front again to be cocky in
front of the novices and quote in languages he knew they did not know. He was
surprised Malik saw through him. He hurt too much to protest more than the one
gruff request when food appeared on the bed mat, and when Malik touched him.
Malik moving his fingers through Altaïr’s hair stirred so many emotions. It
stirred his sense of the friendship they lost, the intimacy and almost love. It
stirred his desire to find those feelings again, even if it were only physical.
There lingered a degree of comfort in the familiar roles of being told what to
do and not having to bother with the responsibility of the decisions, just
obeying.
Sleep stole his senses as the pain in his chest eased. He slept so hard that
morning that he never heard the thunk thunk of the throwing knives during
practice. The sound of weapons would normally have woken him into alert
defense. Safety and peace in some ways existed here.
And yet, his mind would not give him either. It dredged up things out of the
fogs. It dredged up the recent discussions with Al Mualim with all the
unanswered, deftly avoided questions. It dredged up a private office with a
desk that Altaïr knew too well from leaning over it in his punishments and
lessons. He asked himself over and over why he gave in. Why?! He could have
just left. He could have fought the old man. Yet part of him wanted. That was
the bottom line. He wanted to feel like he was doing something right, pleasing
someone. Malik sure as hell would not let him close enough.
The days blurred a little for him in the routines that manifested. Malik taught
Naheem the basic functions of being a dai and rafiq. Altaïr stayed out of the
way, invisibly watching the new mentor and novice. The little novice came ever
few mornings. Altaïr wrote more of the chaos in his mind into the journal from
various places out of sight. He even tried to anticipate some of Malik’s needs
and run the errands so Malik did not have to.
All other times he spent training himself, working out and exercising. Naheem
joined him on some of those times when the exercises did not strain his leg.
Malik watched like a hawk to make sure neither strained their injuries.
Altaïr found this break more helpful than he expected. Malik asked nothing of
him beyond resting, writing and exercises for healing. He listened to the
lessons as though he were ignoring them, like he used to when Malik helped
tutor Kadar. Sometimes his questions and highlights from the discussions
between Malik and Naheem found their way into his messy journal. The more he
wrote, the more he wanted to write. The candles flickered and guttered out one
night. Altaïr blinked in the sudden darkness.
“Go to sleep, Altaïr,” Malik’s drowsy whisper carried across the room in the
dark, “I am not far if you need me.”
I have always needed you, Malik.
***** Malik: Complication *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik woke at dawn as usual. Unexpected warmth pressed against his back as he
opened his eyes. He frowned and turned just enough to look over his shoulder. A
white hooded figure under a blanket curled close, face buried almost between
Malik’s shoulder blades. Altaïr? He pretended to sleep as long as he could.
Altaïr woke little over an hour later and vanished off to the calls of nature.
Malik then sat up. Altaïr had been silent and near invisible for days, it
worried Malik. The introversion, more than normal for even Altaïr, was
bothersome. Malik decided to involve Altaïr today in some activities, engage
him a little.
Having Altaïr cook breakfast, however turned out to be the very worst way to
engage him. Three men looked warily at the blacked eggs that might be called
scrambled. Malik ate them anyways, bad as they were. Naheem ate around them.
“Altaïr?” Malik ventured, “Are you feeling up to running an errand for me while
I check on Naheem’s leg?” The white hood bobbed. “I need more healing salve,
general healing salve. Can you get it from Tibah’s apothecary stall in the main
market?”
“You are asking me to expose myself to them.”
Malik tilted his head and gave Altaïr a sour look, “I think you succeeded in
exposing yourself to her quite a bit already, this will be nothing by
comparison.”
Altaïr’s fists clenched and his cheeks burned as red as if the sunburn suddenly
returned. Naheem decided the eggs were suddenly wonderful! Altaïr stood,
leaving the plates for Malik and Naheem to clean. “You need to deal with her,
Malik,” Altaïr snapped before helping himself to the jar of coins hidden under
the counter and vanishing out the roof access.
Naheem asked, “Who is Tibah?”
“A very pretty and precocious girl about your age who wants to learn healing
along with the apothecary skills she has already learned from her father.” At
the little grin that snuck its way across Naheem’s face and into his eyes,
Malik added, “You’ll meet her, I promise.” That grin became very large and
goofy. Malik chuckled at the twinkling in the teen’s eyes. “Don’t get so star
struck yet, young man. You haven’t met her, yet.”
Malik prepared a bath for Naheem and helped him into it to soak the wound and
ease the tension building in his leg muscles.
An informant dropped in through the roof access as quietly as any assassin.
“Safety and peace, Dai Malik,” he greeted.
Malik drew out the large tome to log the news and paused as the book thudded
heavily on the counter. This was not one of his informants. “Safety and peace.
What brings you to Jerusalem?”
“I came for information. I have been tracking someone who I am sure arrived
here a couple weeks ago. I also have news and both relate to Altaïr. I am
assuming he is here since he has not been sighted anywhere and no one claims to
have killed the Great Novice Eagle.”
Malik clenched his own fist and wanted to spit vicious things back as this man.
He held his tongue on his harsh words. “I have already sent a bird to Al Mualim
about the arrival of Altaïr wounded with a novice and news of the death of the
novice’s mentor by Templars. The novice is in back healing. Altaïr has stepped
out to test his recovery. Tell me your news and the information you seek. I
will help as best I can.”
“My news is that Adha is confirmed dead. So we will cease wasting men searching
for her. Altaïr ought to know. The news is that I have tracked his wife, Nina,
to Jerusalem. We should have her back along with her baby soon. However, if you
have any information on her whereabouts, it would be helpful to hasten our
search of the city. Al Mualim wants her back in Masyaf for the safety of the
baby.”
Malik nearly blanched. So it WAS Nina I had seen. There really was no mistaking
her blond hair, even if she covered it. He had noticed the escaping wisps. “She
has been running from us for a year, now. What makes you think she will want to
return to Masyaf? She does not want Altaïr, and Altaïr wants nothing to do with
her. Why not leave the whole situation be?”
“Do you hear yourself, Dai?” asked the informant baffled by the lack of Malik’s
logic. “She may hate us for whatever reason, or just hate Altaïr. Either way,
she knows too much about us to be roaming free.”
“And in that whole year she has obviously done nothing with that information.
Do we really need to make a bad situation worse? I can ask my informants to
watch for her and when we locate her, we can let Al Mualim know and see how he
wishes to proceed from there.” Malik gambled with the politics of the
Brotherhood.
“My orders are from Al Mualim. I will be back here in a week for information if
I have not found her by then.” He showed a letter to Malik that was wrapped
around an eagle feather. It was signed by Al Mualim sanctioning this man as an
assassin. “I will act if I must. You may add this information to your log.”
Malik lost the gamble. He opened the log book and transcribed the note into it
with the indication that a feather from Masyaf has been issued by Al Mualim’s
own hand. Yet, Malik learned something new. So in a way he gained something. He
studied the man before him. This was in fact an assassin now that Malik looked
closer, a master, but not as high ranked as Altaïr had earned. He wore the
scarf of an informant so he served double duty and crossed borders. He served
Masyaf and the Master. “I will summon my informants for tomorrow and try to
have news for you when you return. Good hunting, Brother.”
The man took back his note and tucked it with the feather back into his belt
pouch.
“Before you go, tell me the age of the child?” Malik needed to know if it was
Altaïr’s or a newborn from some other man.
The hunter pondered before answering, “I think about three or four months old.”
He gave a final nod to Malik and climbed out to return to his hunt.
Naheem had managed to get out of the tub on his own, dry off, dress and hobble
out on his crutches. “Master Malik. I didn’t know Master Altaïr had been
married, twice.”
“Hush novice, Naheem.” Malik snapped. He needed quiet to think. He tore through
the trunk for the all call flag and set it outside. “Novice Naheem, take the
stairs to the roof, carefully. Wait for Altaïr there. When he comes, tell him
to go hide for two days and take you with him. The salve is for your leg; try
not to tear the stitches.”
“What’s going on?”
“A meeting for informants. You are a novice assassin, so you do not belong in
it and are well enough to make yourself scarce. Now go!”
Naheem made sure he had his uniform put together with all the supplies he
needed. He stuffed a small bag with his wrist blade and some food from the
kitchen. A little bit of deliberation and he left behind the crutches. Malik
locked the roof hatch behind him and readied for this meeting. He paced as he
debated whether or not he would send little Junayd home. Novice informants
should not be here either. Or should they? He honestly didn’t know. He slammed
his hand on the gate as he threw it open. Marching by, he dug out the Dai/rafiq
manual and scoured through it for an answer.
Malik paced as he read, weighing the pros and cons and the rights and wrongs of
this situation with Nina and a baby that Malik knew for sure now was Altaïr’s.
Chapter End Notes
     Nina… oh Nina… a walking complication in Altaïr’s life.
***** Altair: Away from Home *****
Chapter Summary
     Let me stir the pot of complicated lives.
Naheem sat on the roof just in view of the lattice. His back presses against
the crates that he sometimes lifted the lid off to peek inside. He had a shaded
spot so far and hoped Altaïr returned before the sun moved enough to leave him
no shade. It was hard to imagine Master Altaïr ever having been married, let
alone twice. He knew how his father had handled it and knew it was hard on
their family, more so when his mother had died in childbirth with her second
child. Her previous difficult and failed attempts to have a second child were
why Naheem had started training only when he was about thirteen or fourteen. He
had stayed with her to help her as much as possible through those difficult
times.
Naheem didn’t realize he was crying until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He
wiped his face with his grey sleeve. “Master Altaïr. I’m sorry. I should have
been paying attention.”
Altaïr nodded but did not reprimand the teen. “Why are you out here? Did Malik
throw you out?”
“Yes… I mean no!” Naheem wrinkled his face in frustration. “He told me to wait
out here for you. You and I are to go hide for couple days then come back. He
has to call an all informants meeting.”
Altaïr wondered what it was about but knew that it meant he had to get scarce
with Naheem soon. Who knew how long the boy had been on the roof. They very
carefully made their way across the wood beams to the other roof. Naheem limped
badly without the crutches. Altaïr’s eyes constantly searched the roofs for
archers. They arrived at the jump they had done last time. As Naheem
deliberated about how the hell he was going to manage it, Altaïr gripped the
teen’s tunic. “Roll when you land.”
Naheem’s eyes went wide as he refrained from yelling his protest. Altaïr braced
his feet and threw Naheem across the gap between the buildings. Naheem rolled
with far less grace than Altaïr imagined. He made a mental note to teach Naheem
how to roll, especially with the leg. That could be something to do over the
two days. The ladder was slow, too, but went easier as Naheem hopped one-footed
down the rungs.
At the bottom, Altaïr pulled Naheem’s hood up. “Be unseen.” He led Naheem
through the crowds, sometimes giving him a direction and meeting him at a
location. Sitting on a bench in a shaded alley, Naheem poked into the bag of
food and handed a squished bun to Altaïr. They nibbled in silence. Altaïr broke
the silence by explaining a more complicated route to a location. He shot up
the building to take a high road leaving Naheem to take the more complicated
street-level route to a ruined church. It was just off the quarry where Altaïr
had taken the life of the Regent.
In hindsight, Altaïr cursed a great deal from the roof of it. There was no way
in from street level and apparently someone had taken away the ladder that used
to lean against the wall. Altaïr retraced his path to watch over Naheem from
the roof. This is what he wanted someone to do for Malik, be invisible and
watch that he came to no harm. A small throwing knife between his fingers would
end trouble before it began.
Naheem was slow. He had to pause often. He limped more and more as he went. He
sat on a bench to rest. Altaïr took that moment to drop in and sit with him.
The sun was setting and Altaïr thought hard how they were going to manage this.
He could easily get into the boarded up building beside the ruined church, but
Naheem could not climb with his leg. After securing the nook near where the
ladder would have been, Altaïr handed over all the throwing knives. “Kill
anyone who comes close. There are lots of drunks in this area and they will
beat you to death if they can. Archers will start to fill the rooftops. So
watch above, too.” He did not wait for an answer as he took a page from Junayd
and pulled off his hood and tunic and armour and weapons. He used his red sash
as a scarf about his head and was dressed only in his dark pants and light grey
long-sleeved shirt. “Guard my things.” It was a risk, but he felt strongly that
it would work. Naheem was actually very decent with throwing knives.
Altaïr wandered off. He roamed about cautiously and stole a ladder from another
location pretending like he was ordered to do this. He was stopped once by a
guard he considered killing, then recalled he left everything with Naheem. He
wondered how Malik managed a whole year roaming this city with no weapon on
hand. He lied to the guard in a mumble of Arabic that his master told him to do
this task and he was late and in trouble already. The guard let him be on his
way. Soon he returned to Naheem and reclaimed all his gear with great relief.
Now they had a ladder. It was not quite tall enough, but it would have to do.
Altaïr climbed first and waited till Naheem reached the top of the ladder. He
pulled Naheem up the rest of the way, and then he had Naheem hold his legs so
he could reach down and grab the ladder to pull it up. This would be their
hiding place for now. They relaxed for a couple hours and nibbled the food
Naheem brought. There would be no training tonight. Naheem needed to rest his
leg from the long trek without crutches.
They scrounged rough blankets from within the ruined church and flopped down on
the hard floor under a broken window that exposed the starry sky. Naheem
regretted not bringing a blanket from one of the roof crates he had peeked in.
They slept close together for the warmth as they had on their journey to
Jerusalem.
Naheem fidgeted in his sleep keeping Altaïr awake. He tried to rub the teen’s
back to soothe him to sleep, but Naheem clung closer. An awkward stiffness from
Naheem against him made Altaïr’s eyes pop open. His whole body became rigid as
he realized what was happening to Naheem. He did not need this complication! He
did not need this confusion of arousal to inspire his own needs. Yet, could he
fault the youth? The teen was asleep. As it was, Altaïr had already deduced
that Naheem was a late bloomer in some ways since he was already fifteen but
did not yet have much body hair. So, Altaïr concluded this was one of those
dream moments that one woke from completely humiliated from. Malik had at least
taught Altaïr how not to be humiliated by something that the body did
naturally. Question was, how to do so delicately now?
Altaïr, unfortunately was anything but delicate….
***** Malik: Tracking Nina *****
Chapter Summary
     And so the plot thickens...
Thankfully, Malik could probably delicately script the word delicate into the
middle of his Arabic name discreetly when he chose. This was one of those
moments. He trusted that Altaïr and Naheem would vanish for a few days. He
waited with a map of Jerusalem open on the counter and the log book open at the
page with the notes taken from the man hunting Nina. The Informants trickled in
one by one as they had when they were summoned for the inspector. Malik set out
a smaller notebook where he started to keep the more detailed notes of little
missions for Junayd. He added the information about Nina to this back-up log,
where he included his possible sighting of her with the date, time of day and
location.
Junayd arrived with one of the old Dai’s sons, who was the informant training
him. Malik looked them all over and thought about the few local assassins who
lived in Jerusalem that helped him deal with small local missions. Not having
seen any of them for over a month was alarming. He made a note about that, to
address it and summon them… later. Six informants crowded the counter, Junayd
made seven and he helped himself to a box to stand on so he could see the map,
too. At Malik’s frown at his arrival, he immediately defended himself, “I came
with him. I am under mentorship for the week.” Malik sighed resignation.
Junayd’s temporary mentor rubbed the growing fuzz on the boy’s head.
Malik puffed his cheeks as he blew out his breath. They were all here and the
sun was setting. “Please, this is a complicated issue that may take some time
to sort out.” He ordered one to close the lattice roof, another to set the
cushions for everyone on the floor to sit and another to move the map of
Jerusalem to the floor where they all could sit around it. Junayd helped bring
out cups and another helped Malik bring out a large plate of finger foods to
feed them through this potentially long meeting.
“Now that you know how to call us all, is this going to be a habit?” one
informant joked lightly. The chuckles died instantly at Malik’s sour
expression.
“We have someone in from Masyaf acting as a traveling informant who has a
feather from Master Al Mualim to kill his target. He expects our cooperation
and will return here in a week for whatever information we can find for him.”
Malik set down the two log books, the official one and his personal one, as he
seated himself among these men.
“That is not unusual,” replied an informant. “A hunt that will cross from city
to city if the target is very mobile will be treated like this.”
Malik made a note of that. “Thank you, I did not know if this was something
that has happened before.”
“Didn’t Altaïr have a similar kind of mission when we had a traitor among our
ranks that turned out to be Master Al Mualim’s second in command?” The man
nearly spat at the man who turned Templar and betrayed them but remembered that
Malik disliked people actually spitting on his floor.
“You are right! So we have a hunter like this in the city. He asks that we be
his eyes and ears; help him find this target of his who is hiding here.”
“What do we know of the target?” Another asked.
“We search for a blond woman who has masterfully hidden herself for over a year
from Al Mualim’s hunters. She has arrived in Jerusalem recently.”
“Nina?” Of course they would know the rare blond woman from Altaïr’s life. Few
women would be here with that hair coloring.
“Yes, Nina is here with her child… Altaïr’s child.” He let them murmur in
surprise a moment. “No, Altaïr does not yet know, but I expect he will soon.
Novice Naheem, the novice he brought to me who was injured was here when the
hunter came by. I sent him out to be in hiding with Altaïr for this meeting.”
“I thought Nina was dead.”
“No,” corrected Malik, “but Adha has been confirmed dead, so those of you with
that on your list can no longer search or watch for news of her.” Some nodded.
“She has been gone from us for a little over a year now, why is she being
considered a threat? If she were really a threat, she could have gone to the
Templars long ago.”
This was one of Malik’s own thoughts. “She is always a threat. Make no mistake.
She is a venomous woman who might lay low for a long while before she actually
strikes. She knows too much about Altaïr, too much about me, too damned much
about our Order. The hunter is supposed to find her and bring her and that baby
back to Masyaf, failing that, he will kill her. He is primarily on a retrieval
mission.” It sounded so much like what happened to Altaïr as a child. The
difference was that Nina was not the actual target to retrieve. Malik suspected
it was the child.
“If he kills her, what the hell will he do with a baby who is likely not even
weaned yet?!” This was the informant with the adorable four year old daughter
and a now pregnant wife. “It sure won’t survive the journey to Masyaf without a
wet nurse.”
“Those are technically not our concerns.” Malik scowled as he stated this as
flatly as he could without the anger invading his voice. After a year working
with Malik, most of the informants knew.
“Stay your blade from the blood of an innocent,” whispered Junayd.
“Nina is not an innocent, Novice Junayd.”
The young novice shot back his interpretation of the Creed. “I didn’t mean her.
If she is a mean woman as you say and possibly could be a traitor, then she
isn’t an innocent. I meant the baby. If we let her die, then in a way our
information guides the blade that will eventually lead to the death of an
innocent life. We are supposed to help provide safety and peace for all in the
world.” These had been some of his lessons about the greeting and the Creed he
had recently with Malik and his other teachers here in Jerusalem who were among
the Brotherhood of Assassins.
The boy’s words stirred much debate and argument. Malik waited for them to
quiet, though made small notes based off some of the ideas generated and the
concerns raised. “We have one week to locate Nina before the hunter does. I
want you to track her, know her every move. I want to know where she is staying
and the state of both her and the child. I want to know every person she comes
into contact with and why.” Malik watched as the orders sunk in and informants
nodded to the decisions. “No one, at any time is to engage her whatsoever. I do
not want her spooked into running and hiding again.”
“What if the assassin finds her first?”
This was the one thing Malik had no control over and the one thing he dreaded
most. “Then it is out of our hands.” It was a sad fact. If the assassin got to
Nina first, what could he do really? The man would do his duty and no one could
do anything about it. Malik wasn’t even sure yet what he would do with the
information about Nina as it was. He needed more time to think and plan. He
didn’t like making snap decisions like Altaïr, too much opportunity for
something to go wrong.
For the time being, Malik hoped Naheem had the good sense to not share anything
he may have inadvertently overheard that was none of his business. Malik did
not really want Altaïr knowing about Nina. Altaïr might do something stupid and
impulsive.
***** Altair: Awkward Moments *****
Chapter Summary
     Speaking of stupid and impulsive.....
     Awkward… awkward awkward… can we all say AWKWARD!
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr concluded that Naheem was having one of those dream moments that one
woke from completely humiliated from. Malik had at least taught Altaïr how not
to be humiliated by something that the body did naturally. Question was, how to
do so delicately now?
Altaïr, unfortunately is anything but delicate….
“Naheem,” hissed Altaïr. Naheem only mumbled and shifted his body against
Altaïr. Gritting his teeth as his own body started to want as well, Altaïr
snapped, “Naheem.”
Naheem jerked awake. A couple panting gasps and he soon became aware of his
compromising position and why Altaïr had woken him so suddenly. He inhaled
sharply.
Sensing the pending yell of startlement, Altaïr rolled over to pin Naheem down
with a hand clasped over the teen’s mouth. A yell might alert roof archers of
their hiding place. This was no better of a compromising position for either of
them. When Altaïr was sure Naheem would not yell, he backed off. Naheem groaned
in humiliation wishing he had been killed by an archer. He mumbled out a weak
apology to Altaïr.
“Novice Naheem, stop. I am not mad at you and there is nothing to be
embarrassed about.” Altaïr sat up and leaned his back against a support post.
“You did something in your sleep I cannot fault you for. Not like we can
control what we do when we are sleeping.”
“But… Allah… I was… it was… it IS… I wish it would not DO this!”
“Hush… not so loud.” He glared at the teen, watching him shiver in the cold
night air. “Didn’t your mentor teach you how to deal with this kind of
situation?” Naheem shook his head. “Haven’t you had this happen before?” Naheem
mumbled in a stressed and cracking voice that he has only suffered this
condition the past few months. Altaïr sighed.
Naheem felt plagued. He felt dirty. He felt like something was deeply wrong
with him and if he thought too much on it, he grew stiff again and he wanted to
just scream at it.
“Fine. Come here and bring the blanket before you freeze.” Naheem edged over,
face still burning with humiliation till he sat between Altaïr’s legs. “Stretch
out your leg or I’ll have hell from Malik for letting you strain those
stitches. Lean back against me and cover yourself with the blanket.” Talking at
least killed Altaïr rousing member. He racked his brain for how Malik would
handle this. How did Malik handle it with him? Altaïr felt clumsy and rough and
not at all like the right person. He was not a man of fine words like Malik. He
didn’t know the right thing to say.
Bluntness was his only tool, or action, or both.
“You’ve seen animals breed? I hope you know where babies come from.” Naheem
nodded at Altaïr’s questions, groaned and felt like a child. “Good. When a boy
becomes a man, his body gets ready to be able to do that. Yours is just working
out the how to. It can be frustrating. And sometimes it happens even to me on
missions.”
“It… does?” Naheem leaned his back against Altaïr’s chest.
Altaïr tucked the blanket better around them both as Naheem nestled in close.
Cold feet would have to be tolerated. Altaïr silently vowed to find a couple
more blankets for the secret home away from home. This position was not unlike
the one he and Malik used to take when they were having frustrating nights.
They would then help each other deal with the insistent body part and relieve
the distraction.
“Yes. I know how to deal with that now, and how to ignore it if I must. Or,”
Altaïr smirked remembering his stint of the desperate monk humping into a
pillow in a covered roof garden as a way to evade archers. “Or, use it as part
of a cover to deter those less comfortable with the perfectly natural desires
of the body.” He could not hold back a small chuckle.
“What did you do? You’re laughing. Was it funny?”
“It was. I was running from archers. They kept confusing me with the monks. I
got almost cornered and hid in a covered roof garden full of soft pillows. So,
I helped myself. They were horrified and ran away.” Altaïr’s little anecdote
had Naheem laughing.
“Never be upset if your body stiffens like that. It just wants to learn how to
be a man. It wants to be touched and uh…to move and… and stuff.” Altaïr thought
his explanation sounded totally insufficient. He really was terrible with
words. “If it happens again, I’ll show you what to do. Now try to sleep, Novice
Naheem.” Actions, however, he knew he was good at.
Sleep may have come to Naheem, but not to Altaïr. He kept thinking back to
Malik, how Malik had rejected him a little while ago. He had only wanted to
help, to do what he thought was alright. It used to be alright. Maybe it would
be alright with Naheem. He would only be helping after all. It was what a
mentor did. The tiniest thrill went through Altaïr at the thoughts. He had
never really been the one in control like this with apprentices under him, nor
the one in control and with more sexual experience. He promised himself he
would be a good teacher. He would try to be less like Al Mualim and more like
Malik. He would not force the teen, but help him discover and enjoy if he is
willing.
He listened for a while to an archer’s footsteps across the church roof till
they faded. Closing his eyes, he thought back to his first time with a random
erection and how Malik helped him with it.
“Calm down, Altaïr. You are not going to die.” Malik tried to reassure the
novice only a couple years younger than he.
“But it won’t go down! It’s like a tent pole in my pants! Malik! You are the
doctor, make it go away!” Altaïr stressed in the morning. They had training in
an hour and this was a confusing inconvenience.
“You aren’t sick or anything. You don’t need me to be a doctor for you for
this. Every boy goes through it. It is your body telling you it is getting
ready to be a man… a real man.” Those were more interesting words for a youth
who wanted to be a man and not a child.
“What do I do? How to I make it go away? I can’t go into practice like this!”
Malik motioned Altaïr to come sit with him. This was not unusual. Altaïr often
slept with Malik when he had nightmares. Malik was his comfort and his anchor.
Malik always made things right, even the scariest till he could go on dealing
with the scarier. They sat with Malik leaning against the wall and Altaïr
sitting between his legs, back pressed into Malik’s chest. Those arms held him
tight, held him close. They were not yet dressed for training and their skin
stuck a little with the sweat. Malik reached over for a cloth and the salve.
“I thought you said I was not sick!” Panic laced an early cracking voice.
“Ever wonder why we have to keep a cloth in our belt pouches? And salve?” Malik
queried. “Yes, for washing and for stopping bleeding and doing some healing,
but also for this. This is natural. All humans feel it. I’m going to show you
how to deal with it. I’ll help you this time, but next time, you are on your
own, novice.”
Malik had placed his hands over Altaïr’s and guided him on how to explore his
own body. Malik guided him on how to complete the erection and take it to
release. The cloth coated in salve made a slick covering and prevented
chaffing, but was also easy to clean after. For several years after that
moment, they would help each other, a relationship of very deep friendship had
grown, trust, love.
Altaïr found himself in a predicament. He tried not to move to worsen his
state. He huffed a few times causing Naheem’s hair by his ear to move. Naheem
stirred in his sleep. Altaïr ground his teeth together and took slower deeper
breaths trying to think about anything else, training moves, killing Templars,
Malik throwing books. That only lead to Malik bathing and he was back where he
started.
The sun started to dapple through the broken windows. As the sun tickled
Naheem’s eyelids, he woke and stretched. Altaïr immediately shoved the teen a
little. “I need to take care of some things. Stay here.” Naheem didn’t even get
to say good morning before Altaïr was gone like an eagle eager for flight.
Altaïr dealt with himself. He didn’t want an inexperienced hand touching him.
He hadn’t shown Naheem how to handle this yet. Maybe tomorrow night.
Chapter End Notes
     twisted training leads to twisted logic and twisted justifications
***** Deviant Malik *****
Malik had the quietest morning ever. No Naheem needing treatment. No Altaïr to
worry over. No invading anyone. He lit fresh incense, sipped mint tea, enjoyed
an undisturbed breakfast, and worked on a map. By noon he was banging the books
just for some noise and pacing out of boredom. He even took up time with some
sword training till that bored him. He regretted telling Naheem and Altaïr to
go into hiding for two whole days.
He set out the open for business flag to hopefully occupy his day. When the
door creaked open, he nearly cheered. He smiled for the newcomer and greeted
him pleasantly. The greeting fell short and incomplete as his smile instantly
faded.
The young guard, Kadar, stood awkwardly in the entrance alone with no Tibah.
“Master scribe, sir? Can you please… I am sorry… I should not plague you with…
you have already done so much.”
“It is alright, Kadar. How is your friend? Need me to come by?” Malik asked
already know that he was needed.
“Would you please? Abby… Abdul has fevered.”
Malik gathered some things he might need. Kadar escorted him like a good quiet
wary guard; hand always on his sword hilt. In the estate, Malik was greeted by
another man and his wife, Tibah’s eldest sister and her husband. They were none
too pleased by the forbidden lover on the premises, but did not voice their
embarrassment too much. Malik soon realized that they and Tibah were off to the
market to open the stall for the afternoon, having already lost the morning to
Tibah’s refusal to leave until Kadar returned with help. Tibah wanted badly to
stay, but her eldest sister dragged her off.
Malik checked on poor Abby. He pressed his hand to the young man’s brow and
took his wrist to count his pulse. With Kadar’s help, Malik inspected each
wound. They were healing well, but the fever was still worrisome. He prescribed
a medicine that Tibah would know how to make. “He is healing, Kadar, this is
just part of the process. Has he been eating? Drinking? Good.” Kadar and Tibah
had been taking good care. Kadar was simply being overly worried for his lover.
“Try to cool the fever. Cool damp cloths on these places will help bring the
fever down.”
Malik understood too well the distress of this young man. He felt it himself
every time Altaïr showed up in the Bureau wounded. He felt it tenfold when
Altaïr was on missions in other cities. “Tell me about Abby.”
Kadar was too serious for someone of sixteen, more serious than Malik’s brother
Kadar ever had been, but he loved just as deeply. “Abby is… different. His
father is the regent’s accountant, or was. There is a new regent now and Abby’s
father is settling into the new position. Abby was always different. Little
like a woman, little like a man,” Kadar whispered his next comment, “He’s both
in body… his father threatened to kill him if he ever told anyone.”
Malik’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to check the fevered young man. Truly,
Kadar was right. “People like this are called hermaphrodites. Some cultures
regard them as the most sacred beings for they will understand the needs of
both genders. You are a very lucky man to love someone so rare and beautiful.”
Kadar relaxed to hear this. “I do love him. Very much. Even if he is older.
Especially because he is different. Please… don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t. You have my silence. I need to get back though. Come by my business
and let me know when he wakes and speaks. I would like to speak with you both.”
Malik patted Kadar’s shoulder. “And let me know as soon as your father is home.
He and I have much business to discuss.”
“Oh! The strange crate? It is already here. My father is coming in a couple
days with the remainder of his supplies,” Kadar informed Malik. “I’ll bring it
by when I come with my news of Abby. Tibah wanted to see you, too. She is
such…”
Malik gave him a warning look, “You no longer have any right to criticize your
sister’s indiscretions. He lives because of her. You owe her much.” Kadar
lowered his eyes in shame. “She did very well assisting me. I am not offended
by her boldness and will welcome her visit.”
“Really?” Kadar’s eyes lit up.
Malik found his way home, no not home, back to the Bureau. It was still empty
of Altaïr and Naheem. He knew he should not be encouraging compromising
relations with Tibah’s family. If he had his way, he’s take them all to Masyaf
to make them safe. Except… A traitor lurked there still. Also, how different
would Masyaf be really? Women were still forbidden from most professions and
same sex relations still disturbed people. Malik grunted with annoyance and
slammed down a book for good measure.
His open door still did not encourage people in today. The days often
progressed this way. He had learned to make himself busy. It was just so hard
right now knowing Altaïr and Naheem were in the city and not here and not even
on mission. He wanted to be out seeking Nina himself. He wanted to do
something. He had not told anyone at that meeting, not that hunter about his
possible sighting of Nina. He probably should have. When the first informant
comes in, he will tell him. That was the right thing to do.
So why was Malik locking the door and walking down the street? The need to know
had grown too strong. Maybe Altaïr was rubbing off on him. Several times he
considered turning back, just to not be like Altaïr. He found nothing. When a
group of thugs watched his passage and started to follow him, he made his way
back before they could catch up to him.
Inside the Bureau he raged, “I AM NOT A CRIPPLE! I AM … I am an assassin…” He
remembered to lower his voice in time.
He sat upon a stool and fiddled with a measuring tool over a map for hours till
that too got tossed across the room. He wondered what his two novices were up
to, and no, he was not considering Junayd.
***** Altair: Private Lessons *****
Chapter Notes
     There is a YAOI steamy scene in here… I upset the older black
     Christian woman on the bus seat next to me when I was typing it.
     People ought not read over other people’s shoulders. Anyways… WARNING
     YOU… there be some hawt touching (Altair age 25-27 ish… Naheem age
     15).
Naheem sighed with his own boredom. He had been ordered to stay put while
Altaïr went off to deal with things. He nibbled some of the food he had brought
and considered whether it would last much longer. He limped around the ruined
church till he found a place suitable for human waste. The church was truly a
ruin. Many windows were boarded up, most wood items within had already been
stolen for firewood or furnishing. Naheem leaned on the wall as he walked
slowly back and climbed the stairs again to their hiding place on the second
floor.
He thought about what Altaïr had said last night about natural things and
becoming a man. Naheem sometimes felt like a permanent boy, but knew as his
father had said that he would one day catch up and likely all of a sudden.
Maybe this is what he had meant? He missed his father and found himself weeping
in the lonely darkness. Naheem scrubbed his eyes and told himself that
assassins do not fuss like this. The dead are dead and we do them no justice by
crying selfishly for them. He touched his heart and his head to remind him of
Altaïr words. He wondered who Altaïr had lost.
Then Naheem remembered the hunter who had come with news of Altaïr’s wives. He
knew he was not supposed to have heard that conversation. He knew he likely was
not supposed to say anything to Altaïr and Altaïr had not asked. But was it
right to keep that news from Altaïr. His first wife was confirmed dead and his
second was a traitor in this city with his child somewhere. This moral quandary
filled his thoughts for a long while till his stomach protested greatly for
more substantial food. Naheem concluded that it was not his place to tell
Altaïr. Master Malik would handle that.
While he waited, Naheem found a decent wooden post to practice throwing knives
at. They thunked neatly in a group with only one bouncing to the ground. He
limped over to collect them and back to his place. Judging that maybe he could
achieve accuracy from farther away, he tested himself. Two knives so far stuck
true to the wood post. He aimed with a third. Movement in the shadow caught the
corner of his eye. He turned and threw the little knife with almost deadly
accuracy. It sparked off armour and flew wide in the ricochet. He readied his
last.
“Good aim, Novice Naheem. However, aim higher, most guards have stronger armor
to protect the soft organs and less about the head and shoulders, especially
roof archers.
Naheem stammered out an apology, “Master Altaïr. I am so sorry!”
“Eat.” Altaïr ignored the apology at first and shoved food into the teen’s
hands. “You are not sorry and should not be. If I were an intruder, I want you
only to be sorry your aim was low enough to be deflected.” Altaïr collected the
throwing knives while Naheem inhaled the food like a starved teen.
Altaïr gashed an X with his dagger from his back into the post at a better
height. They practiced together after lunch. Altaïr showed Naheem how to stand
with better balance on his leg. “When wounded, and it happens on missions,
distribute your weight like this. There. Now you take the strain off the leg
and save yourself for a run you might have to make after. Throw from there.”
Altaïr backed away to let Naheem practice, and retrieved the thrown knives for
him.
Altaïr scouted outside a little ensuring their safety in the later afternoon
while Naheem did some of the muscle working exercises Malik had taught him.
Dinner did not look so appetizing. Altaïr seemed to be an indiscriminate eater.
Naheem figured it was brutal training for when he might one day have to fend
for himself on missions. He choked down the stale bread and fuzzy cheese. At
least he cut the fuzz off. They washed it down with pilfered wine that Altaïr
watered considerably. Altaïr had no intentions of repeating the debacle of
drunkenness. Malik would never forgive him.
Some early evening tumbling proved clumsy. Altaïr had to demonstrate over and
over how to roll, how to dive, how to land in ways to ease the strain of an
injured leg. Naheem struggled and pounded the ground with a fist like a child
in a temper tantrum. Altaïr crossed his arms and stared down at him, golden
eyes pinning Naheem to the floor. “The ground does not hit back and cannot be
softened or weakened by your striking it. Get up and do this again.” Naheem
couldn’t tell if Altaïr was making a joke or not. Maybe he was, but Naheem was
too frustrated to find it funny.
He flopped in mouldy hay to relax while Altaïr ran off to hunt for more
blankets. The assassin returned an hour or so later with two blankets, a
handful of rags and a few jugs of water. They both stripped down and washed
carefully. They sat as they had the night before for warmth and Altaïr quizzed
Naheem on the weapons of an assassin, since Altaïr’s were laid out beside them
neatly. It was relaxing on the body while working the mind.
“When will I learn to use a wrist blade?” asked Naheem.
“After you learn unarmed combat… And after you can stand and roll and fall with
your injury.” Altaïr heard and felt Naheem groan all deflated. “You are almost
there. We’ll practice again tomorrow.” Altaïr leaned with some adjustments back
against the pillar so Naheem could lean back into his chest again. The combined
body heat under good blankets allowed them to stay warm while their clothes
dried over a railing.
Altaïr reached and pulled their belt pouches closer so he could get into them.
“Show me your leg. We should rub the salve into it.”
Naheem pulled the blanket back to expose his leg and the terrible stitched
wound. The wound was well closed and the stitches held firm. The wound swelled
a little from working the leg today. Goosebumps rose up his leg from the cold
night air. He held the cloths while Altaïr dabbed gooey salve over the
stitches. Naheem hissed as Altaïr rubbed the salve around the wound. Altaïr
took one of the cloths from Naheem’s tense fingers and wiped the excess off.
Naheem relaxed against Altaïr trying to use the breathing technique to shunt
the pain to his hands. Something in that salve tingled and soon numbed the
wound. “AAH! I can’t feel…” The rest of his words were muffled by Altaïr’s
hand. They froze in position for many long minutes to be sure Naheem’s yell had
not alerted anyone outside.
Altaïr eyed that jar of salve and tucked it away. He did not want to
accidentally mix it up with his pocket salve. He too felt the tingling already
in his fingers and the light numbness, despite wiping it off as thoroughly as
he could. He wriggled his fingers to be sure he had not lost total mobility.
Satisfied, he leaned back again, arms around the teen and tossing the blanket
edge back over Naheem’s leg. “Never cry out again. Or I won’t need to slit your
throat to silence you, the arrows in you will do the job well enough.” Naheem
would have thought Altaïr was being cruel with his warning, except he still
held Naheem and a firm embrace that felt more protective than anything else it
could possibly be. Naheem apologized. “You must learn to bite your lip or
something. I don’t want you dying on missions if you are surprised.” Altaïr
felt the boy nod.
Altaïr moved his hand to over each of Naheem’s thighs. “Move your toes and feet
of each foot.” Naheem did with great relief that he could still do so. “The
muscles are still moving even if you feel little in the thigh.”
Naheem swallowed loudly and bit his lip. Color rose in blotches on his cheeks.
He knew Altaïr’s words were meant to reassure him, but his hands somehow made
his private member shift and stiffen. He let out a little strangled whimper.
This month prior to his injury had been the start of so many random changes and
discomforts. “Master Altaïr? Are you sure this is… normal?” He tried very hard
not to move.
“Of course it is normal. Malik would not have prescribed the salve for your leg
otherwise.” Altaïr had missed the point. A glance down over Naheem’s shoulder
however made the point rather clear. “Oh… I see.” He dredged up the memory he
had last night of Malik and tried to sound as smooth, “You got a cloth in your
belt pouch and a little salve. They are for washing, healing and dealing with …
this.” That came out not so badly, didn’t it?
Altaïr dug his hand through the belt pouched for a little bottle of salve and
pried another cloth from Naheem’s stressed fingers. “Watch and learn, Novice. I
will help you this time, but next time you are on your own. Don’t spoil Malik’s
cushions.” Naheem clearly didn’t understand. That did not come out so smooth.
Well, Altaïr was better at actions than speeches. He smoothed some salve on one
side of the cloth and under the blanket he placed it over Naheem’s insistent
erection. The teen jumped. “Easy, breathe. You will be fine. This likely won’t
take long, you are young. It takes longer when you are older sometimes and can
be messier when you spill your seed. Put your hands over mine and follow.”
Altaïr took in a deep breath and maintained a steady rhythm till Naheem matched
it and rested his hands over Altaïr’s. “Will you trust me?”
“Yes, Master Altaïr,” Naheem breathed out. He wanted this over with. His body
was being rude and he was willing to do anything to make it obey him. “I trust
you.”
Altaïr pressed his left hand to Naheem’s chest and hugged Naheem to him. “Some
parts are more sensitive than others, you can used them to hasten things
along.” He brushed a thumb across Naheem’s nipple causing the youth to gasp.
“Breathe…” he repeated it and encouraged Naheem to do so for himself. Naheem
experimented in this safe place with his mentor. Altaïr’s deep even breathing
always helped him refocus and match again. “Do you feel ok?” Naheem could only
utter a noise for his affirmative. His right hand gripped Altaïr’s right hand
very tightly. “Relax your hands, if you grip your stiff manhood with that kind
of hold, it will hurt.” Naheem immediately released Altaïr’s right hand. “This
is my hand, when you feel ready, take over.” Altaïr breathed softly his
instructions in Naheem’s ear as he wrapped his fingers around the hardened
shaft.
Naheem groaned gripping Altaïr’s left hand against a heart pounding chest.
Altaïr masterfully stroked the teen over the slick cloth. “Is this good?”
Naheem’s eyes fluttered shut and his breathing quickened. Altaïr licked his own
lips and tried not to let this arouse him too much. That was impossible. Altaïr
found them a rhythm that Naheem could manage. Altaïr released the teen’s member
to find a cloth for himself in case things went that way, which they were
swiftly. He did not want to leave a mess on Naheem’s lower back.
“Is this wrong? Did I do …”
“No, this is right. You are doing fine. I just ended up in the same
predicament.” He shoved a cloth between them then guided Naheem’s hand. “Find a
rhythm, Naheem. Match me.” Altaïr breathed in and rocked his hips. His hand
over Naheem’s guiding an up stroke. He breathed out and rocked back, guiding
Naheem’s hands in a down stroke. “That’s good. That’s real good.”
Naheem thought in his mind that maybe this was really not right, but it sure
felt amazing. They moved and rocked like this till Naheem’s breathing started
to hitch and catch. The rhythm was lost in a moment. Altaïr clamped his hand
over Naheem’s mouth again to prevent the uncontrolled yell from his release.
Naheem tensed from head to toe and twitched a couple times, toes curling
tightly. Soon he was panting and gulping air as Altaïr uncovered his mouth.
Naheem sagged back against Altaïr.
Altaïr wished it had not happened so soon, he was a long way off from his own
release. He breathed slowly forcing calm through his body. “And so you release.
You will have to wash that cloth later.” Altaïr tossed it aside as Naheem still
felt like he had jelly for limbs. “You can do this for yourself just… try to
muffle your noises. You don’t want to be discovered. This kind of activity is
no one’s business but those involved.” Naheem’s breathing slowed almost to
normal. “With some practice, you will know the threshold, like when you leap
from a building or a high point. You will know that moment approaching and will
be able to decide to take that leap or not. That is the beginning of control.”
“Who taught you this? You mentor?”
Altaïr shuddered at the thoughts of Al Mualim. That killed his mood instantly.
“No.” He could have said more but he was not prepared to face that reality.
“You father?”
“My father was killed when I was very young.” It was a logical question for
Altaïr. Naheem’s father would have instructed him about sex and being a man, so
why wouldn’t Altaïr’s. “I learned from Malik.”
“Is Malik your… lover?”
Altaïr’s silence stretch for many minutes. Naheem felt his mentor grow tense.
“No,” Altaïr finally answered. “Malik and I are… nothing.” The words fell
thickly.
Naheem took hold of Altaïr’s hands and pulled his arms around him. “Thank you
for teaching me, Master Altaïr. For what it is worth, I don’t think you and
Master Malik are nothing. You respect each other too much.” And argue like a
married couple.
***** Malik Understands Too Well *****
Malik awoke early again and had dreamed that Altaïr snuggled into his back. He
turned over to the disappointment of nothing there. He berated himself for his
dreaming. What were they really? Not much. Altaïr barely seemed to trust him,
or tried overmuch to please him. Malik wanted to cuff him half the time, kill
him a quarter of the time and hug him close the other quarter.
He stretched and worked out every muscle in the cool morning air. Knife
exercises followed till he was sweating. He closed his eyes and moved his left
arm as if it were there, working the muscles around the shoulder and down the
upper arm to the point of amputation above the elbow. If he imagined the left
hand moving as he moved the arm, it helped a great deal with the phantom pains
that sometimes shot through him.
After a bath and breakfast, he looked over the map of Jerusalem trying to
imagine where Nina might be hiding. He rolled it up and took out another map he
was nearly done the filigrees on. That he would have to deliver today. The rest
of his morning petered away in colored ink and tiny curly art in corners. He
stretched his back and packed it all away, letting the map dry as he cut fruit
and cheese for lunch. His eyes slid to the open roofed room that showed dusty
motes of sunlight but, no Naheem or Altaïr.
He hoped they were alright.
When he returned from an uneventful journey to deliver the map, one of his
informants was waiting for him. “Safety and peace, Brother. Have you news? Have
you found anything out?”
“Safety and peace, Dai. I have not found Nina, nor any blond woman, but had an
idea.” The informant had been the one mentoring Junayd, one of the old Dai’s
sons. “We could grid mark all women with children.”
“That is a good idea, but I want her found before the hunter finds her.” Malik
weighed his trust of his informant knowing his next words could be
misunderstood as traitorous. “I want to give a buffer and slow the hunter… for
the baby’s sake. We are assuming she has not dumped the child at some church.”
That was a good possibility, but then, why had she kept the child this long?
The informant did know one piece of news that was useful. He knew where the
hunter was. Malik asked him to keep an eye on the hunter… let the hunter be the
hunted. Discreetly this informant would watch for Nina but also keep track of
the hunter. Malik needed to buy time to figure out why Nina was here and what
the hell was actually going on. He didn’t mind the sanction on her life. He
more than supported the idea and even somewhat wished he had that assignment.
However, Altaïr’s child changed everything. Malik wondered if it was a girl or
a boy. He hoped it was a boy.
As the sun set, he concluded that Altaïr and Naheem should be returning
sometime the next day. He cleaned throwing knives and inspected the care of
Junayd’s. Satisfied, he packed them away in the supply trunk. Tomorrow would be
a training day for identifying the parts of a long knife and how to stand and
hold it, maybe some simple swings. This helped keep Malik busy. The moments
between duties dragged and he paced again in his boredom. He ranted and vented
a variety of frustrations to the walls to get them off his chest before he
finally sat to read more of the chaos of Altaïr’s journal.
Each of his kills came with messages. These cryptic messages both bluntly
exposed truths about this war and secretly hid in code other things. Threaded
through were wise and equally cryptic messages and bits of conversation with Al
Mualim. Malik could not put his finger on it. He read through quickly and
stopped. He flipped back a couple pages to reread some lines that did not fit
with everything, not that anything really fit with anything else.
… I think he was pleased… Bliss was brief… It was a lesson over Jerusalem… Or
was it a punishment… I was on the shore with Malik in soft green grass for a
moment till the desk bit my hip and I was blinded by bliss. It will never be
Malik… He makes sure of that. I must kill more in Damascus and Acre. Pleasure
and pain… nothingness. I am still nothing…
Malik read it again then slammed the book shut and ground his teeth. Altaïr
still allowed himself to be subjected to this. WHY?! Malik supposed Altaïr knew
nothing else or maybe the guilt of things had weighed him down and the
stripping of his rank took more from him than Malik imagined. Unraveling the
chaos of Altaïr’s thoughts taxed Malik’s patience, if only because he came
across moments like that. Altaïr mastered shunting his pain into some unknown
bottle within. Malik wondered how long it would be before Altaïr snapped. He
wondered what outlets Altaïr took, if any. He wondered how the abuses would
manifest, how Altaïr justified them. On second thought, Malik didn’t really
want to know. He supposed that having access to this insanity within the
journal was the closest to trust he could expect. Anyone else would have
concluded Altaïr was a rabid animal and have him put down before he rose up and
attacked his own.
Malik’s brows knit close, “That is exactly it. He is a rabid animal, wounded
and mad. He was rising up and about to take down his own. Did in some ways… And
by stripping him down, Al Mualim ensured control where Altaïr lacked it.” Malik
did not approve of the methods, they were old barbaric methods. Then again, Al
Mualim was old.
Malik had begun to understand how Altaïr had become the arrogant ass he was. He
learned why and felt deeply guilty for doubting their friendship, for letting
his own jealousy cause him to miss how Altaïr had protected him. Altaïr was
such a different man now. Older, more mature, cynical, broken inside in ways
Malik was not sure he could heal. He needed to either be able to reach in and
heal or Altaïr needs to reach out for that healing. Neither seemed possible at
the moment.
***** Altair & Naheem's Secret *****
Chapter Summary
     Teens are horny. Can Altair keep up?
     WARNING... solo and YAOI stuff ahead.
It never failed that Altaïr would have a night terror at some point and wake in
a sweat, hugging Naheem to him fiercely and nearly weeping into the back of the
teen’s shoulder. “Master Altaïr?” Naheem mumbled not really awake. After a few
breaths, Naheem was already asleep and Altaïr very awake. He raised a hand in
the air just to make sure it was not covered in blood. Naheem was fine. Malik
was not here bleeding to death. Kadar was not a corpse in the hands of a
laughing Robert. Altaïr was glad the weapons were beside them as they slept or
he might have released the hidden blade into Naheem before realizing. He
drifted back to sleep more easily after listening to the silence of the night
for perhaps an hour.
Naheem woke stiff and squirming. He bit his lip trying to muffle himself as he
understood this feeling now and assessed whether it would just go away on its
own or if he needed to do as Altaïr had instructed and deal with it. The first
time it happened in the night, Naheem ignored it and it went away. The second
time there was no ignoring it. He had already touched himself in his sleep and
was well in need when he woke. He bit his knuckles trying to be very still,
wondering if he had woken Altaïr. The position he sat in helped his leg remain
outstretched, and was very comfortable leaning into Altaïr’s chest without the
armor. Altaïr’s hands lay lax on either side, fingers twitching in his sleep.
Phew! The excitement rose within him more as he wondered if he could do this
without waking the assassin.
He turned his head and felt Altaïr’s breath on his cheek. A shiver tickled his
spine. He reached ever so painfully slowly for the rag and little jar of salve
from his belt pouch, pulling them under the blankets and between his legs. His
heart pounded fast with his breath. He licked his lips, curious. Can he really
do this? Would it be just as amazing? He wanted to try, to experiment. He
thought maybe he should get up and go elsewhere for this, but he was
comfortable and it was ok last time he did this here with Altaïr’s help.
He nibbled his lips as he stuck both hand up under his to brush and tease his
nipples as Altaïr had shown him the night before. His breath caught several
times as tingling jumps raced down to his loins. He revelled in that new
feeling. He carefully lifted his ankle over Altaïr’s to give himself some space
between his own legs and prevent himself from bending his leg up and straining
his stitches. He fiddled with the jar almost frustrated till the cork came out
and he could dip fingers into the salve. He slid those fingers under his
loosened pants with a small gasp, stuffing some blanket in his mouth to keep
himself quiet. The cloth soon followed the route of the fingers and he stroked
and shifted and rocked, never noticing the stiffness about to poke into his
lower back till Altaïr himself shifted with him and then gripped his hips.
“I said private… Novice, you woke me.”
Naheem gulped. He was caught completely off guard. “I’m sorry, Master Altaïr. I
tried to be quiet.”
“We finish this together then, since you got me started.”
When it was over and both lay back limp against the post, the goofiest grin
claimed Naheem’s face. Altaïr was a master at stretching it out and showing him
how to recognize that pressuring moment before release. It was intense,
exhilarating, completely satisfying. What also satisfied Naheem was this guilty
little pleasure that in the process he managed to turn his master to total mush
behind him. It didn’t change his personal interest in girls. But this certainly
had a unique place in acceptable. Altaïr insisted he keep this private, it was
no one’s business. What goes on in one’s pants or under one’s blanket is no
one’s business. He understood. The great Altaïr did this, so it was alright,
especially if the great Altaïr had learned it from the great Malik.
Later in the morning when Naheem woke again aroused, Altaïr shoved him off to
figure it out on his own. Altaïr complained about youth always being up and he
wanted to sleep. Naheem managed on his own elsewhere. He came and settled back
between Altaïr’s legs again. Altaïr tucked the blankets about them both. “Think
we can get at least a few hours of sleep?”
Naheem tried not to snicker as he nodded. “Master? What is it like to be with a
woman?”
Altaïr sighed. He guessed he was not getting sleep tonight after all. He
thought to Nina and to Adha and tried to strip their personalities away from
the experiences. “They touch all over and it is like fire under the skin. Good
fire. They are wet and slick and tight inside so you don’t need salve. It feels
real good, maybe like a moment of bliss. Sweet.”
“And,” Naheem dared to venture, “With a man?”
Altaïr tensed. It took some time to sort the chaos of his thoughts that rose
unbidden. “Different. Also tight. You need salve though or you hurt each other
badly. It is a different kind of bliss, white hot and intense. I have not much
experience either way, though.”
Naheem quieted while he digested this information. “Isn’t it wrong though? For
men?”
“Tscha! Only by some ignorant asses in charge of ignorant religious views and
have not actually studied their religious books enough to know none of the
religions expressly forbid it.” Altaïr had strong opinions about the various
religions and religious leaders. He hated the narrow-mindedness. He hated the
limiting of freedoms and choices. He hated the enforced control. This was part
of why Altaïr did not identify with any religion and openly would call himself
an atheist or maybe agnostic. He had to admit there must be… something. That
fog and the weird incidents were not nothing. They were definitely something.
“Have you and Malik?”
Naheem was cut off with a small cuffing in the back of the head. “What did I
tell you about private? If you were not involved then it is none of your
business.”
“Sorry!”
Since he was not getting any more sleep, Altaïr pulled Naheem to his feet and
started him on training. It was long and hard and Altaïr was relentless till
Naheem either got it or dropped with exhaustion. The upside was that Altaïr
snuck out and returned with food and, after repeated trips, washing water.
Naheem laid back on the blankets while Altaïr rubbed out the aching from his
legs.
Naheem had learned to roll, to fall, to land, to jump. He even learned a little
combat. He earned a good deal of bruises on his back to which Altaïr explained,
“Better bruises than dead.” All Naheem wanted now was to lay back and not move
while the evening air cooled burning muscles.
“AARGH! In the name of all that is holy!” Naheem exclaimed at the hardening
member between his legs while Altaïr rubbed the salve into the wound. Altaïr
handed the teen a rag and told him to muffle his voice. When the rag was over
Naheem’s mouth, Altaïr dropped another one soaked in the by now cold water onto
the rude body part. Naheem recoiled, yelling into the rag. Then he threw both
at Altaïr.
Altaïr wondered over and over if he was like this when he was this age. Did he
have urges this often? All Naheem seemed to need was a small breeze across it
for an erection to occur. Naheem groaned totally annoyed and thumped his head a
few times on the blankets. “I can’t even dream about what it is like with a
girl. I’ve never seen one without clothes and sure don’t know what it is like
to be in one.” He tried to smother himself with his red sash.
“Do you really want to know what it is like?”
Naheem quirked a silly grin, “You can’t just steal one and make them do it. I
mean I guess you can, but you really shouldn’t. Stay your blade from the flesh
of an innocent. It applies to this too, no?”
“I have my secrets,” Altaïr’s face remained mysteriously devoid of expression.
Would it be so wrong to show this boy what it was like? It would be a way to
use what Al Mualim made him do by force and apply it by choice, making it
right. Only if Naheem wanted it, though. Altaïr would never force him.
Forbidden curiosity lit Naheem’s eyes. It reminded him of Malik. “I want to
know,” Naheem breathed excitedly.
Altaïr nodded agreement. However, knowing that the teen already had a
preference for girls insisted on his secret method remaining secret and
blindfolded Naheem with the sash. This was something Altaïr had once wanted to
do with Malik and was sure he never would now. The blindfolded teen clenched
his fists in the blankets in anticipation. Altaïr leaned over, his hot moist
mouth taking in Naheem’s stiff erection. Naheem gasped loudly in surprise and
followed it with a moan. Altaïr moved slowly as he sorted out the anxieties
that crept within him, shoving aside the memories of Al Mualim. This was not Al
Mualim, but Naheem and he was giving him a gift of sorts. When Naheem’s
breathing and rhythm became erratic, Altaïr backed off and replaced his mouth
with a salved cloth, instructing Naheem to finish off and clean up.
Altaïr was scarce when Naheem finally sat up and removed the blindfold. He
wondered if maybe Altaïr wandered off to deal with himself. He walked around
the upper level leaning on the walls or the railing and avoiding the broken
wooden stairs. The darkness made it hard to see. He searched upwards with his
eyes. Altaïr almost always scouted ledges and other high places. Then his eyes
caught a white clad form below. He froze a moment unsure who it might be.
Squinting in the dimness, he knew. Altaïr. He frowned watching his mentor
quietly weeping against a wall and wondered why. He knew he was not meant to
see that moment and turned away to grant his mentor privacy. He curled up alone
and left a blanket beside him for Altaïr.
Altaïr woke him in the morning to drill him one last time on rolling and moving
and fighting with his injured leg. Without breakfast, they made their way out
onto the roof. Naheem blinked and stumbled and had to just stand a few minutes
in the sun for his eyes to adjust from the darkness of the ruined church
interior. They made their way toward the Bureau on roof tops. Altaïr taking out
roof arches when they encountered them. Naheem made a one-legged leap and
landed with a hard roll on the next roof. It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as he
thought it would. Well, it woke his bruises, but didn’t hurt his legs. He
grinned at Altaïr who was on the next roof already and nodded approval back.
Naheem stood, leaning on the roof garden post as he limped his way to the next
edge. He let out a surprised yell he tried to swiftly muffle as a guard stepped
around the roof garden and also yelled in surprise back. The guard swung out
his sword and Naheem fell onto his back to avoid it. The sword thrust down to
impale Naheem and he rolled as taught onto his left knee and left hand with his
right leg for balance. He pulled his knife free and forced the guard to move
back a little. Pushing off his left hand for leverage, he was on his left foot
now, right leg stepping back again for balance but not to take weight. The
guard’s sword narrowly missed him. He thought it actually cut his cheek, maybe
it did. In the moment of closeness, Naheem swung again with his knife in a
reverse slash that caught deep under the chest mail and tore open the guard’s
belly. The man dropped clutching his innards helplessly. Naheem panted with the
rush of adrenaline.
Altaïr hopped back. He had been ready to kill the guard, but allowed Naheem the
chance to prove himself. “A belly wound can leave a man alive for hours. Offer
him peace and send him to his god. Finish it Novice Naheem.”
Naheem had never killed in such cold blood before. The thought formed a stone
in his stomach. “I am sorry, sir. We all did our duties. I … I defended better
is all. Safety and peace on your journey to God.” The guard and Naheem stared
at each other for almost a minute. Naheem’s hands shook. Naheem looked up in
the sky, “The… there are clouds today, they are really beautiful.” The clouds
blurred in Naheem’s eyes. The guard looked up. Naheem slashed his throat. He
dropped the knife, backed off and choked and vomited and cried.
Altaïr rubbed his back. “We always respect those we kill. We are not heartless
bastards.” Altaïr offered him some water from one of his belt canteens. They
slowly made their way back to the Bureau in silence after that and thankfully
with no further incident.
***** Malik: Uneasy Release *****
Malik heard the scuffling in the morning as he worked on his map. He stepped
under the lattice in time to help Naheem land. The teen looked a little pale
and greenish. He helped Naheem limp into the back and lay in the cooler shade
with some cool mint tea. Some noise apparently caught Altaïr’s attention as
Malik watched him vanish from sight on the roof.
Tibah sat on the bench outside the Bureau with a couple people who helped pull
a cart over with a large crate. Her brother stood as an ominous guard with his
hand on his sword hilt. A shadow poked over the straight line the roof made on
the ground. She observed it a few moments before turning to look up. A white
hood disappeared. “What are you looking at, Tibah?” her brother asked her.
Tibah smiled, “Eagles… or maybe angels.”
He shook his head. “Just knock. I don’t want to be here all day. Father is
coming home soon.”
“And you are worried for your friend. I know.” Tibah knocked on the door. She
had no idea if anyone was there or if the rafiq would answer.
Altaïr dropped through the lattice, “Malik. Trouble is at the door.” The knock
was then heard within.
Malik regarded Altaïr as if it was his fault, especially after seeing an ill
looking Naheem. Naheem recovered well with the tea though. “And what sort of
trouble did you bring?”
Altaïr growled, “I did not bring this trouble… this is your trouble! It’s that
girl.”
Malik stood corrected. Indeed this was his trouble and not Altaïr’s. “Fine,
strip Naheem of anything of the order and send him out front, then stay hidden
back there yourself.
“I told you…”
“And I said I would deal with her in my own way!”
Altaïr stormed into the back. Naheem was already frantically pulling off
everything but his brown pants and grey shirt. With one crutch handed to him,
Naheem stepped out. He had really expected Malik to throw something at Altaïr
or them to yell at each other. They yelled in fierce hushed whispers, though.
Altaïr threw himself on Malik’s bed like a prisoner.
Malik pointed to a stool, “Sit behind the counter and study that map.” Naheem
did as he was directed while Malik went to the door to greet Tibah and her
brother. His eyes widened at the sight of the large crate. “Oh my! Please bring
this inside.” Kadar and another person brought the crate in with grunts and
heavy lifting. They dropped the crate out of the way of the door. Kadar then
ordered the people to return to the estate and thanked them for their help.
Naheem wished his leg were not injured. He would have lent a hand to the heavy
work. He tried to keep his eyes down studying the map as Tibah entered. She
carried a book with her wrapped in a veil. She had the most captivating liquid
brown eyes that he could not look away. She tucked her veil under her chin and
smiled prettily at him.
Malik joined Naheem behind the counter, “Miss Tibah, this is my nephew, Naheem.
Raiders hit my brother’s caravan last month and he arrived just a couple days
ago. I suppose he will be staying on with me from now on.” The look the two
teens gave each other was better than Malik had ever hoped. Naheem was quite
good looking, even if he still had that innocent baby face in his cheeks. Tibah
was a walking sin for men who favored women.
“Pleased to meet you, rafiq, and Naheem. I do believe you greet with safety and
peace. I wish them for you both.” She set the veil covered book on the table.
“I have finished what you gave me. I know it by heart.”
“Naheem, take this into the back for me.” Malik handed the book. “As you can
see, Miss Tibah. I am in this small bind where I am obliged to already train an
apprentice.”
She sighed sadly as she watched the cute boy hobble with crutch and book
through the fake wall into the back. “I… suppose…”
“How is Abdel healing? Your care must be helping greatly?” Malik asked both to
know and to redirect the conversation.
She brightened, “Abby is doing much better! I made the medicine and it took his
fever down. He sat up and ate on his own today.” She glanced to the door where
her brother waited just outside. “They are talking to each other a little. Abby
is so very shy. He is nice though. I’m going to ask my father to take him on as
our accountant. He has the best training and it would give him something to do.
And then he and Kadar can stay together.”
“You are incredibly understanding, Miss Tibah. I can only hope your father is
as well.” That would be the true test, wouldn’t it?
“My father already knows of Kadar and Abby. And, well, love is love and that is
not a sin.” She lingered a moment before boldly pulling the topic back, “Please
reconsider. I am a good student. I will make a very good apprentice. I can be
very discreet.” Malik raised a brow as she was hardly that at the moment. “Ok,
maybe not right now, but I can be. Please… please.”
Malik could already imagine the argument he will have with Altaïr later. Maybe
being stuck here was making him soft. “I will speak with your father, but I
doubt his answer will favour your wishes.”
She gave a very adorable girlish squeal of joy before she turned to the door.
“Oh… your eagle should be more careful of the shadows he casts. If he gets
stuck outside again, let him know I will always be glad to offer him bread or
fruit again.” She left with her brother following in her wake. He did not
berate her this time. He had no right to anymore.
Malik absorbed this shocking little bit of news on how dangerously observant
she was. She saw Altaïr. He narrowed his eyes and tasted the little victory on
his tongue. The great Altaïr had been seen, not once but twice. Twice outside
and she knew him for the man she encountered inside. In some ways, this gave
him something to argue back at Altaïr. In others ways, it only justified Altaïr
statement of Tibah being a danger to the Brotherhood. Logic told Malik that
they were compromised. There were rules to follow when compromised. Yet, if he
played this right, then she could be a valuable asset and everyone can have
what they want.
He locked the door after her. As he turned, he nearly walked into Altaïr, who
stood with hood drawn low and arms crossed. “Don’t you dare say anything,
Altaïr. You were the one she caught.” Altaïr cursed and stormed off to the open
air room. Malik followed. “She is observant. I get that it makes her dangerous.
But it also makes her useful.”
“There are no women in the Brotherhood.” Altaïr parroted the rule back.
Malik countered, “But one day, maybe there could be.”
“Then why not just train Nina?!”
Malik thought about the shot Altaïr threw at him. Nina seemed to be coming up a
lot. It was time to get Altaïr out of Jerusalem before he found out about her.
“Nina… Nina is a crazed bitch that should have been put down long before ever
being married to you.” He meant that honestly. Maybe it was Malik’s jealousy
that women got to marry men, that some women got to marry HIS Altaïr. Nina
definitely did not deserve the great eagle.
“Tibah is different. And I said I will handle her.”
Naheem hobbled into view, “She was pretty! Who is she really?”
Altaïr groaned with annoyance. “I’m packing. I have someone to kill in Acre.”
He remained snappish through his brief resupplying and almost as he left.
Malik stopped him with a hand on the chest. “Altaïr, be careful.” Altaïr tensed
at the uninvited contact. Malik did not back down. The hooded face turned away
as usual. Yet, Altaïr raised his hand and covered Malik’s, holding Malik’s hand
to his chest. The moment lasted not long enough for Malik. Altaïr fled out the
roof opening a second later.
Malik put an arm over Naheem’s shoulders and guided him to the back room so his
wound could be properly inspected and so Naheem could have a good bath, he
smelled like he needed it. In that back, he updated Naheem on all that had been
going on with Tibah and what her family represents, even the incident with Abby
that Malik alone was privy to.
He sent a bird with a note to Al Mualim that Altaïr was healed enough and is on
his way to Acre for his mission. He added his request to keep the “crippled”
novice as his assistant here in the Bureau with the details of the boy’s wound
and a slightly skewed assessment of his healing.
Naheem was then handed a PILE of books to read and study from. He would be
deeply educated by the time Malik was finished with him, and know enough of
medicine to help the average assassin. His training would only have respites
when he slept. It was the best Malik could do. He could not train Naheem as
anything else at the moment.
Malik slept wondering how long before Altaïr returned… and if Altaïr would
return.
***** Tales of Informants *****
Chapter Summary
     Since Altaïr is off on mission, I thought I would let you see what is
     going on in the lives of some of the OC’s you have grown to like in
     my fanfic. My OC list is Junayd, the old Dai, the Informant son of
     the old Dai, the informant family with the little girl (named Elli),
     Tibah, Kadar and Abdel (Abby), Tibah’s father, Naheem..... and Nina.
     Here is the first of several chapters of insights.
Malik slept wondering how long before Altaïr returned… and if Altaïr would
return. The month was fraught with busy training and stretches of deadly
boredom. Malik would have to wait nearly two months before seeing Altaïr again.
Missions were like that. Malik had a mission of his own, a few in fact. Train
Junayd in blade work. Train Naheem as a rafiq and fill in some gaps so he could
eventually train to be an assassin. Shame Malik didn’t actually know what the
training was for a rafiq. Sort out the chaos of Altaïr’s journals. Track Nina
before the hunter gets to her. Plan what to say to Tibah’s father once the man
arrived back in town. Malik actually had not been so busy all year! For any
contracts to make maps or scribe scrolls, he conscripted Naheem to help. That
was what an assistant was for after all.
 
Tale of Junayd
In older times, the age for a new novice was four. Take any child of four and
train him and he is yours for life. The master just before Al Mualim changed
that age to ten. Small children required too much care. Ten year olds were
eager, smart, and competitive. They were tested rigorously for the first month
and then placed in the best field of training: scholar, informant, rafiq,
doctor, or assassin. Some trained in a couple fields.
Faruq was trained assassin and doctor. Malik was trained assassin and scholar,
though he secretly squeezed in medical studies. Junayd was new. He was not
brilliantly intellectual, so that ruled him out of scholar, doctor, and rafiq
training. He was bold and witty with good ingenuity and a fearless streak which
qualified him nicely for the training of an assassin. Although, he could have
just as easily been trained as an informant or spy. Informants, however, tended
to be those who were poor at a kill or who had no stomach for it. That test was
to watch someone be killed and then be willing to hide the body in a designated
area. He would actually make an ideal hunter. Both fearless and curious with a
good memory… and fast thinking in a bind.
The informant, son of the old Dai, walked with Junayd through some busy
streets. They were scanning for both the hunter and Nina. Junayd tugged the
informant’s sleeve and cheered loudly, “Uncle! I’m gonna play over there!” and
dashed off in the direction he pointed. “Be home for dinner!” the informant
called back as he went in a different direction. Still keeping the hunter in
view, he side glanced to see Junayd playing with a couple other kids almost
beside a blond woman who tucked her locks back under her head scarf. He took
off at a run in a new direction, pushing someone over. The hunter looked over
the roof’s edge and ran the same route figuring the informant spotted something
he missed.
Junayd tumbled roughly, scraping his knee and dropping right in front of the
blond woman. She frowned at him, “foolish child,” turned on her heel and walked
away swiftly.
The other boys he played with commented on how mean she was. Junayd educated
them on a new word, “bitch.” It was one he had heard Malik use in reference to
this woman. He was sure it was her, though the baby was not with her. He
watched her till she was out of sight. He dabbed at his scraped knee, “I gotta
go home and clean this. It hurts. Maybe I will pay here again tomorrow.” He
waved at them and headed home.
In his mind he figured she might frequent that area. She did not have the baby
with her, so she would not have gone too far from wherever she was staying in
case she had to get back to the baby quickly. Dressing like a civilian with his
green scarf was the smart choice of the day. She never suspected him as an
informant. But then, who would suspect a child outside Masyaf? He reported his
discovery to his informant mentor. That news would make its way back to Malik
later. He beamed with pride.
Junayd had always hoped to be chosen to join the Brotherhood. He was an orphan
in Masyaf who got into far too much trouble because of his curiosity, and yet
managed to always wiggle his way out of that trouble. He moved from foster home
to foster home till he was ten and the last family begged the Brotherhood to
consider the devious little brat who grinned angelically at them. The Assassins
were his heroes. Brave warriors off on a hunt; he wanted to be one of them.
Finally he was training as one! He was tested and assigned a mentor and a
partner. His partner came down with an illness and died though. He broke into
the library to look up a book on diseases and was dragged out by one of the
scholars after being discovered in a corner with a forbidden book on sacred
treasures. His mentor was ordered to take the boy to field training in
Jerusalem. The mentor protested that it was dangerous, but it was Al Mualim’s
will.
Here Junayd was now, in Jerusalem. His mentor had been shot through with arrows
and the Great Eagle of Masyaf saved Junayd’s life. Now he trained as an
informant. It was not really his dream, but as the old Dai had said, “All
assassins must first be good seekers of information. You don’t just go in and
make a kill. You must know everything there is to know about your target, so
you kill swiftly and without mistakes. Informants are there to help the process
of information gathering. But, sometimes you seek a target that is not in a
city with a Bureau and informants. Master this role and then the next will come
to you more easily.”
It was good advice. He strove to be the best little informant he could be. His
heart still set its goals on Altaïr. Oh to be that great assassin’s apprentice!
For now, he would train hard, learn as much as he could, and become a master at
the blade under Malik’s tutelage. Later, he promised himself, later he would
petition Altaïr if he must, use all his little charms to become his apprentice.
He figured it would be easy. Altaïr already found him useful and intelligent.
He flopped on his bed and made shadow puppets of eagles flying before he blew
out the candle.
 
Tale of an Informant’s Family
Informants were generally by nature inquisitive, curious, quiet and observant.
They ranged in their skills from those who spied in estates and castles like
planted watchers, to those trained to read messages and decipher codes, to the
watchers on the streets, to those planted to be aids for novices going solo, to
those who track targets, to even those trained to make minor kills. Most
assassins learned a little of the skills needed to find information, track a
target, and understand the lay of a terrain or building. Some informants
mastered the throwing knife and the hidden blade to be a secret killer in a
crowd. Many simply were watchers and information gatherers.
Among those general informants were several roles. They sometimes offered a
variety of small services, like carrying supplies for people. Sometimes they
managed stalls that offered beverages or foods to the public. Drink and food
encouraged gossip. The informants were permitted to have their families with
them wherever they were stationed. They only returned to Masyaf if they became
compromised somehow. Some, like this one kept the message birds for the Dai of
the city, raising the birds and breeding them as a family hobby. He roamed the
city listening to the various conversations of people on the streets and
reported once a week to the Dai.
His position here was the safest. He walked the city in different districts,
sometimes he brought some young pigeons and decorative birds to the market or
to people that he thought might be interested in them on various estates. At
the end of the day, he returned to a wonderful, now pregnant, wife and his
adorable little girl. She threw herself into his arms when he came home from
“work” and made his day in the heat worth enduring.
Sitting up in the coup with her, they named all the birds over and over before
her bed time. He believed every man should love like this and be loved like
this at least once in their lives and preferable for the entirety of their
lives. He also believed that every man should have a child, especially
assassins. Children gave you meaning in life, gave you a reason to really fight
for that safety and peace, and gave you a reason to live.
He kissed his little girl goodnight before cuddling the rest of the night with
his wife, rubbing her not yet swelling belly. He hoped it would be a son,
someone he could train in his footsteps.
***** Tale of a Guard's Lover *****
Tale of the Guard’s Lover
Kadar was the younger of two brothers scattered ten years apart amid an army of
sisters. And now that his mother birthed a set of twin girls, that army just
grew. His elder brother had learned their father’s business trade while he took
up the duty of being a guard for the family merchant stall in the city and the
man of the house over many sisters when both father and eldest were away. Many
of the elder sisters had married, so he really only watched over his mother and
the sisters closest to his age. Perhaps it was because of so many sisters that
he had no real interest in women or girls.
Often he had asked his father in private if he could not marry, just stay with
the family forever. His father reassured him that one day he would find love.
His father was a very patient man and more understanding than perhaps many
others in Jerusalem, likely so because of his world trade of apothecary items
and engagement with many cultures. They used to live in Acre till the Crusaders
took over and disease plagued the streets. Now the father traveled there twice
a year and once to a central market at some crossroads.
The father had always told his sons that they may say or ask him anything and
he promised to listen and help. When Kadar crossed paths with a famous
accountant’s son, he finally had to address issues he feared within himself and
speak with his father. Kadar mumbled through his curiosity and interest in the
accountant’s son. He explained how they have crossed paths several times in the
market and became friends. With dread and humiliation, he confessed feelings
for the young man.
It was a long serious talk about the rules of engagement, about the laws
against such relationships, and thus the dangers. “I love Abby… We love each
other! Allah does not forsake honest love… Does he?” His father slapped him
like he would a small petulant child. “Father… You said I could say or ask you
anything.”
“I am not angry with you son. I am scared for you, scared for that young man,
scared for the shame it will bring on both our families.” A father’s love is
deep and his more understanding. He reassured his son of God’s acceptance, but
insisted on caution, for both their sake. “Allah may accept and understand. I
love you as my son anyways, but other people… they will not. If they suspected,
Kadar, you or Abdel or both of you could be stoned to death. Do you
understand?”
His words of caution and discretion were also due to who this other young man
was. Abby, Abdel, was the son of the most prominent accountant in the city and
head of the guild. The man was ruthless, dangerous and hungry for power. His
pride was the only thing he cared for. He had ignored his wife and child in his
climb up the social ladder. Only when his wife died in childbirth with her
second child, did he finally see a use for his first born, now old enough to
speak and reason with. The shy boy was trained with the ruler in numbering and
accounting till he was almost as good as his father. His deeply shy nature
ensured he would never be a threat to his father’s position.
At the age of nineteen, almost twenty, he grew tall, but remained remarkably
effeminate. No facial hair grew. He seemed almost androgynous with an almost
girlish face. When his father discovered his hermaphroditism, he was beaten for
the sin of lying and for being a shameful form. He was almost turned out of his
house then, but his father had too much use of him and warned him that if he
ever did anything womanly, he would stone him to death himself.
Being stoned was the most painful thing Abby had ever experienced or imagined
he could experience. As he lay on the very cushioned cot, he choked on his
emotions. His mother had loved him, despite his malformation of gender. She had
called him a gift, she had been blessed with a son and daughter all in one,
though for his safety had raised him like a son. His father had been so proud
to have a son and when he was old enough to train as his apprentice, the pride
showed once more. He strove so hard for the tiny scraps of affection he could
get from the man. Dragged like a cur to his father that night was more
shameful. Listening to the recounting, however skewed, that he was caught
kissing another man, engaging in sodomy as well. Not that they ever saw that,
not that he ever tried yet. His father looked at him like he was a stranger. “I
have no son, my children died with my wife.” And he cast the first stone.
Abby tossed in distress, flinching from illusionary stones. Kadar took his
hand, “Abby, my beautiful Abby.” Abby opened his eyes to see young Kadar still
dressed in his family guard uniform. The teen was always so handsome. “Abby? Do
you remember when we first met?” Kadar asked shyly. “We were in the market and
you dropped the accounting tools in front of my family stall. I fell in love
with those silver green eyes right away.” Abby wanted to speak but couldn’t
yet. He could only just barely eat. He was sure he was forever disfigured, yet
this teen still found him beautiful. “I am so sorry, Abby. I let us take a risk
and you got hurt. I promise I will never let that happen again. I promise… I
promise I will take good care of you. You are my family now… even if my father
turns us out. You are my family now.”
Abby sat up with help. Kadar moved to sit on the cot and help hold him up.
“This world hates me… my kind… us…” Abby’s words rolled hoarsely and slowly
from a badly bruised mouth.
“I don’t hate you. Neither does my sister, Tibah, nor my father. Abby, I love
you.” Kadar reassured the man in gentle whispers. “I love you.”
Tibah watched sadly from the hallway where she had paused with a basket of
washing from the nursery. Her brother, though usually so quiet, was really so
brave in her eyes. Even when he was being a pain in the behind about womanly
propriety. She wondered if rafiq Malik was right, that there were places in the
world that did not shun people like her brother and his lover. She liked to see
Kadar sneaking cute blushing looks at Abby. She hoped to see them exchange such
looks again someday, maybe once Abby was healed.
***** Tales of Angels *****
Chapter Summary
     Tibah sees angels and is like an angel in the way she helps whenever
     there is a need, mysteriously knowing to be there. Naheem is an
     angel, a miracle aid for a lonely Dai. And Nina... the hellion... she
     may not be an angel, but one sure looks after her son.
Tibah’s Tale
Tibah, like many young women dream of marrying someone wonderful. Or at least
dream of someone who will be good to them. She had had suitors before, had them
since she was twelve and liked none of them or they were offended by her
boldness and bossiness. She was grateful for her parents who did genuinely want
to see her happy. Other girls got married off to the best match for the family
regardless of how the girl felt. Tibah felt like she was on a time limit,
though. She was already fifteen. Friends her age walked about with toddlers and
she had none. It earned her looks of scorn from them.
She wished so badly that she were a man, then she could take over her father’s
business or run an apothecary on her own, or study to be a physician like she
always wanted. She even cut her hair short and dressed like a boy one day to
see if she could pass for one. Her bosom betrayed her and her mother ended up
in tears for her wayward daughter. It broke Tibah’s heart to see her mother
cry. She covered her hair with a scarf now and showed no one. Her hair would
grow back eventually.
Her bright brilliance earned her lessons from her mother and then from her
father in the secrets of making salves, tinctures and medicines of all kinds.
She was very adept and made most of them herself now that her father was away
and her mother had two tiny twin girls to attend to. Her elder sister who
helped at the stall had a head full of fluff as far as Tibah was concerned. Her
sister was twin to her brother Kadar, but Kadar clearly developed all the
intelligence… mostly. At least her sister, simple as she was, could handle
simple sales, write orders, count if it were not too much and was a whiz with
needles. There was a nice older man interested in her that their father was
considering. Tibah approved, not that she really had any say in the matter. The
man might be grey haired and her sister only sixteen, but he was nice and would
care for her and her him. Her sister would outlive him, inherit nicely, return
home and still be pretty enough to remarry. Older widows did not get scorned
for being in their twenties with no husband.
She peaked in on Kadar and Abdel often and helped care for Abby when he was
asleep or drugged against the pain. From helping with the many small surgeries,
she knew Abby’s forbidden secret of his dual gender state. She wanted to ask
questions. She memorized that anatomy book trying to understand. The rafiq did
not give her a chance to ask her questions. He didn’t even test her knowledge,
though she proved it in the surgery. He didn’t give her another book. That was
just as well. It would be hard to explain to her father who was arriving very
soon. One shock at a time, she supposed.
If she married the rafiq, it would be a good match. Married to him would allow
her the chance to learn from him. He was such a secretive man that it excited
her. She had kept track of all the medicines he had ordered and realized
correctly that he practiced as a doctor, though why he did not do it
officially, she did not know. She had a good eye and good memory. She was
careful about her surroundings and avoided the various troubles of the city,
with her brother as back-up. She noticed all sorts of things about the people
around her, but never knew what she ought to do with that information. Maybe it
would come in handy one day. Her father had once said it was important to
always be observant. She knew he sometimes kept a log of the odd things he saw,
but never knew why. It was her father’s secret. He explained it to her as,
“Just an old habit from an old profession I am retired from.” As if that
satisfied her inquisitive little mind.
She really thought though, that she had perhaps offended the rafiq this time.
He brushed her off so abruptly. Maybe his lover was around? He was always
grumpy when the eagle was about. She was sure he was the eagle in her dreams.
She dreamed of an eagle before each time she had seen him. There was the matter
of the nephew. Maybe the rafiq was still grieving the death of his brother? His
nephew was clearly wounded; maybe he was busy worrying about him? He was a very
cute boy. At least the rafiq was willing to discuss something with her father.
All she could do is wait. Wait and wonder like an abandoned wife. She felt like
one all the time.
She had to set aside those worries for now. She had a stall to ready, a mother
with fragile twins to help, a brother’s lover to help heal, and (now with her
sister’s help) a house to swiftly ready for their father’s return. She
mentioned to her sister about the rafiq’s nephew since he kept coming up in her
thoughts. They giggled and spoke of love.
 
Tale of the Bureau’s New Novice
Naheem was sure his brain was going to burst and ooze out his ears. He studied
the Dai handbook with Malik and stayed behind when Malik was off with the Old
Dai to learn more and fill in gaps. His hands ached from writing and sketching,
having taken up some of the slack from Malik for scribe and map work. Not that
there was really a slack, but he had to show he was apprenticing as a scribe
and map maker under his “Uncle Malik.” By the end of a week, he knew Jerusalem
and Acre on paper so well that he could draw it blindfolded.
His early mornings thrilled him. He exercised and trained physically with Malik
and sometimes with little Junayd. He grew stronger with the leg every day.
There were no such moments of supposed nothingness or boredom for Naheem. If he
appeared idle, Malik found him something new to read and study.
When he became too fidgety from being cooped up inside the Bureau, Malik sent
him to the roof via that stairs to sort and clean the crates there and make an
inventory, something he really should have done before the inspector made him
feel like a fool and a novice.
Naheem tried to ask about that girl more, but Malik kept him too busy. At
night, he would just drop and sleep hard. He dreamed of those liquid brown eyes
and found himself awake and hard and frustrated. Malik walked in on him taking
care of himself. They stared shocked at each other for a few very painfully
long seconds. “Don’t soil my pillows or carpets. If you do, clean them
immediately.” Naheem thought he was going to die of embarrassment for having
been walked in on like that. The blush in his face did not leave for a long
while after Malik returned to his room. After that incident, he tried other
methods of dealing, like the icy cold cloth Altaïr showed him. There were times
it happened in training too. Altaïr had not taught him how to handle those
embarrassing moments. Malik addressed them more casually as he turned the
morning training into an anatomy lesson for the two boys. Understanding the why
helped Naheem deal with the how much better.
When Malik returned with a fresh bruise on his face and ordered Naheem to NOT
bother him about it. Naheem simply waited till later to ask as tactfully as he
could. What he learned solidified his understanding as to why Altaïr wanted him
here. Malik needed some protection, or at least someone who was not really
bound by a cover who could run errands without these kinds of troubles.
“Tibah’s father is in town. I want to speak with him about a few matters of
importance. Naheem, you stay here in my stead. That means, if anyone drops in,
they must provide you any information they have. If it is of Nina, log it in
THIS book not the main log book. Everything else goes in the log book. Make
sure to write the date and who it is. If it is an assassin, then log who their
target is. Tell them I will be back later this afternoon. There is no harm in
saying you are new and don’t know the answer. If that hunter comes back about
information for Nina…. You know nothing; you are a newly arrived novice
assistant.”
Naheem nodded, and nodded, and nodded  and hoped he remembered it all. Malik
left without changing the banners outside. Naheem took out the big heavy log
book and dropped it on the counter with a grin at how it thumped just like when
Malik did so. He would have strutted a bit like Malik too, but he couldn’t with
his leg. He glowered over a map instead before he was overcome with laughter.
It was silly pretending to be Malik. He did open up the big log book and read
through it a little, or add some new lines to a map.
After three hours he was bored out of his skull and wondered what the hell
Malik did with his time. So he cleaned the entire main floor, though not the
upper ledges. He dusted the books. He even made some food, pleased that it
tasted way better than anything Altaïr attempted, though it still tasted pretty
horrible. He resigned himself to cut fruit and vegetables and rice. He couldn’t
mess up rice. His mom had made sure of that. He missed her and then remembered
his mentor, his father the assassin. He wept as he ate his lunch, not like
anyone was going to see him blubbering like a child. He then understood what
Malik did with his time. Sometimes, it must be just like this, with his own
losses and feelings of loneliness.
“I promise you, Master Altaïr, that I will help take care of your Malik.”
 
A Baby’s Cry
Through the busy streets in the most crowded of markets in Jerusalem, a woman
well covered from the eyes of men, hurried from one stall to another. She
parsed her days’ time carefully so as to be back to nurse the baby. Some Muslim
women had taken her in when she pleaded with them about how her husband had
been mysteriously assassinated. At first they were leery because she was so
pale of skin and blond haired, but her Arabic was perfect. She lied smoothly to
convince them she had converted to Islamic ways for her husband’s sake. She
prayed with them religiously and helped in all chores. They kept her hidden and
safe from the mysterious assassin whom she feared would steal or hurt her son.
They gave her a small room off their family home that they normally saved for
traveling guests or guards of the merchant caravans.
She watched every place carefully, eyes searching rooftops, corners and shadows
before ever making any journey, even crossing the street. The slightest
suspicion of those she recognized as informants or potential assassins sent her
hurrying back to her new home. She kept a thin fish knife with her at all times
to defend herself with, just in case. It would not be the first time she had
killed someone she was suspicious of.
When one of the street brats fell and scraped his knee in front of her she had
almost drawn the knife to kill him. “Foolish child,” she had snapped at him as
she turned swiftly away.
She couldn’t always take the baby with her, even though she wanted to. It
squirmed and wailed in the guest house alone till she returned. His eyes were a
mix of brown and gold with a dusting of feather soft blond hair over his head.
“Shhh… Mumma is here now. You need to learn to be quiet so they do not take you
away.” Her gentle words soothed him as they often did. Although there were
certainly times his crying tried her nerves and she would yell back at the
child that she was dumping him at the nearest church for his trouble. She liked
him when he suckled quietly, but found him to be a messy burden all other
times.
As she closed her curtains, she saw someone all too familiar. She stared
through the crack at the man with a piercing gaze and thin black chin hairs.
“Malik,” she hissed. He clearly was walking with a purpose to somewhere
specific. She noted his one missing arm as he passed and muttered, “Ha…
crippled now. Made you a Dai, did they? How nice. I bet Altaïr is with you
somewhere. I will find you both before I leave.” The deadliest of poisons could
not match the venom of her tone.
The baby wailed plaintively again. Malik stopped at the sound and she let the
crack in the curtains vanish as she clamped her hand over the baby’s mouth to
muffle the noise. Malik looked around sure he heard a baby cry, but then walked
on, not wanting to ever linger anywhere. He did not want any more bruises
today.
The sound of pigeons taking flight nearby caused Nina to turn back to the
window. The curtains fluttered as she muffled her own shriek. A man stood in
the window with a white wing and a black wing. She was sure she saw him. But
that was impossible. She blinked several times as she rushed to the window. No
one was there, not even pigeons.
She picked up her baby in case he cried again. He clutched a large feather in
his hand and burbled and giggled. She snarled as she snatched it from him and
tossed it in the wood stove. This would be a long night of wailing where she
hated this child Altaïr had plagued her with.
***** Malik: Marriage Arrangement *****
Malik turned at the sound of a baby’s cry while on his fast walk to Tibah’s
family home, a few scrolls under his arm. In this district, of course there was
a good chance of hearing a child cry from some home. His mind simply lingered
on Altaïr’s child every day as he hoped for news. When he caught a faint
glimpse of that strange winged man with a white wing and black wing he almost
staggered back. He leaned into the shadow of a building, mouth gaping. One
black and one white wing shifted upon the man’s back. He stood outside the
window of where Malik heard the baby’s wail. After blinking several times to be
sure, really sure of what he saw, the man as simply not there. Malik wondered
if maybe he had hallucinated in the heat. No, he could not have. Last time he
saw such a vision, Altaïr was nearly dead in an alley. Tibah had seen it too in
a dream when she miraculously showed up just when he desperately needed more
medical supplies. Malik had to admit, at least to himself, that angels might
actually exist.
He memorized that location to mark on a map later. He stopped by the first
fountain to drink water and splash his face. Picking up the scrolls again, he
continued on to Tibah’s family estate. Her father should have arrived home by
now. Malik could have waited to see the man in the market, but there were too
many sensitive things going on that he entangled himself in with this family.
Malik was ready to accept the responsibility of taking in Kadar and Abby if the
father turned them out. He resigned himself to that possibility. Just because
Tibah was understanding, didn’t mean her father was.
Servants welcomed him into a cool room with fountains. Tibah was with her older
sister and brother-in-law at the market stall. Kadar lurked in while the
servants fetched both beverages and the man of the house. “Rafiq? I want to
thank you,” he murmured. “Abby is doing well.”
Malik offered a small smile and nod, but could not answer as Kadar’s father
entered the room. “Kadar! I thought you were preparing a bath for your…
friend.” Kadar blushed and slipped out as quickly as he could. “My family
stresses me to no end these days.” The older man sighed deeply as he sat across
from Malik at a low table on the carpets. Servants brought over cool drinks and
some sliced fruit. “Be welcome in my home, rafiq. I can only guess that this
has something to do with perhaps the recent additions to my family or the
daughter I hope to marry off.”
Malik hated these old men who knew too much and anticipated his needs sometimes
before he knew he had a need. “Has someone explained the situation with Kadar’s
friend to you?”
“Oh yes, at length, and thankfully before I had to take a stick to anyone.
Kadar… I warned him to take care. He now must bear the burden of his
recklessness, and thus has forced some of that burden onto me. At least I can
use a good accountant and Abdel is a fine one. Thank you for your assistance
and discretion in this matter, rafiq.”
Malik had not realized how pent up with stress he was over that situation till
he felt the tension wash away with relief. “I am glad I could help. Tibah and
Kadar have been a blessing on me when I have come in need.”
The older man smiled broadly to hear his daughter was a blessing to Malik.
“That is wonderful to hear! I know you had said before that you were not really
interested, but maybe you have reconsidered the match? She is very resourceful,
can cook and sew and do all the things a good wife must, skilled in apothecary
work… I trained her myself. We can even negotiate the dowry if we must.”
Malik coughed and colored scarlet. He drank some sweet fruit juice to recover,
clearly seeing where Tibah inherited her boldness. “Please, you misunderstand.
I too have recently had an addition to my family, so to speak. My brother and
his family had been attacked on their way to Jerusalem. My nephew is the only
survivor and is now under my care, training and responsibility. I was perhaps
considering negotiating a possible match for him and your daughter. He is
educated and will follow in my footsteps. He is about Tibah’s age. I thought if
they turned out to like each other, I would like to pursue that direction
instead.” He knew it might not work out, but it would take some of the heat off
of him for a little while at least. And likely he could convince Naheem to take
Tibah anyways as a way to maintain her silence and thus protect the family and
the Brotherhood. All the Brotherhood engaged in these kinds of duties. It
suddenly made sense to him why Altaïr was forced to marry Nina. It was not a
punishment for Altaïr, it was to control the dangerous situation that Nina
represented.
The older man weighed this new information. “I should like to meet your nephew
in person before I truly entertain the idea.”
Malik nodded, “I shall bring him by once his wounds are healed.” Now for the
hard talk. “I have another matter about Tibah I need to address with you. She
has requested to train, to be my apprentice in the little amount of doctoring
that I know. I promised to at the very least bring it up to you before she does
something rash or worse shameful.” He could already see those thoughts roiling
and tumbling in the older man’s eyes. “She assisted me with the healing of
Abdel. I have to admit that I was impressed with her abilities. However, it
would be much too inappropriate for me to take her on. True, I could use her
help. True, she would make a wonderful apprentice in that field.”
“But she is a women! That is NOT the place for a woman dealing with soiled and
bleeding bodies, or nude men! To see the horrors of—“
“She had seen a young man stoned near to death and handled that better than
most grown men,” Malik found himself defending her and not knowing why. “If she
and my nephew wed, I could train her without stigma to any of us.”
The older man groaned and wiped his hand over his face, “Allah, save me from my
children.”
“If thing do not go so well between Tibah and my nephew, Naheem… Then I will
reconsider Tibah for myself.”
That seemed to placate the distressed man. Malik negotiated his dowry offer for
Tibah on behalf of Naheem and included the apprenticeship in the dowry. He
wasn’t sure how he would come up with the funds beyond making a request to
Masyaf otherwise. As they negotiated the dowry and other trade, including the
crate of paper that Malik had not yet brought himself to open, the older man
presented Malik with a book. “This is full now. I suppose you will have more
use of its contents than I, and if I observe anything of note in my fading
years, I will pass it along to you. Old habits… never seem to be left behind,
even after retirement of more than twenty years.”
Malik curiously opened the front cover and saw the logo of the brotherhood
within. His head snapped up in shock so fast his neck made a small noise. He
dropped his eyes again and flipped through the pages quickly. An informant’s
journal or an assassin’s. Malik shot a fleeting glance to the man’s left hand
and saw the tell-tale missing finger. Understanding now dawned across his
expression. “Does your family know?”
“Only my wife. My eldest son was but a toddler when I retired. I had taken ill
and making my missions successful became increasingly difficult. I retired to
be an apothecary and with some help, died on the books of the Brotherhood. I
should like to remain dead. Things have changed there and I am not inclined to
be involved in them or this war. I should like to keep my children out of it
too, as much as possible.”
The idea that one so distanced had reservations, much like the Old Dai,
unsettled Malik. “I shall do my best. But Tibah seems… very…”
“Willful?”
Malik didn’t want to say it because he thought it would sound too rude.
“I know my daughter. It is why she is not yet married. If I tried to marry her
to someone she did not wish to be married to… I am sure she would do something
drastic like run away, try dressing like a boy again, or worse… poison him. I
have not shown her that side of the apothecary business.”
They concluded their discussion on other topics of trade, city life, world
politics, and medicines. Upon departing, they exchanged the offering of safety
and peace.
Malik strode swiftly through the streets, pausing slightly at the building he
had seen that angel and heard the child’s cry at. He did not linger long. He
arrived in the Bureau to find Naheem sitting slumped in the stool, arms crossed
on the counter over the map he was working on, head down and quite asleep.
Malik stroked through the boy’s hair to gently wake him. “Come, let us have
some supper and then get you to an early bed before you injure yourself falling
from the stool in your sleep.”
Naheem rubbed his eyes. He had been dreaming of flying with wings, or carried
by someone with wings, maybe with Altaïr in a Leap of Faith which he had yet to
learn.
***** Altair & the Monk *****
Altaïr crouched long on a parapet overlooking the docks of Acre. He had
gathered information throughout this filthy city about his target, Sibrand. A
Teutonic knight of the Crusades with some Templars at his command, Sibrand was
a fine archer and plotted to control the docks and all those who made use of
them. He seemed also to be exceptionally aware an assassin was after him,
acting paranoid as Altaïr had observed. Although, the north side of the docks
should have less of Sibrand’s men present, if he could only get there and
corner his target.
Acre proved most troublesome this time round. Guards and soldiers roamed
actively alert and seeking him, a white hooded and robed assassin. To make it
worse, his target would be out on the docks, likely on a boat. He remained
crouched on that parapet as the sun rose over the water. Water. Why, oh why
this? How did they know this would be his one and only phobia? Did that get
leaked out by the traitor, too? But really who knew that fact of Altaïr? Very,
very few. The ship and boat masts silhouetted black against the thin color of
the lightening sky. The first look provided a tactical layout of two towers out
at sea and three high guard towers with archers upon them. Leaping from boat to
boat could get one there to eliminate the archers easily and reach the north
side without any trouble… But only if you were inclined to leap unknown depths
of water onto precarious wobbly boats, which Altaïr was not.
Altaïr scanned left at sheer wall that soon dropped into rocky water. He
scanned right along the wall to a tower in the north with a better lookout
spot. He had crouched and slept in this parapet nook all night waiting for
better light before seeking a new watching point. That tower would be perfect.
It was high enough for an eagle to see all and to spread its wing. He longed
for that sense of freedom, however false. Drawing his short blade from his
back, he made a mad rush along the wall cutting down any guards that showed for
morning watch till he reached his desired tower. He looked back at the bloody
path as he wiped his short curved blade clean before locking it into the
scabbard on his back. It will be at least four hours before shift change and
the bodies’ discovery. He would be long gone by then.
The damp wind off the water was blessedly cool as it whipped Altaïr’s robes and
hood. He stood tall, stretching his arms out and lifting his face allowing the
wind to blow his hood off. He absorbed the feel of this wind as if through his
feathered wings. He breathed in the intangibly familiar salty air. In a long
slow deep breath, he shifted his vision and looked down through the strange
myriad colors he had grown used to. Mostly whites and blues shimmered among the
people below. Groups of shimmering reds warned of soldiers marching and
patrolling together. A flicker of yellow, his target, blinked in and out as
Sibrand wove through a crowd with some of his men, dragging someone with them.
Altaïr narrowed his eyes but could not make out enough details. He needed to
get closer.
His eyes spotted the haystack below. He tugged his hood back into place and
outstretched his arms again. One last look locked Sibrand’s location into his
mind and mapped the route from the bird’s eye view. Two fast steps took Altaïr
to the end of the post. A silent leap of faith and he hung suspended a moment
before gravity tugged him down. Instinct controlled his flight. He landed
safely in the hay.
From behind a pillar, Altaïr peered around to watch his target amidst a crowd
wailing insanely at a poor old white-clad monk. Sibrand accused the monk of
being an assassin, or at least affiliated. Altaïr drew out a throwing knife,
but there was no clear shot. He returned to his hiding behind the pillar
heaving annoyed sighs. To throw the little blade might kill an innocent person.
Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. Altaïr’s mind frantically
searched for a way to save the monk without exposing himself or hurting anyone.
Shrieks and screams from the crowd snapped his attention back around the
pillar.
Sibrand cut down the frail monk.
Altaïr rolled back against the pillar again, swallowing back his curses. This
too was his fault. That poor monk died because of him, because he hides among
them, because they had helped him. Altaïr ground his teeth and waited hours for
the crowd to disperse. Now and then, he peered over to see everyone ignoring
the body. The city guard would take it away around midnight if no one claimed
it.
Altaïr waited further till dusk, then strode over and picked up the body
himself. His own penance, Altaïr carried the dead old monk through the streets
of the Lower District. No one bothered him. Most bowed their head and made way
for him, even the city guard. He climbed some stairs and stepped up onto a low
wall ledge. The sun set, as people locked themselves into their homes as if on
a curfew. Altaïr’s muscles coiled and tensed. He sprang the distance with his
burden to a low roof of a monastery. There he leaned against the bell floor
door and wove around the large bell. His pace slowed as he walked down the
stairs, the monk’s blood already staining his own robes. In the main prayer
room of the monastery, he was met by another monk. Altaïr could not find the
words to say how sorry he was for his part in this.
The monk pressed his hand to Altaïr’s cheek and wiped the streams of water from
each one. “Come, we will lay him over here and tend him ourselves. You may
shelter in that side room and wash your robes down there in the washing area. I
will make sure you have food and water by morning.” There was no room for
refusal. Altaïr wasn’t sure he wanted to refuse. His mind filled with so many
questions, questions about God’s existence and how these people can keep their
faith in the face of such things.
Altaïr listened to the unexpectedly soothing sounds of the midnight chanting of
the monks in prayer over their dead. His robes were bleached and hung to dry by
a fire in his small room. He eyed the Bible on the bedside, but refused to
touch it. I am forsaken. He woke to the dawn bell tolling and monks in morning
prayer. By the time he was dressed and hooded, a simple breakfast rested on a
little stool outside his room. He ate swiftly and placed the piece of bread
into one of his pouches. The same monk he saw the night before awaited him in
the bell tower Altaïr had come in through. Bright feathered angelic wings shone
one white and one black, vanishing as the monk turned to face Altaïr. It was
only a trick of the dawn light. Altaïr squinted to be sure. A simple man, monk,
stood there before him. “Be the hand of God for us all. Be the Sword of
Michael. Fly with sharp talons, Eagle of Masyaf. We accept our sacrifices for
the hope of safety and peace to come.”
Altaïr wasted no more time. His feet pounded silently across the roof. He leapt
the gap and kept running, roof by roof, diving off the parapets when he reached
them. Landing hard and rolling right, he rose onto his feet again on the roof
of a shop on the docks. He overheard how Sibrand took refuge on a ship off the
north dock near the north tower. Narrowed golden eyes, Altaïr decided to avenge
this death and finish his mission… today.
***** Malik: A Talk About Missions *****
Naheem finally hobbled about without the crutch by the second week. He was not
strong enough to really climb things with any balance, other than the stairs to
the roof. He remained deep in study under Malik’s tutelage. Malik sent a
progress report to Masyaf.
The Hunter dropped in seeking news. He left disappointed and would return again
in a week. The very day after the Hunter left, one of the informants dropped in
with Junayd. They had a rough daily itinerary of Nina’s activities. Junayd
practically strutted overly proud about his findings. Malik showed Naheem how
to go about logging everything in the alternate book as if it were the official
book. Under observation, Naheem recorded an assassin mission when one of the
lower ranked assassins arrived with an assigned target. Naheem learned how to
summon one informant to help gather news. Naheem’s current pronounced limp
reaffirmed to any of the passing Brotherhood of his crippled state.
The feeling of being incapacitated and crippled took its toll on Naheem. By
week three, he destroyed a map in his frustration and broke two bottles of ink
burying his face in his ink covered arms with shaking shoulders. Malik came
over to guide him away from the mess and help him get cleaned up. “Novice
Naheem. Look at me. You… you are NOT crippled. You are only injured.”
“But Altaïr…”
“Do not compare yourself to him,” Malik stated firmly. “He is a master
assassin. He is more accustomed to dealing with his injuries. Also, he… is
different. He is graced with the ability to heal much faster than most people.
So do not compare yourself to him. You will heal in your own time and be just
as capable of doing missions as any other assassin. I promise.” Malik could not
expect Naheem to be sweet and docile forever. Assassins all had their own
dangerous streaks, it was simply a matter of finding that limit and Naheem
reached his. Much as he had done with Altaïr, Malik took one of the spare blank
journals and offered it to Naheem to keep his own journal. Then he shoved him
back into the main room to clean up the mess he created.
Naheem learned swiftly how responsible he was for his own outbursts. The
consequence was that he had to work off the fee for the replacement inks and
live with the guilt of seeing Malik with a few new bruises when he returned
from purchasing new ones. He apologized often and was struck down hard by
Malik. “I am doing my duty and you will do yours. Never feel sorry for me. You
don’t want to be treated like a cripple, don’t treat me like one either!”
Naheem was then banished to the upstairs floor and ordered to sort and clean
it.
They gave each other space for a couple days.
Eating in silence one evening, Naheem broke it by asking, “May I keep that
upstairs room for myself? So I am not in the lounging room that everyone drops
in through?” Malik considered it a few times but decided no. He wanted Naheem
where he would learn the names and faces and routines of people, also to keep
track of that Hunter should the man drop in again at some point. Naheem was
disappointed, but understood. Malik may have the back room, but it was hardly
considered private when you considered he hosted all the injured members of
their Brotherhood there, often in his own bed.
The assassin returned with some news of his own on his target and gathered the
news Malik and Naheem had an informant seek. A couple days later he dropped
through the lattice nearly onto Naheem. Thankfully the novice did not yell,
managing to smother it. He called for Malik loudly as he hurried to try to
support the injured assassin. “Safety and peace, Brother. I got you.” Naheem
tried to be as reassuring as Malik. Malik took one look and instructed for them
to go into the back while he gathered his medical supplies. “Did you succeed?”
Naheem asked as Malik might, to distract one from their wounds.
“Yes,” the man groaned as he struggled to pull free his bloodied feather.
Naheem helped him lie on the spare bed mat and took the feather away with him.
Malik asked questions of the assassin to get the details of the kill as Naheem
wrote the accounting into the log. This freed Malik to wash and inspect the
wound, and then Naheem became a much needed second set of hands to help with
treating their wounded man. They took turns watching over the man through the
night.
In the morning, Malik reassessed the man’s wounds and dictated to Naheem the
message to be sent to Masyaf. Naheem however, failed miserably in obtaining a
bird. The pigeons flew the second they saw him approach over and over. Malik
made him sit on the floor near where they land with some seed in his hand until
they actually landed on him. Naheem thought his bladder would burst by the time
he finally fitted the bird with the message and sent it on its way. Malik
nodded approval finally at Naheem’s determined patience, “And sometimes it
takes this kind of stillness as you wait for your target or wait for the right
moment to strike. Timing is everything, Novice Naheem.”
Naheem then slept under the lattice to intercept little Junayd to let him know
that lessons were postponed till their wounded assassin had healed enough to be
on his way. That meant no blade practice or sword training. It only lasted a
week. The assassin’s wounds were not so bad once he had been treated. Too much
of a delay could have cost him a limb or his life. He was healed enough to ride
back to Masyaf, but would need another month of low activity till he was
properly healed and then spend a couple months with the blade trainers to
recover the use and accuracy of his sword arm.
Hearing all this reassured Naheem of his own recovery, despite the lie Malik
perpetuated that Naheem would be lame forever. It was entirely a ploy to keep
him here for training. Most days Naheem appreciated the ploy, some days he
fought it. The days he stretched and worked out with Malik helped. The days he
learned how to use each sharp weapon encouraged him.
Late one night, after Naheem finished redoing the map he had ruined, he
witnessed Malik walk past and into the open room to stare up through the
lattice at the stars. In his one hand, he twirled a golden eagle feather as he
wondered silently about Altaïr.
“Master Malik?” It always surprised Malik to be called master by Naheem. Malik
silently thanked Altaïr for the honour. “Master Malik?” Malik turned his
attention to his novice apprentice. “How long are his missions? How long are
missions generally?”
“Go make some coffee and we will talk about how missions are done.” This young
man was not just a novice, not just an apprentice, but his and Altaïr’s. Our
novice apprentice. Naheem limped into the kitchen and learned how to make the
rare coffee that Malik liked. They sat under the stars with their coffees and
the cool breeze that drifted in.
“Missions are often assigned by the head of the order, although lower ranked
assassins or novices testing their wings can simply show up at a Bureau and be
assigned local missions by the rafiq or the Dai of that city’s Bureau.” Malik
showed Naheem the list of local missions that can be assigned when novices and
assassins came seeking duties. Each local mission had been coded according to
the rank. “If you know someone well, you come to know what they are capable of
and might offer them missions that will challenge them. A mission can go
swiftly when the leg work of seeking information has already been done.
Missions take longer if the novice arrives and must seek his own information.
We only give out a feather when they are ready to make the kill of an approved
target and if they have a plan. The average mission can take as long as a month
or as short as a week. The more difficult missions can sometimes take as long
as three months. On the rare occasion, a Hunter is sent out.”
This is what confused Naheem, “And what exactly is a Hunter? Is Master Altaïr a
Hunter?”
“He could be when he is not…” Malik was going to say something rude, maybe call
Altaïr an arrogant ass; however Altaïr no longer really was that kind of person
anymore. “… when he is not on other assigned missions. He is a deadly assassin
and best serves on the difficult missions that need to be handled swiftly.
Hunters are sent on missions you expect will take them outside our usual
familiar locations or seeking an extremely elusive target. They track their
target not just through a city, but perhaps across countries till they find
them and make their kill. Hunters answer only to the master of our order just
as the master assassins.”
“I’ll never be one of those, will I?” he asked earnestly.
“No, you will never be a Hunter, but you could be a very good assassin, maybe
even a master. And when I am done with you, you will understand how informants
work, how the rafiq’s and Dai work and thus appreciate the work they do and
better know how to use what they offer.” Malik was already applying some of his
new training techniques with Naheem. Train them across all the professions so
they have a basic proficiency and could in a pinch serve in any field when
necessary. Then train them to specialize, as opposed to waiting till they are
ten, testing them and then obliging them to one field. Malik could dream of
reform. He always did. He even wanted to go back to training children as young
as four again, but in the basics across all the fields. Maybe narrow the
specialties around ten and then really specialize around fifteen.
“Master Malik?”
Malik shook his head from the daydreaming he was caught in. “You will have more
options, Novice Naheem, than any other assassin.” Malik never wanted to see a
broken Altaïr ever again. Altaïr was a killer, trained to be the very best and
nothing else. That meant he could hardly function socially or in any other
field. Malik felt that was more damaging. He sipped his coffee with Altaïr on
his mind and again wondered how the eagle fared. They both did.
***** Altair Kills Sibrand *****
Altaïr wasted no more time. His feet pounded silently across the roof. He leapt
the gap and kept running, roof by roof, diving off the parapets when he reached
them. Landing hard and rolling right, he rose onto his feet again on the roof
of a shop on the docks. He overheard how Sibrand took refuge on a ship off the
north dock near the north tower. Narrowed golden eyes, Altaïr decided to avenge
this death and finish his mission… today.
His flight through the docks and merchants there vanished in blurs of people
and draped merchant cloth and rooftops till he skidded to a halt at the sight
of ten crusader knights. They were nearly as tough and nearly as well-armored
as Templars. They blocked the route down the dock to his target. A drunkard
ambled back and forth in front of a boat nearby. They always ruined attempts at
stealth. Although, a hop from the boat to another boat to the shore and Altaïr
could climb the wall to a lookout and deal with a watching archer. That way he
could bypass the squad of knights.
He watched the marching knights. He watched the ambling drunkard. He eyed the
boat uneasily. His chest grew tight at the thought the water. But the chance of
losing his target or alarming his target somehow seemed worse. Failing a
mission incurred punishments he did not think he could live through. He fought
so hard for the small amount of redemption he has obtained already. He
concluded that the risk of water was worth the tiny scraps of trust and
friendship he imagined and hoped he had.
Waiting, he timed himself. The knights turned and marched back along the dock.
The drunkard teetered to the left. Altaïr took three long fast strides and
leapt. He landed on the boat. It rocked and he froze. While it stilled, he
calculated the next couple jumps, muscles coiling in preparation. He spread his
arms for balance, feeling the breeze ruffling his robes. Golden eyes picked out
the next few perches. Before the next breeze chilled his sweat, he ran and
leapt and flew and leapt again. He landed on the shore and dropped to his hands
and knees grateful, but only for a couple breaths before dashing to the wall.
He scaled it easily, pulling himself onto the roof as the archer turned. His
wrist blade snapped out then in. The archer dropped onto the roof without a
sound, dead. Altaïr would clean his blade later.
Altaïr crouched on that watch roof. The knights marched buy. The whistle of an
arrow nearly caused him to dodge and give himself away. The arrow flew from a
distant ship and only made noise. It was aimed at nothing. Sibrand’s yelling
could be heard over the water. With the backs of the knights to him, Altaïr
picked them off with his throwing knives. The last two met him on the roof. One
he threw off into the water where his heavy armor sunk him to his death. The
other he dispatches on the roof. The path was now clear save for some people
with crates. He knocked one over and disappeared up a wall out of sight.
Up to the top of a tower, Altaïr looked down at the knights and the Templar
marching patrol around it. He cursed for not having noted them earlier and now
being out of throwing knives. From his vantage point, he could count only a few
knights on the ship and Sibrand shooting arrows and yelling from the prow of
the ship. He dropped into the hay on the north side of the tower and waited
till the patrol passed him. Then he crept out behind them and started to take a
couple lives at a time. The first six went smoothly. The other four and the
Templar turned on him. The Templar proved most difficult, except Altaïr was
ready. The Templar was ill-trained for fighting in the narrow space between a
tower wall and the outer wall. He claimed some of their smaller knives to use
as throwing knives. They would throw poorly, but he didn’t need accuracy. He
needed to draw the knights off the ship, maybe even Sibrand.
Sibrand was not easy to lure. The knights though, Altaïr nearly laughed at
their stupidity. He took each life with a grin. A wide swing threw one right
off the ship’s walking plank. Determination belayed Altaïr’s fears of water for
the time being. He ran the plank onto the ship and dodged an arrow as he closed
swiftly upon Sibrand. They fought fast and furious for their lives, Altaïr
desperately avoiding the sides of the ship not wanted to be knocked overboard.
He would never have dared this if it was just a boat, but the ship was large
enough to be more stable.
Without heavy armor, Altaïr wove and dodged; his moves and steps faster than
Sibrand’s. Although Sibrand landed heavier hits deeply bruising even with
glancing blows. Dexterity and speed won out over Sibrand and Altaïr held him
pinned to the deck of the ship.
“Please,” Sibrand begged, “Don’t do this.”
The fog shrouded them as Altaïr had dreaded. “You are afraid.” He sounded
surprised. None of his targets had ever seemed as afraid as Sibrand.
“Of course I am afraid!” His life was slipping as they spoke, but the soul
lingered and clung just the same.
The confusion glared through Altaïr voice, “But you’ll be safe now, held in the
arms of your God.”
The ensuing discussion reaffirmed what Altaïr could not grasp and had hoped was
not true. Sibrand declared that there was no God and that there was nothing
after death. He asked the soul to linger longer in life and to tell him of the
plots in play. Here Altaïr learned that the Templars were actually plotting
against King Richard, creating a blockade at sea to prevent reinforcements once
they supposedly freed the Holy Land from religion.
“Freedom?” Altaïr blurted very sceptically. “You work to overthrow cities...
control men’s minds... murdered any who spoke against you!”
The soul was fading, yet Sibrand spoke the last important message before dying.
“I followed my orders... believing in my cause... same as you.”
The fog evaporated to reveal a noon sun. Alarm bells rang in the city loudly as
the thundering of armoured boot pounded the wood and stone along the dock
toward the ship. Altaïr took flight over the side of the boat to the plank and
leapt long to the shore to avoid being seen by the guards. The gravel gave way
under his feet and he slid into the water. His hands scrabbled along the shore
and barely managed to grasp the edge of a small boat in the panic that rose to
obliterate all thought. Fingers held the edge in a talon death grip. Water
lapped his shoulders and his chin. Altaïr’s mind blanked in terror.
Someone grabbed his robes and dragged him ashore. The monk he had seen in the
tower shook him several times till his senses returned. Altaïr realized he was
shaking and dripping against the stone wall in a nook. Some very poor folk
fished on this stony shore. No one looked at them. The monk patted Altaïr cheek
till full awareness returned to the assassin’s eyes. Then he turned and
shuffled away in humble prayer.
Altaïr remained there against the hot stones till the sun dried him and his
robes. He pressed his hands and back against the secure feel of the stable
stone wall. The search was on for a killer, an assassin, Sibrand’s murderer.
Altaïr took almost a full day and a half to make it back to the Bureau with his
bloodied feather. He slept the night in a covered roof garden wishing it was
Malik he would encounter as he watched the stars out the split of the curtains.
The alarms continued to peel loudly. Acre was more determined to find the
killer than other places. Probably because it was a Templar controlled city.
The sleep was poor with the terrible bruises, again reminding him of his desire
to be in Malik’s care.
***** I Spy... Naheem *****
Malik never wanted to see a broken Altaïr ever again. Altaïr was a killer,
trained to be the very best and nothing else. That meant he could hardly
function socially or in any other field. Malik felt that was more damaging. He
sipped his coffee with Altaïr on his mind and again wondering how the eagle
faired. They both did.
In the morning’s training, Malik tested Naheem without the crutches and
declared he could start limping about the Bureau without aid to strengthen the
muscles. He changed the stretches and exercises for Naheem, as well, to focus
on rebuilding the muscle of that injured leg. “I’ll take back the crutches and
get you a cane,” he explained to the teen. “It will help ease the weight when
it aches.”
Naheem, who was starting to feel the cabin fever, suggested, “I can go. Then
I’ll be there for him to measure, too. I’m taller after all.” He pointed to his
slightly too short pants.
“No. I don’t want you out there till you can really hold your own.” Malik made
mental note of the too short pants, planning to sort through the supplies for
better fitting clothing for the novice.
“But I’ve already been out there with Altaïr,” Naheem countered in pleading
voice.
The slam of the book on the counter as Malik moved it to get to the little
chest of coin attested to his annoyance. “I said no. You will stay here,
novice. Don’t go behaving like Altaïr in one of his insolent moments.”
Naheem clenched his fists. If he were Altaïr, he would have turned away and sat
on the carpets. But he wasn’t Altaïr, so he again countered with his best
logic. “I have been in here for a month. I need to see the outside and breathe
different air. Also, I am tired of seeing you coming back bruised! I don’t even
understand why you don’t defend yourself…” Naheem trailed off as he realized he
had raised his voice to his mentor and muttered a small apology.
Malik sighed heavily knowing he was about to give in to this justified
outburst. “Novices should listen to their mentors. Your apology is accepted.
But sometimes, I suppose Mentors ought to listen to their novice’s concerns. I
have gotten so used to being in here that I forgot how cloistering it must
feel. Assassins were meant to be out there in flight like great eagles. I will
let you go, but let me first explain why I do not fight back.” Malik stepped
around the counter and sat on a cushion under the lattice. He tossed a little
handful of seed over to the excited pigeons.
Naheem limped over and sat as well, overjoyed to be permitted some freedom and
curious about Malik’s reasons for taking beatings from guards and thugs and
bullies.
“As a Dai, we all have a persona that discourages anyone from ever thinking we
are anything but helpless craftsmen. I play the role of a cripple, a helpless
map maker and scribe. If I fought back, I know instinct would rule my moves and
they would know me for what I really am. I take the beatings in order to ensure
I am never followed or suspected, to ensure that this Bureau remains a secret
and a place of safety and peace for our Brothers.” It was the truth and a heavy
responsibility. “We have all learned how to take a hit so it does the least
damage. I’ll start that training with you tonight. The bruises I get are rarely
as bad as they look. The ones that hurt more are the price I willingly pay for
your safety. I accept that. Don’t ever belittle my sacrifices.”
Understanding filled Naheem’s eyes as his respect for Malik grew. “Do I have to
pretend to be helpless too?”
“Go out the front door and knock eight times when you come back. Be careful out
there, Novice Naheem.” Malik felt like he was sending his little brother out on
the first mission all over again. He wanted to follow the teen to make sure he
was fine, but knew he should not. Naheem was grown up. He could make mature and
careful decisions for himself. It wasn’t the teen he did not trust, but the
people outside. He reminded himself again that ever bird wanted to take flight
at some point. They all sought freedom. By giving them that freedom, you stood
a better chance of them returning of their own free will. It was like that for
Altaïr. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it is
yours. If it doesn’t, then it never was. Wise words from Malik’s older brother.
“Go on! Before I change my mind and make you scrub the floor of the bird crap.”
Naheem grinned with the most adorable dimpling in his still plump cheeks and
gathered what he needed. Malik gave him the directions and some coin showing
him how to hide it so it did not jingle. If Naheem could have skipped with joy
he would have.
Malik changed the flagging outside to be open for business. He watched Naheem’s
receding back for a while before returning to the cool dim Bureau. Within he
busied himself on anything and everything he could to not think about Naheem or
Altaïr. The worry nagged his gut all day.
Naheem got lost twice on his way. His mental image of the mapping was from a
roof top view which did not help him on the ground. A couple thugs cornered
him. He tried to talk his way out of their advances. He reached for a knife he
did not have as they closed in. “Don’t come any closer. I’m warning you!” They
laughed at his bravado, but only till Naheem clobbered one unconscious with the
wider end of his crutch. “Leave me alone!” The other was so startled he
actually did back off and run. I don’t have to be a victim. He tisked that he
had actually broken the crutch and hoped the craftsman would still accept it.
He hobbled the rest of the way to the stall.
The craftsman also tisked at Naheem for the broken crutch. It was worth less on
the return. Luckily Malik had given Naheem enough money to buy the cane without
the return, just in case. Naheem stood while he was measured and had the
pleasure after to watch the man pedal a lathe and craft him a cane on the spot.
He offered to even engrave it with something if Naheem wished. “No thank you.
But that is a great idea! I might do that myself later. Thank you for the quick
work.” The craftsman showed Naheem how to use the cane properly for his wounded
leg and wished him a speedy recovery.
The return trip was uneventful. That suited Naheem just fine. He enjoyed every
second of his trip outside in the sun. He even detoured to the larger market in
the rich district to try to find something sweet to eat. He bought some fruit
and paused as he caught a glimpse of the young girl he had met in the Bureau.
He ate one of the peaches while he watched her. She served customers and
advised them on how to use the remedies she made for them. Her brown eyes
reminded him of the expensive coffee Malik liked to drink. In a quiet moment
with no customers, she scanned the market. Her liquid brown eyes landed on
Naheem. He blushed and limped into an alley, making his way back to the Bureau.
The open for business flag still fluttered outside the Bureau. Naheem knocked
eight times anyways before letting himself in. Malik scratched intricate lines
on a map while bent over the counter. He barely looked up. “Safety and peace,
Master Malik. I bought some peaches. I hope you don’t mind.” Malik straightened
as Naheem set the basket on the counter beside the map, limping with the new
cane.
Malik studied the movements and nodded approval to Naheem. “Safety and peace.
Your errand was successful if overly long.” It was a small reprimand for the
unwarranted detour. He plucked a peach from the basket though and savored each
bite.
Naheem smiled knowing he was reprimanded, but also knowing he made the right
choice. “I watched him make the cane right there. It was amazing. And I saw
that girl at the market when I got the peaches.” His cheeks betrayed his
interest.
“Did she see you?”
“Uh… Yes?” Naheem started to blush again and studied his toes intensely.
Malik shook his head, “Foolish novice. The creed clearly states to remain
invisible, blend into the crowd. Never let your target see you.”
“I didn’t go specifically to see her! I swear! I didn’t even know she would be
there! I went for peaches and… uh... saw her…” Naheem’s defenses started to
crumble.
“…And dallied to watch her when you saw her and then was spotted by her,” Malik
finished for Naheem. “Tibah is her name and she is more perceptive than anyone
I have ever met.” Malik observed the squirming novice and chuckled. “Did you
linger once she saw you?”
“No, I hurried into the shadows as best I could with the … with my…” Naheem
thumped the cane and lost all the joy from the encounter, his embarrassment
more over his injured state.
Malik motioned Naheem into the back and lead him to sit on his bed mat. “She is
very pretty and very smart. You are very handsome, painfully so and enough that
anyone would want to be close to you. Do not let your injury hinder your
perspectives or prospects. I told you that you would heal just fine.”
Malik prepared some dinner for them and then joined Naheem with the meal. “Do
you understand that sometimes duties require some actions that we don’t always
wish?” Naheem nodded as he ate wondering what Malik was leading into. “Did your
father marry your mother by choice and love or by duty and an arranged
marriage?”
“He married out of duty, but my mother cared for him as far as I know.” Naheem
thought a moment while chewing then asked, “Are you being obliged to marry
someone?” After a few moments of silence, he asked, “Am I?”
“I will never force you. But we have a situation where someone knows too much.
It is a risk. It could cost this person their life and the lives of their
family. I refuse to accept that option. It is my mistake to not have stopped it
before it got to this point, so if necessary, I will marry the girl. But she is
of your age and well, if you like her, then this would work out better. Nothing
is set in stone. I have offered you as my nephew. If you do not like her, or if
her father does not like you, then I will ask for her hand myself.” It was not
what Malik wanted, clearly, he had no interest in the girl in that way, or any
girl. If he was inclined to be sexual, he would make moves on Naheem who was
truly too adorable for words. “I would like to bring you to meet Tibah’s
father, perhaps next week.”
“It’s Tibah?” Naheem blushed again. “B-but I don’t really know her.”
“Do you want to get to know her?” Malik asked. He already knew the answer just
by Naheem’s fumbling of words and dinner spoon. “Your first challenges will be
to watch her and know her routine without her spotting you.”
“What if her father doesn’t like me? What if all he sees is the cane? What
could I possibly offer her as dowry?”  The questions ran into one another in a
near jumble.
“I am sure he will love you as much as I do. I will remind him you are healing
and that the cane is very temporary. He knows you were hurt, attacked on the
road on your way here. I left the details vague. As for a dowry… I am your
uncle and thus now am responsible for providing for your dowry.”
Naheem wondered, “But if I am training to be an assassin, what should I tell
her? Or tell her father? I might be away often for missions. My mother thought
my father was a caravan guard for years. I… I don’t want to lie.”
Malik laughed out loud. It earned him a reproachful scowl from the teen. “Tibah
… There is no way you will be able to lie to her. She is too smart and would
figure it out anyways. Besides, part of the dowry is training her to be a
healer. She figured out from the items I have purchased that I practice
doctoring in secret. It is her ingenious curved needles and gut threads that
have healed you. Anyways, in time… let’s get you limping less.”
Naheem was ever eager for days now. He wished he had hair to shave in some
manly way and lamented often to Malik’s amusement.
***** Altair: Sick *****
Chapter Summary
     See how much I love Altair? I shared my sick with him.
Chapter Notes
     Inspirational art by The-Evil-Legacy on Deviant Art
     https://the-evil-legacy.deviantart.com/art/AC-Wait-2-146658962
The sleep was poor with the terrible bruises, again reminding Altaïr of his
desire to be in Malik’s care. The dampness in his clothes he had thought the
sun baked dry was a lie. His under clothes proved still wet as he tried to
sleep. The bells clanged on for him all through the next day. Altaïr slunk into
the Bureau, dropped with a soft thud onto his right knee and standing again.
“Altaïr! You have caused quite a disturbance!” The Dai of this Bureau stroked
his long grey beard.
“I've done as requested. Sibrand's life is ended.” He hovered in the doorway
for several moments before entering and handing over his bloodied feather.
The Dai accepted it and slid it into place in the large log book. “So it is, so
it is. You should ride for Maysaf and inform Al Mualim of your success.”
“Yes, I should return and speak to him... of this and other things...” Altaïr’s
words were more for himself.
“Is everything alright my friend? You seem... distant.” Concern laced the
elderly man’s words.
Altaïr shook his head, “It's nothing, just a lot on my mind.” He tugged his
hood down to hide his expression.
The body language did not escape the old man, “Talk to me then, let me help.”
Altaïr hardly ever let even Malik help, “I need to make sense of this myself
first. But thank you for the offer.”
“It is the men you kill, isn't it? You feel... something for them.”
“How?” Altaïr turned back to the Dai in surprise, wondering really how the man
knew.
“Ah, my friend, you're not meant to enjoy these grim tasks. Regret,
uncertainty, sympathy -- this is to be expected.” His words were gentle in
their explanation.
Altaïr lifted his eyes to the man in confusion, “I should not fear these
feelings?”
The Dai’s hands spread and gestured as he spoke, “You should embrace them. They
are what keep you human.”
Human.It sometimes seemed a foreign word to Altaïr. His tongue worked before he
could silence it, “What if I'm wrong? What if these men are not meant to die?
What if they mean well? Misguided perhaps, but pure in motive.” These were the
troubles that had been on his mind for some time now.
The Dai had no answers but to advise that Altaïr take this up with Al Mualim.
Knowing that he was not alone in these feelings though reassured him more than
expected and he thanked the old man before taking his leave. Altaïr chose not
to linger longer than it took to restock for his journey. He had promises to
keep before speaking to the Master.
He rode his horse hard toward Jerusalem. His questions and concerns filling his
mind in the nights to plague is sleep along with terrors of drowning. He woke
coughing and gasping as if his face were stuffed full of murky water. The
sensation only worsened with each day he got closer to Jerusalem. He struggled
to think clearly. He sneezed at inopportune moments. He coughed through the
night till his chest hurt from the outer bruising and the strained muscles
internally from coughing. He entered the city with the monks as opposed to the
usual acrobatic entry he liked to make.
The sun was barely up when he arrived, dragging lethargic feet to the roof of
the Bureau. The sounds of clashing steel awakened Altaïr’s nerves. He drew his
sword and dropped through the lattice. Junayd tumbled across the carpets into
Altaïr’s feet, his practice sword clattered against the fountain. The boy spat
out a colourful curse as Naheem cheered. Malik cuffed Naheem for his disrespect
and would have cuffed Junayd for the cursing, but the boy was too far.
Altaïr sheathed his blade. With one hand, he hauled Junayd to his feet and
pointed to the sword. Malik gave him a cursory glance as he continued the
training. Altaïr slipped past them all avoiding the looks and not interfering
further. He curled onto Malik’s bed and sneezed for the umpteenth time. The
sounds of training continued for another hour before Malik’s instructions
drifted into the back along with Naheem, who collected a packed bag and left
hurriedly, cane in hand and too eager to waste time. Junayd babbled from the
opening in the lattice various little hints and advice to help Naheem as they
made their way out. Malik yelled from the open roofed room, “Be back in three
days! And not injured! Or you are cleaning the blood from the carpets!”
Malik always complains about yelling in his Bureau. Why does he do it? Altaïr
sneezed into his hand.
Malik stood over him moments later. “Why is it you have to lay in MY bed when
you come injured or ill? There is another easy to unroll right over there or
the carpets and pillows outside.” Malik peeled off his sweat-soaked clothes.
Altaïr pulled himself from the bed and left the room. “Fine,” he grumbled
hoarsely, “I know when I am not welcome.”
“That is not… Altaïr!” Malik followed Altaïr, who shut him out till a hand
grabbed his shoulder. “Altaïr… wait.”
“I should get back to the Master. I should not have come here.” Altaïr’s tired
grumpy words snapped out sharply.
Malik bristled, though he recognized the exhaustion in Altaïr’s posture. “Why
didn’t you rest at the Bureau in Acre?”
“Because I need answers. Sibrand’s words… they plague me. Dammit, they plague
me! And the Dai had no answers for me.” He shrugged free of Malik. “I doubt I
will get any here either. I’ve done my duty. I showed up. Naheem is away so I
won’t be training him. I should just go.” He sneezed again into his hand.
Malik wrinkled his nose and dug a hand into one of Altaïr’s pouched, handing
him the soft cloth. “You are ill. You aren’t going anywhere for a few days. Are
you hurt from your mission?” Every effort was employed to remain polite after
Altaïr’s growls and accusation that Malik could not help him. “How did you
manage to get sick? Did you drink the foul waters in Acre?”
That notion was preposterous. The truly foolish novices did such things. “Of
course not!” Altaïr snapped back. “I was thrown into the waters at the dock.”
“And what? Stayed damp? Didn’t you ask for dry clothing at the Bureau? They are
all equipped like this one, you know.”
Altaïr hated Malik’s condescending tone. Had he more energy, he would have
lashed out. Instead he tugged his cowl lower and sat among the pillows to
ignore Malik, who threw up his arm in frustration, muttering stupid novice as
he gathered a clean change of clothes for Altaïr. He kicked over the metal
basins for washing not feeling very helpful while Altaïr growled and grumbled
at his every move. Being ill was rare for Altaïr. He had no idea how to deal
with it. He preferred being attacked from the outside and not the inside.
Altaïr refused all food, though he did wash and change his clothes. When Malik
brought over the journal, Altaïr accepted it in silence and poured out the
chaos of his thoughts in the worst of his writing skills onto those pages. He
spent the afternoon rereading the mess of his thoughts through the pages,
trying to make sense of himself. The urge to throw the journal was strong, but
Malik was more the book thrower than Altaïr. He closed it when a sneezing fit
turned into coughing. Every time Malik came close he snapped irritably at him.
He just wanted everything to go away. Swallowing stung. Speaking stung more.
Thinking was impossible through the thick soup and cotton clogging his head.
Sleeping occurred in little snippets on and off in the early evening, but by
midnight he was too congested to lie down. He sat and coughed as if to cough
out a lung. Malik could not sleep through that. A hand snaked under Altaïr’s
shirt when he was coughing to feel the air flow. That same hand then felt
Altaïr’s brow. He tried to shove it away. When asked to lie down to sleep,
Altaïr refused. He could not breathe lying down. Malik brought over all the
pillows to prop Altaïr up so he could sleep sitting up.
A pile of small rags manifested beside him with a basin to dump them in. Better
out than in. Malik may have said those words several times. Altaïr could not
recall if Malik spoke them aloud recently. He could not be sure if Malik
referred to the stuff filling his nose and throat or the stuff filling his
thoughts. Altaïr figured that Malik meant both. It was Malik’s way to have
double meanings. At least Malik never spoke cryptically. Altaïr complained
about the cryptic messages from the dead and dying, as well as the cryptic
dodging of the Master. He dozed a little longer till something stung through
his senses, burning through his nose and lungs and causing his eyes to water.
***** Malik's VapoRub *****
Malik had a bad couple days with news of Nina and trying to sort that out. He
even encountered her face to face in the market, but only for a moment. He
dropped his scrolls and maps. In the blink of picking them up and trying to
keep an eye on her, she vanished. He cursed aloud a few times; although, the
string of curses were far more colourful and multilingual in his head. He
welcomed the sword sparring the next morning. It helped vent some of his
frustrations. However, Altaïr compounded his frustrated feelings and the day
passed poorly between them.
In the night, he checked Altaïr after waking from one of Altaïr’s worse
coughing fits. He slid his hand under Altaïr’s shirt as the assassin coughed.
The coughing was hard, but did not feel like it rattled. Good. It meant no
pneumonia. Pneumonia was a killer. He then pressed his hand to Altaïr’s brow
and frowned at the high fever. Altaïr shoved him away and shivered. Malik
provided cloths for Altaïr to blow his illness into and cushions to help him
sleep sitting up.
He searched his shelves for an infrequently used wooden jar with a wide top
before carrying over several extra blankets. He tugged away Altaïr’s current
blankets despite protests. Opening the jar caused Altaïr to flinch and squint
against the potent aroma. It was so rare for Altaïr to be this sick. Malik only
recalled one other time Altaïr was ill like this, and it involved Acre as well,
though was the result of Altaïr being trapped in a rain storm that blew in from
the sea. Altaïr must have been about eighteen years old. He was a miserable
patient then, too.
Altaïr dozed a little longer till something stung through his senses, burning
through his nose and lungs and causing his eyes to water.
“Off with your shirt,” Malik ordered tired of Altaïr’s grousing. The complaints
of being cold did not phase him. “You have a fever, you only think you are
cold. Off with the hood and shirt. I promise this will help.”
Altaïr coughed some more as he wriggled tiredly out of his clothing and
shivered against the chill night air. He glared at Malik who ignored the foul
stare.
Malik put the wooden jar in Altaïr’s hand since he only had one to use and not
another to hold it. The whitish paste within stung Altaïr’s eyes and nose again
and again. He winced against it as Malik rubbed a generous amount onto Altaïr’s
chest. He gently encouraged Altaïr to lift his chin a little as he rubbed some
of the paste onto Altaïr’s throat. He sat back and waited as the next coughing
fit wracked Altaïr’s body. “Give me your back.” Altaïr turned, resting his head
on one of the pillows against the wall. Malik scooped another generous amount
of paste from the jar and rubbed it all over Altaïr’s back.
Already Malik could hear Altaïr breathing a little deeper and coughing less
hard. He bundled Altaïr in the many blankets, even over his head, to sweat out
the cold. “Keep your eyes closed.” Malik dabbed a small amount of the paste on
Altaïr’s brow and down between his eyes and across the bridge of his nose.
Altaïr opened his eyes to see what was going on and instantly regretted the act
as fumes from the paste stung so badly his eyes streamed water. “Stupid novice.
I told you to keep your eyes closed.”
Malik returned to his own bed for whatever might be left of the night. If
Altaïr coughed again, it was not loud enough to wake Malik, nor constant enough
to worry him. In the morning he bought lemons and pears from the market then
sat on the carpets next to Altaïr to read through Altaïr’s journal while the
assassin slept.
A less grumpy Altaïr accepted hot lemon juice with honey around lunch. He moved
to Malik’s back room onto the spare mattress where he slept away most of the
afternoon. Malik worried about Altaïr not eating so he sliced up the pears and
set the plate between the wall and Altaïr’s face. He retreated to read and
watched from a discreet distance as Altaïr picked at the pear pieces. Malik
smiled to himself, pleased that he knew that Altaïr’s favourite fruit was pear.
Altaïr later even had stew for dinner and slept more. Malik knew the sleeping
was part of Altaïr’s healing process and that the great eagle would be well by
morning tomorrow or the next day.
In a voice Malik could not recognize for how hoarse it was, Altaïr asked if
Malik could rub more of the foul paste on him. “What is in it?” Altaïr muttered
roughly.
Malik could not help but feel impressed that Altaïr actually asked for aid. He
was even more impressed as Altaïr sat with enough room for Malik to move around
him. Malik stood still with the jar just registering the scene before him,
memorizing it in case it never happened again. Altaïr sat cross-legged with
only sleeping pants on. His upper body and even his head remained bare. The
scars stood out on his body, but the bruises had nearly faded to faint
discolouring. Altaïr rested his hands on his knees waiting patiently. He had
even closed his eyes offering trust to Malik. So much had changed in Altaïr,
asking for help and offering trust. More and more, Malik knew this was no
longer the Altaïr he once knew and hated. It was more the Altaïr he had trusted
and loved. Although Malik doubted either of them was ready for that last
feeling to resurface.
Several unbidden thoughts stole their way into Malik’s mind as he rubbed the
vaporous paste into Altaïr’s muscular back. Naheem’s wet dreams that woke Malik
invaded his thoughts. He had ignored them as best he could and felt wrong and
dirty for sometimes watching the beautiful teen. Yet Naheem was really too soft
for Malik’s tastes. He preferred firm muscle and sharp angles. Naheem, though
cute, was well, cute, like children to him. Altaïr however, was exactly what he
liked in a man’s body. It was mildly distracting to rub the paste onto Altaïr,
over the uninjured body.
He stopped a moment letting the fumes remind him of his task. Altaïr held the
jar for him and obediently kept his eyes closed this time. Malik moved around
and rubbed the paste into Altaïr’s chest and throat. With the remains making
his fingers gooey, he very gently traced over Altaïr’s brow and nose. Altaïr
breathed in deeply and slowly. “I promised it would help.”
“You have always kept your promises,” whispered Altaïr.
Malik wiped his hands on a rag as Altaïr closed the jar for him. “Do you want
to talk about what happened? About these things in your thoughts? I’ve read
your journal.” He placed his hand over one of Altaïr’s. Those golden orbs
opened to regard him. “You are not crazy. Confused, yes, and justified to be
so. But not crazy.” He wanted Altaïr to really understand that. The relief of
those words read clearly in Altaïr’s eyes. “Your questions are my own. You are
right. I don’t have the answers, but we can discuss the situation if you want.”
Altaïr simply nodded.
Malik left to make some more hot lemon and honey to drink and to light some
incense against the strong medicinal menthol odor that filled the Bureau. They
spoke long and late into the night puzzling together the problems and cryptic
messages. Both concluded that there was indeed another traitor among the ranks,
and fairly high up. Although, that traitor could not be so close to Al Mualim
after the last incident. However, it could be one of the ranked scholars or
maybe a team including a trainer. It had to be one or two people who knew all
the information but also could deploy novices or lesser ranked assassins.
Altaïr coughed less that night to Malik’s relief. Malik covertly watched Altaïr
sleep that night. His physical loneliness and desire to reach out and touch
nagged at him and kept him awake. He dared not invade Altaïr’s space though.
They were not on those kinds of intimate terms. The trust was so limited and
fragile. After what had happened to Altaïr with Al Mualim over the years, Malik
doubted Altaïr was ready to be intimate in a healthy way, especially since he
read in the journal that there was another incident the last time Altaïr met
with Master Al Mualim.
He didn’t want Altaïr going back to see Al Mualim. Malik clenched his teeth
wanting to write a strong letter to the master of the assassins order and tell
him bluntly how he felt about how morally wrong the man has been and how it is
men like that that they assassinate. Yet, somewhere in Malik’s mind he could
justify Al Mualim’s means, they were older methods of training and Al Mualim
was older. In some dream world, I am running the Order and I have a very
different but just as effective training scheme. It is working well for Junayd
and Naheem so far.
In his dreams, his brother is alive, he has both his arms, and he actually co-
runs the order with Altaïr… and Altaïr is his lover. These were hard secrets he
never shared. It caused him to toss and turn through the night depressively
till somehow he was soothed. A wide hand missing the third finger rubbed up and
down his back till deeper sleep found Malik.
***** Altair & The Creed *****
Chapter Summary
     Devaitions are done, now to pull things back on track. Alt x Mal… and
     the main plot… hard secrets between them. The things they never say
     between each other as they struggle with the overarching storyline of
     AC1. What have they learned so far? Altaïr has come to trust Malik
     more, understand he can share his confusions with him, know that
     despite the rift between them Altaïr will still be aided. Malik has
     realized that Altaïr is not really responsible for his brother’s
     death nor the loss of his arm. Those were things in the secret plots
     with a traitor. Malik is rediscovering his desire to be with Altaïr,
     to help heal him of the traumas and faintly hopes they might one day
     have a healthy relationship. Altaïr is not yet ready to face that
     part of himself, not in any healthy way… yet. Rock bottom is close,
     Altaïr seems to surface before he drowns every time so far. Malik
     wonders when the true drowning will happen, when Altaïr will hit the
     bottom of the pit and prays Altaïr doesn’t start to dig when he hits
     that bottom.
A wide hand missing the ring finger rubbed up and down his back till deeper
sleep found Malik. The sun had a long way before it would rise above the
horizon. Altaïr thought about all they had discussed earlier. He could not
sleep. He had slept so much over the past few days while he was ill. Now he was
very awake with his mind very busy. Talking about it all helped him sort it out
and find the questions he needed to ask. He had really thought he was losing
his mind. Everything he had been taught versus the messages he received in the
fog contradicted each other.
Quietly, Altaïr crept to the little kitchen area and sought food. He rolled one
of the fresh pears in his hands as he silently padded out to the main room. A
bowl of more fruit sat out there for any of the assassins or informants who
might come by. He helped himself to plums in addition to his pear. His eyes
adjusted to the dimness easily as he ate.
A map of Jerusalem stretched itself across the counter. Several used and in
need of care blades stood in a large brass pot and leaned lazily against the
wall. Altaïr poked through everything as he usually did. He considered writing
in his journal some more, but felt too restless at the moment. In the back of
his mind he barely recalled his arrival. Naheem and Junayd were sparring with
open steel. Did Malik hold a blade then? Was Malik still good enough? His face
wrinkled in mild annoyance when he remembered that Malik had outdone him in
push-ups, one-handed.
Altaïr strode over to the chess board neatly laid out and missing the bishop
piece. Altaïr refused to give up his little Malik talisman of the black bishop
piece. He also derived secret pleasure knowing that a missing piece must bother
Malik to no end, for Malik never loses things. Malik had never mentioned the
missing piece, though. Maybe Malik knew he had it? Altaïr could only wonder.
Altaïr wondered a great many things as he walked about the room. Malik’s
caustic words over the year never left him. He was always a failure in the
man’s eyes, always a novice, always doing the wrong thing. The fact that Malik
agreed with him on something or admitted that Altaïr did something right was
rare. He craved those rare moments. He wanted more of them. Do assassins have
to be so alone? Do they always have to fly solo like an eagle that has lost its
lifemate?Altaïr was the great eagle. And, he had lost the only friend he ever
had. He wondered if in the struggle to redeem himself in the eyes of his Master
and the Brotherhood, that he might redeem himself in Malik’s eyes.
He sniffed at the incense pot and poked his finger in the coals and ash. It was
cold. Missing that comforting aroma, he set in a new coal and lit it then added
a small scoop of the incense. He winced at the abundance of smoke and hoped it
dissipated soon. He was not as skilled as Malik and clearly, Malik knew the
right amount to add to avoid this mishap.
He stroked his hands over some of the softer pillows before settling down on
the carpets to meditate and think more. Truth… truth was so elusive. Nothing is
true. Everything is permitted. The lesson from Al Mualim rolled in his mind. He
had taken it so literally before, but now he questioned that perspective. What
if the lesson was as cryptic as all the other messages? Then perhaps this
message had a different meaning, a deeper meaning.
A scrap of paper peaked from under a pillow. Altaïr pulled it free and read it
slowly. It was the Creed written in very fine script, not Malik’s, in several
languages.
Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent. But who was innocent, really?
Altaïr thought back to Malik’s accusation in Solomon’s Temple a year ago.
Altaïr had killed a man outside the entrance. Was that man innocent? Was he not
a lookout, guarding the entry and waiting to give warning? Did that not make
him culpable, an accomplice to Robert de Sable? What about the list of nine men
Altaïr was targeting now? Some, especially Sibrand, seemed innocent. It left
Altaïr wondering where and when he actually had broken that tenet of the Creed.
Hide in plain sight. Walk invisibly among the people. Yet as he thought,
history lessons surfaced. Assassins once targeted the impossible dangers, did
the impossible missions. They did them suicidally. The assassin used to take
out the target in public, making a huge scene, thus giving a clear message.
They inevitably were cut down later. Altaïr still followed some of that tactic,
giving a clear message with the death of a significant figure in a very public
manner, however he managed to survive. Altaïr frowned thinking more on that and
realized, that without Malik he would never have survived. Sometimes, there was
no choice about being hidden or not. Altaïr was a master at both, but would
easily abandon the hidden position for the opportunity to make a good kill.
Never compromise the Brotherhood. As far as Altaïr was concerned, he had never,
not ever broken this tenet. The Sibrand mission rose again in his mind. Not the
actual kill, nor the experience on the docks, but what surfaced was the
incident with the poor old monk who died innocently in Altaïr’s stead. His
public kills identified him as an assassin. People knew to look for those
dressed like Altaïr. In that sense, Altaïr conceded that he had indeed broken
this tenet and more than just the Brotherhood suffered for his mistake.
Altaïr shoved the paper back under the pillow and paced over to the secret door
to the back room. He really should not be here. He really should be in Masyaf.
He really didn’t belong in the back area that was reserved for Malik alone or
the injured that Malik needed to care for. He lifted the edge and watched Malik
sleep from his hidden position. When I am done the Master’s missions, when I
have redeemed myself, I will apologise for all the wrongs I have done you. I
will beg for your forgiveness. Will you be willing then to give me your
friendship?
***** Malik's Free Eagle *****
The hours snaked by without Malik noticing until the room seemed warmer and
somehow emptier. He sat up and scrubbed his scalp with his fingers, yawning. He
looked over to Altaïr’s bed, but Altaïr was nowhere. He sighed heavily. He is
gone… again.It was to be expected.
Malik dressed and readied for the day. He could hear the novices returning as
he prepared breakfast. “It’s easy! You just jump and land.” Junayd instructed.
The boy dropped into the Bureau with an unceremonious tumble that caused Malik
to chuckle hearing it.
“That was rather graceless, novice,” Naheem called down to Junayd.
The boy made a face at Naheem. “Let’s see you do better!”
“I’m injured. I don’t have to do better,” the teen retorted.
Malik nearly dropped the eggs on the floor when he heard Altaïr’s low deep
voice, “You can and will do better, novice Naheem. Roll like I taught you back
in the ruined church.” A soft thud and grunt soon followed and Malik knew
Naheem obeyed the master assassin.
So he did stay. Malik decided to dally in the back room eavesdropping on Altaïr
who now had the dubious honour of morning training with the two novices. Malik
added another couple eggs to breakfast. He doubted Altaïr would stay after
breakfast. Considering their talk last night, Altaïr really had to get back to
Al Mualim. Answers were needed. A traitor had to be revealed.
He stole a moment to spy through the curtain at the training. All three sat on
the carpets for morning prayer at Junayd’s insistence. Malik returned to the
eggs smirking because he knew how irreverent Altaïr could be. He imagined all
the rude thoughts that Altaïr likely had running through his head but was not
voicing out of respect for the novices. Interesting, Altaïr respected the
novices. Malik approved of this new turn of personality.
Reluctantly, Malik stepped out with breakfast. He gave breakfast to the
novices, excluding Altaïr. What he gave Altaïr was a challenge. “You, novice, I
challenge you to short blades with a master.” Golden eyes narrowed at Malik. In
silence, Altaïr stood to accept the challenge. He tugged his hood to hide his
features and retrieved a short blade for them both from the collection in the
brass pot. Malik found the silence disturbing sometimes, but that was Altaïr’s
way. Say nothing, show nothing, act only. “Watch and learn, boys.” Malik also
kept a straight face, eyes cold charcoal.
Junayd and Naheem climbed a ladder to sit on the ledge that ran the
circumference of the main room. It kept them both safely out of the way and
gave them the very best view of the morning fight. Neither really knew if this
would be just a sparring or if this would be a real fight.
For that matter, Malik didn’t either. Altaïr was emotionally unstable as far as
Malik was concerned. The wrong move could cause him to snap. However, Malik
felt very sure of his skills. He knew he was Altaïr’s better with a sword and
short blade.
Naheem cheered for Altaïr and Junayd cheered for Malik. The blades clashed,
Malik almost received an elbow to the face, but he moved with the motion and it
glanced off his jaw. Altaïr carried more strength, but Malik knew the room
better. Altaïr’s blade clattered off a wall in a wide sweep that Malik ducked
under. A small shove and Altaïr bumped into a table. Their blades rang out
against each other. The sheering sound of steel sliding along steel in attempts
to disarm hurt the ears and made the watchers cringe.
The hilts locked in close range. Gold battled charcoal for the stronger will.
The silent surprise that Malik was still very good read clearly in Altaïr’s
eyes. The corner of Malik’s mouth turned up in the thrill of the fight, his
blood thrumming joyfully in his ears knowing he was going to win this, knowing
he was still a master. At least until a punch hit his shoulder and his blade
flew from his hand with a twist of Altaïr’s blade. Malik cursed, turned, and
snatched a sword from the brass pot.
Altaïr may have been unrelenting, but he fought better in the open. Malik,
however, had been training all year in this Bureau in case Templars attacked
it. For almost 15 minutes, Junayd and Naheem watched the blur of movements
unsure who was winning. In perhaps less than ten more strokes, Altaïr’s blade
flew over the counter. Malik pounced, sword singing through the air to cut hood
and cheek. Altaïr lay pinned to the ground panting, his hidden blade having
snapped out ineffectually. As fierce as the shine was in both their eyes, they
both grinned at each other.
Malik felt very alive this one moment kneeling on one knee over a defeated
Altaïr. That Altaïr grinned back hinted to Malik that Altaïr was not yet lost,
not the Altaïr he once knew as teens. He tossed the sword into the brass pot as
Altaïr sat up readjusting his armor and weapons. “You two novices can come down
now. Find some paper and write a full report of what you saw and learned from
this. I expect to see it finished within the next couple hours.” The novices
scrambled to do Malik’s bidding. “I have to see Altaïr off.”
Naheem stopped still midway through collecting his cane, “Master Altaïr is
leaving already? He practically just got here.”
Malik gave him a stern look. “After a completed mission, every assassin must
report back to the one who set him on the hunt. Altaïr must return to Masyaf.”
The novices sighed in disappointment.
Malik guided Altaïr into the back and stocked up the supply pouches. “You can
help yourself to throwing knives from the trunk. Oh, and here’s a fresh cowl.”
Altaïr’s remained silent as Malik dabbed some ointment onto the cut he gave
Altaïr. “Altaïr… did you let me win?”
“No. I did just recover from being ill though.” It was not exactly an excuse.
“Next time, don’t hold back. I…” Malik wanted to really know if he could hold
his own. He did well today, but it was the first real fight against someone he
had had in a little over a year. “I hope you find answers in Masyaf.”
Altaïr lingered no longer. His robes fluttered like feathered wings on his run
out of the Bureau. The novices watched in awe as he took flight. Malik watched
from behind the counter. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back…
***** Altair: So Close to Free *****
Chapter Summary
     Inspired by songs… concluded in riddles. Everything is true, nothing
     is permitted. Freedom is a lie. The world is an illusion.
Chapter Notes
     Art that inspired the start of the chapter by Monpineq:
     https://mospineq.deviantart.com/art/Through-the-Kingdom-140335306
Altaïr hated the grey speckled horses for just this reason. The hooves pounded
the sand, kicking up bits as arrows zinged by narrowly missing Altaïr. Always
the speckled ones. The solid black ones ran away from him. The brown ones were
dumb and never followed nor stayed nor did as they were told. He liked the dark
ones with the white feet and white streak on their noses. Of them all, none
attracted archers quite like these grey speckled ones. Oh how he hated them and
swore the second he could change horses he would.
The horse stumbled when an arrow caught the lower foreleg. Altaïr leapt from
the saddle and rolled in the dust over a rocky ledge. He hung there, clung
there, while the soldiers ran over to see if he survived. They looked over the
edge cautiously, but could not see him. They decided he fell to his death and
walked away. Altaïr hung there adjusting his grip now and then for what felt
like an hour. It was probably only fifteen minutes, but his fingers ached and
burned just the same. In the quiet, he pulled himself up and crept from bush to
tree to building to hay stack.
The little fort town was crawling with soldiers. He cursed and snuck into a
building’s roof storage room. He would have to wait out the day and try to
sneak past them at night. He hoped there would be fewer in the night. Taking on
thirty to a hundred men in narrow streets or on rooftops where they can only
come at him a few at a time was one matter. Taking on that many all at once in
the open like this was suicide, even for Altaïr. He might dance the edge but
self-preservation always kicked in, usually. He was not stupid. He was too
close to redemption to give up now.
Other than that little delay, Altaïr made good time to Masyaf. His stomach
clenched as he crossed the main gates into the city. Sweat dampened his back
and slid down his spine as he climbed the stairs to meet the Master. He shied
at the top of the stairs, dropping his eyes so his hood shadowed his
expression.
The Master embraced him, “Welcome home, child. What news?”
The casual affection Altaïr received so openly from the Master baffled him. It
had been ever so long since the Master behaved fatherly with fatherly comfort
and fatherly praise, the kind Altaïr craved. “Another set of names have been
put to rest.”
“Then it would appear your work is nearly complete, and your status restored.”
The Master strode with joyous steps around his desk to the windows.
All the questions Altaïr wanted to ask flew like startled pigeons from his
mind. My status is restored. I am nearly fully redeemed. He almost pushed his
hood back to look the Master in the eye, but chose not to. He was not entirely
there yet.
The Master did not miss the gesture. His one eyes seemed to see all as he
rested a hand over the golden ball on the desk. “You have questions.” It was a
statement of fact as though he were omniscient.
Again Altaïr dropped his eyes. “Yes,” he struggled to try to remember something
of the conversation he had had Malik. In the end his thoughts settled on only
the last items of concern, “Why these men? Jubair and Sibrand?”
Al Mualim frowned and spoke with disappointment as if to a dull witted child,
“Don’t you see? They pave the way for change; ensure threats both old and new
are not given cause to intervene. Were these men to continue their work, our
work would quickly be undone.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” although Altaïr didn’t feel so certain. “We’ve
caused them much grief.”
“We fight a hydra, cutting at only its arms. It will be quick to replace them.”
Golden eyes sharpened, “Then we should cut off its head!”
“Soon, soon.” The Master spoke almost as if he knew the head of the hydra
personally. It frustrated Altaïr. He was eager to take on his final target.
“Come into my study, I have questions for you.”
Altaïr tensed, feet rooted in place as his pulse raced. He watched the Master
lift the shining ball and enter the private study. The feeling to run or fight
warred with his desire to end his enemy and redeem himself truly. In the end,
his desire won and he took slow cautious steps into the study, already removing
his armour and weapons, knowing what lay ahead.
Al Mualim patiently regarded the well-trained assassin, his well-trained
assassin. He had almost lost control of Altaïr after the fiasco at Solomon’s
Temple. Altaïr had already started rebelling and tugging his chains. Malik,
too, had begun to seek answers that were forbidden, exploring secrets that were
Al Mualim’s alone. Solomon’s Temple and Robert de Sable served a fine purpose.
He had expected Altaïr to retrieve the Piece of Eden and Kadar and Malik to be
dead, not for Malik to return with the treasure and Altaïr to have failed.
Though, the situation served him better as a tool to control them both. Now,
Malik was too far to be a problem, kept ignorant of whatever might be going on
in Masyaf. Now, Altaïr was well-broken, severed from Malik’s support and
friendship, serving Al Mualim without any bucking.
Altaïr behaved like a tranquilized hooded eagle with AL Mualim, and yet in his
quiet state of submission and desperation for redemption, his mind suddenly
needed to know things. He asked difficult questions. The Master evaded or
manipulated or answered well enough to quench the sudden thirst for knowledge.
After stripping Altaïr of all rank and reputation, the Master once again did
not even have to ask Altaïr to assume the position. He just waited. The last
time he bent Altaïr over the desk was the final breaking of his spirit. He knew
it well, as he anchored that brief moment of bliss when he took Altaïr over the
edge, addicting him to that moment and that feeling.
Altaïr set aside his armour and weapons, then his cowl and robes and boots. His
eyes never rose higher than his Master’s waist. There was a brief moment, a
flicker, in Altaïr’s eyes when he wondered what he had to do and if he had to
do it. The Master set the treasure upon the far side of the desk and tapped his
cane on the edge. Altaïr’s stomach flipped over and muscles clenched against
the expected intrusion. He started to remove his shirt when his Master stopped
him, pushing him gently down over the desk clothed simply as he was.
Altaïr’s brow touched over Jerusalem on the desk map. His eyes scrunched shut
as he forced his breathing to remain steady and neutralized his expression.
When that blankness came, he opened his eyes to see the treasure before him.
“What is Truth?” asked the Master as his cane tapped with his steps.
Altaïr’s thoughts drifted back to the quiet moment in Jerusalem before he
replied, “We place faith in ourselves; we see the world the way it really is,
and hope that, one day, all mankind might see the same.” It was a merge of the
lessons he learned from his victims in the fog.
“What is the world, then?” The Master asked next.
Even as Altaïr answered, he wondered why he submitted. “An illusion. One which
we can either submit to; as most do, or transcend.”
“What is it to transcend?” the Masters hand brushed gently down Altaïr’s back.
Altaïr breathed in the sensation, the desire for that comfort from those he
wanted some kind of normalcy. He stared at the metal ball that meant nothing to
him. “To recognize nothing is true, and everything is permitted. That laws
arise, not from divinity, but reason. I understand now that our creed does not
command us to be free; it commands us to be wise.”
“Do you see now why the Templars are a threat?” The master walked again around
Altaïr and the desk to rest his hand over his treasure.
Altaïr blinked as realization came. “Where as we would dispel the illusion;
they would use it to rule.”
The Master sounded pleases as he motioned with a slight gesture for Altaïr to
rise. “Yes. To reshape the world in an image more pleasing to them. That is why
I sent you to steal their treasure. That is why I keep it locked away. And that
is why you kill them. So long as even one survives, so too does their desire to
create a new world order.” The Master commanded Altaïr with pride, “Take your
equipment.”
Altaïr did as he was told, dressing and strapping on his armour and weapons,
surprised at the turn of events. He had pleased his master well apparently.
“Safety and peace upon you, Altaïr.  We will speak more in the morning.”
It was a dismissal and a reminder that Altaïr still wore a leash. Altaïr was
not sure if he minded the leash. Today’s encounter was exceptionally good. In
the eyes of his mentor and father figure, he had done well. Even as he lay in
his room on his bed, he felt excited. Tomorrow he would get his final mission
for redemption. In the back of his mind nagged a small voice, sounding much
like Malik, which warned him of the wrongness of his feelings. He wanted to be
angry at Malik for it. Why?! Why is this wrong? It isn’t wrong. I am doing the
right thing. But the thoughts remained. He needed to act, to ask, to do
something to justify it all, to make it make sense. When he was with Malik,
things made sense. Then he would leave and be here and different things made
sense. In the end, nothing made sense. He slept fitfully for his wandering
mind.
“Come in, my student,” the Master greeted him warmly in the morning and coaxed
him into the private study. “We have much to discuss. We are close, Altaïr...
Robert de Sable is now all that stands between us and victory. It’s his mouth
that gives the order, his hands that pay the gold. With him dies the knowledge
of the Templar treasure, and any threat it might pose.”
Altaïr gestured disinterestedly at the metal ball, “I still don't understand
how a simple piece of treasure can cause so much chaos.” It seemed so much as
if this ball were something magical or divine, or at least treated as such and
as fought over as some holy places of late. Why can’t people use reason and
abandon these ridiculous notions of God and devices of sorcery?
“The Piece of Eden is temptation given form. Merely look at what it had done to
Robert. Once he had tasted of its power, the thing consumed him. He didn't see
it so much a dangerous weapon to be destroyed, but a tool, one that will help
him realize his life's ambition.” Altaïr seemed to challenge the Master still,
reasoning out and struggling for understanding. Al Mualim used all his skill to
stay ahead of Altaïr.
Frowning deeply, Altaïr commented, “He dreamed of power, then.”
“Yes and no. He dreamed, and still dreams, like us, of peace.”
This was contradictory to all Altaïr understood. “But this is a man who sought
to see the Holy Land consumed by war!”
The Master threw his arms up and Altaïr thought how often Malik did that when
frustrated with something Altaïr said or did. “No, Altaïr. How can you not see
when you are the one that opened my eyes to this?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do he and his followers want? A world in which all men are united. I do
not despise his goal, I share it, but I take issue with the means. Peace is
something to be learned, to be understood, to be embraced,” explained Al
Mualim.
“He would force it!” Altaïr snapped.
The Master added calmly, “And rob us of our free will in the process. Never
harbor hate for your victims, Altaïr. Such thoughts are poison, and will cloud
your judgment.”
Although Altaïr hated Robert de Sable enough for both he and Malik and Kadar,
reason made him ask, “Could he not be convinced then, to end his mad quest?”
 
“I spoke to him, in my way, through you.” The Master saw the struggle in
Altaïr, the confusion born of hard secrets not yet shared. He had to make sure
he did not yet lose control of his well-trained hunting eagle. “What was each
killing if not a message? But he has chosen to ignore us.”
Altaïr resolved the inner conflict as he came into accord with his reasoning
and his desires. “Then there's only one thing left to do...”
“Jerusalem is where you've faced him first. It's where you'll find him again.
Let this final offering lend you strength. Go, Altaïr. It's time to finish
this.” Al Mualim rode Altaïr’s feral nature on this and handed him the finest
sword of the assassins, the one that was once Altaïr’s and now he had earned it
back for his final kill for redemption.
Altaïr’s excitement was tempered like fine steel in a forge with the knowledge
that hunting Robert would not be easy and certainly not swift. He may not yet
be in Jerusalem, but surely would be there when he finally killed him. He would
get to keep several promises. He’d be able to help train Naheem as he hunted.
He would spend time with both Naheem and Malik. He would avenge Kadar and
Malik.
He would return to Masyaf victorious and once again be recognized as a Master
Assassin. Although, he had learned much and did not really feel he wanted the
glory of the position, just not the distain he received without it. Would that
disdain be gone once he was restored to his full rank? What would Malik say?
Will I be redeemed in his eyes? Or will I forever fly alone?
Thoughts of Naheem in those curious intimate moments trailed him as he rode out
of Masyaf.
***** Malik: Arrangements *****
Naheem woke from a blood rushing dream around dawn. His sleeping clothes were
damp with sweat. An uncomfortable wetness in his crotch was accompanied by a
somewhat familiar stickiness that made him quietly curse as he checked the
pillows he was curled with. He spat another curse.
“Just wash them,” Malik spoke from over a map. Naheem wanted to die, be
swallowed by the stone floor or be drowned in the fountain would do nicely too.
Malik could not sleep through the rutting sounds he heard emanating from under
the lattice roof. He awoke and worked on a map denying his secret spying and
desires while he listened in on Naheem till the teen woke.
Naheem was relieved that Malik was not angry as Altaïr implied he might be.
Maybe Malik had a good night and so was in a good mood? Naheem went about shyly
washing his sleep clothes, the pillows and taking a bath while Malik prepared
breakfast.
“You are walking well with the cane,” Malik commented casually. “I think we
will walk out together today. We will go visit Tibah’s father.”
“Is this? This is an arranged marriage, isn’t it? What if she hates me? What if
she doesn’t want to marry me?” Having grown up as the product of such an
arrangement, Naheem was less certain of this decision despite his personal
interest in the cute girl. His parents were an arranged marriage and his mother
was never very happy with it.
“I understand your reticence. Naheem, I will not force this on you.” Malik took
in a deep breath. “I won’t force you. Tibah is my mistake, my problem and thus
my responsibility. I don’t think she nor her family should die neither because
she had figured out too much on her own, nor because I am a fool and did not
discourage her advances. If you really do not want this, I will marry her.”
That was the truth. Malik did not like it, but that was the bottom line. “I
just thought… I thought that since you seemed to like her a little that we
might try this. Although, if her father disapproves of you, then it is a moot
point as he already approves of me.” He stabbed at his breakfast.
“You have really no interest in her at all,” Naheem observed. He suspected that
Malik had interests in, as much as it didn’t make that much sense, boys, or
maybe just Altaïr. He supposed guys could, but didn’t the holy books forbid
that? Didn’t the laws of man forbid that? He had to admit, he was curious a bit
at how men might engage and what it might feel like, however his primary
interest was truly in cute girls like Tibah.
“No, I have no interest in her like that at all.”
“I understand.” Naheem had eaten through his meal and almost eyed Malik’s.
Recognizing the hungry eyes of a teen in his growth spurt from his experience
of a younger brother, Malik pushed his plate over to Naheem who happily availed
himself of the extra food. Malik chuckled a little watching.
They walked in silence, Naheem limping and leaning on the cane, though truly
moving much better. It no longer really hurt to walk. Climbing and fighting
ached though. Malik paused only slightly as they passed the place where he was
sure Nina lived.
When they paused again to sit and rest from the heat, Naheem asked several hard
questions that dug at several hard secrets. “Was that… her place we paused at?
I heard a baby inside.” Malik nodded. Naheem rubbed the slight ache in his leg
that started from the very long walk. “Why can’t we just approach her? We could
protect her and it wouldn’t be so bad if she stayed in Masyaf.”
Malik’s eyes slid sideways to the teen. “She hates all that we are out of anger
that she cannot be one of us. It is not a woman’s place. She was especially
angry with Altaïr. She had run and chosen not to return. And truth be told,
that baby is rather special, being Altaïr’s.” He wasn’t sure he ought to
explain to Naheem why. It would sound very crazy.
“So? I know Altaïr is special. It is a given that his son would be, too. I just
still don’t understand.”
Malik turned a little on the bench. “This is not a conversation for out here.”
They sat in silence a few moments more before Naheem broke it again, “What if
he doesn’t approve of me? Is there anything he might dislike? Something I
should or should not say or do? What if he doesn’t want Tibah marrying someone
like…” His hand gripped the cane as he avoided saying the word cripple.
Logically there was no reason for the man to disapprove of someone ruined by an
injury if he already approved of Malik as a suitor. He just felt nervous with
bugs bouncing in his stomach.
Malik stood and held out his hand to help the teen to his feet. As they started
walking, Malik addressed these sensitive issues. “He should like you just fine,
Naheem. You are his daughter’s age. You are handsome in a sinfully adorable way
that anyone would want to touch and be with,” He regretted those words as they
came out. “He will see that and know his daughter would like the look of you.
You are not a cripple. How many times must I tell you that? You are healing,
that is all. Healing simply takes time and you are very close to completely
healed. Say nothing of the Brotherhood. You are my nephew in from the loss of
your family in a raid on your way here. You were injured in that raid if he
asks. You are staying with me while you heal and learning the arts and craft of
map making and scribing since you have remarkable skill. Don’t be arrogant
about that skill.” He knew Naheem would not be; the teen was too surprised that
anyone found what he did as useful at all.
Malik offered an encouraging smile, “You will be fine. And I am greatly
indebted that you are willing to do this for me. If at any time you want to
back out, you just say so.”
“I won’t back out. I understand that this is something like a mission, a duty.
I do it because it is right and because I care.” His naked honesty made Malik
so deeply proud of the novice he sniffed back his emotions from showing and
explained the dampness in his eyes as sand.
“I don’t get to be intimate with Tibah till I have married her, though, right?”
Naheem’s questions came out so casually that Malik stumbled from it. He stopped
walking and slapped his hand into his face with an embarrassed groan. Naheem
tried hard to stay stoic, but his playful grin forced its way through, deeply
dimpling his cheeks, till he could contain himself no more and laughed at the
joke he succeeded in pulling on his Master Malik. It earned him a light-hearted
cuff on the back of the head.
***** Altair: Frayed *****
Chapter Summary
     A little bit of forbidden YAOI as Alrair's messed-up-ness starts to
     manifest
While Malik thought he might go grey from having a hormonal teen around, he was
relieved at the remarkably healthy attitude about sexuality and sense of self
that Naheem exhibited. Altaïr, on the other hand, would surely suck the color
out of Malik’s hair. Good thing it ran in Malik’s family that greying did not
happen till very, very late in life. Altaïr had anything but a healthy attitude
about sex or self.
During the trip to Masyaf, Altaïr had mulled over in his head the last time he
had seen the Master. He had concluded that perhaps that last… lesson… was not
really a punishment. He was being shown bliss so he could recognize it when he
encountered it again. In a way, Altaïr had twisted the memory of the experience
into a reward.
So, riding away from Masyaf, Altaïr thought back on this experience where the
Master practically did not even touch him. He wondered if he had actually done
something wrong, questioned too much. The distancing bothered him. He felt like
he was being cut loose, like he would soon no longer be needed. His mind mashed
together so many thoughts from one day to the next on his route.
He found he longed for that bliss, for that one moment where perfection seemed
to overtake his senses. He wanted to feel it again and could not figure out how
to accomplish that. Malik was definitely not the right place to turn. In the
privacy of his nooks and roofs for sleeping, he even considered modifying tools
and using objects for his pleasures. They never really sufficed and he gave up
in frustration. The Master had shown him bliss and left him wanting more
without any way to achieve it, like given a drug or a taste of something
tempting and sinfully sweet. Logically, he knew it was a sin according to
religions he did not adhere to. Sodomy got you stoned in most cities.
No one witnessed Altaïr rage out of control against a wall of an abandoned
outpost building. Knuckles bleeding, chest heaving, he sank into the muddy hay.
He did not know what was wrong or right in this. He had done things with Malik
and they were right once. Weren’t they? He just wanted to not feel so alone and
empty inside.
The remainder of the journey was vacant inside and out for him. He tried to
focus on the task before him and the relief he would feel to be in Jerusalem’s
Bureau where Malik could help answer the esoteric questions that sometimes rose
in his mind these past few days. What is the meaning behind nothing is true and
everything is permitted? Am I right? Is it just a reminder that nothing is set
in stone and anything is possible? If so, then laws are created by man and
their logic, not by any god. He recalled what Malik wrote in his journal as the
city of Jerusalem came into view: Some things are true, like my promises and
how I feel about you. Those were Malik’s words. The promise: to always be there
for Altaïr. The feeling… Altaïr had no real idea. How did Malik feel? If Malik
read his journal, then he ought to know the crazy, insane, forbidden feelings
Altaïr had. That he did not act on them only told Altaïr that Malik’s feelings
were just… different.
How could Altaïr really expect anything anyways? It was because of me that
things went so badly at Solomon’s Temple. He hated me. He really, really hated
me. That feeling doesn’t just go away. Altaïr had made a firm decision as he
crossed into the city over the entry support beams. He deserves an apology. He
deserves to hear me say… I have to tell him I am sorry, even if it will never
bring back Kadar, even if it will never actually make us friends. He needs to
know. I am sorry.
The darkening sky threatened him with the moonlight making his white robes
almost glow. He hated the night for that reason. He would consider in these
moments that black robes could be very handy for night excursions. He hunched
on a roof waiting for a large contingent of guards to pass while he imagined
what black robes might look like. In daytime, it would be pure hot hell to
wear, but at night it would be ideal.
It was very late by the time he stretched over the lattice and looked through
the gaps. Naheem sprawled over the carpets and cushions, practically drooling
in his sleep. Altaïr rolled over the opening and hung for a long while before
gracefully and silently dropping to the carpet. Squatting with one hand on the
floor, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Malik’s incense mixed with the
musky scent of men and the spice of the previous dinner. He stood and leaned
over the fountain to drink. The cool water washed a soothing path down his
throat, clearing it of the desert dust.
He knelt down beside Naheem, considering letting him know he had arrived. He
hesitated with his hand hovering over the teen’s shoulder. He inched away
quietly and looked in on Malik. He watched from the bedroom doorway, mostly
hidden by the fake wall-curtain. He felt like an intruder for some ridiculous
unfounded reason. Altaïr abandoned his spying, returning to the open roofed
room and the sleeping novice. He sat lounging beside the young man taking in
the changes.
Naheem seemed taller, more filled out, looking more like the man he was going
to be, physically. He looked like he had his first experience shaving and
smirked to himself knowing how excited he himself was at that age insisting
Malik teach him. He licked his lips as he remembered their time in the ruined
church and felt warmth build in his loins. He let out a deep breath and gently
pressed his hand on the center of Naheem’s back, much as he would if Malik were
out here sleeping. He slowly lay down beside Naheem and rubbed the young man’s
back taking the smallest comfort for himself by offering this comfort.
Altaïr paused long enough to get out of armor and weapons, but was too tired to
get out of clothing or wash. As he curled on his side with his back to Naheem,
he felt a hand touch shyly. Naheem then moved closer till Altaïr could feel the
young hot breath on the back of his neck. His soft groan was choked by other
emotions and buried any further noise in the pillows. Every muscle tensed and
he internally battled with his desire to feel this and more, his inexplicable
fear that merged with visions of the study in Masyaf, and the fight that he
should have had against Al Mualim in those intimate moments. Desire won out in
the end with a soft moan as his body declared its needs.
Naheem drew back and pushed himself up onto his elbow wondering what was wrong.
He gnawed on his lower lip debating asking when he noticed the firm bulge now
in Altaïr’s pants. Naheem’s mouth formed an o-shape. A flash of insight sparked
in his mind and he reached back for his clean rag and little jar of salve. He
put some salve on the rag as Altaïr had showed him and set it aside. Leaning in
close, he whispered, “Master Altaïr? You helped me through these moments. Will
you… will you let me help you?” Not that Naheem was homosexual in any way
himself, but he understood need and he really wanted to just comfort his
master. Something was going on, something had been for a very long time. Naheem
remembered the moments Altaïr was off alone weeping against a wall.
The thoughts of being touched, aroused, comforted from behind like this felt
reassuring... felt normal. Altaïr wanted it to be normal and Naheem seemed to
be treating it as normal. Altaïr nodded to the teen. “Please,” he whispered
back. He wanted to beg for more as he loosened his pants.
Naheem spooned in close behind Altaïr. His movements were less graceful than
Altaïr had been in the ruined church, but Naheem was trying. He felt Altaïr
lean into him a little. “I’ll take good care of you,” Naheem whispered, hoping
this was what he should be doing. The reassured sigh affirmed it was so he
continued quietly so as not to wake Malik. He held Altaïr as he slid his hand
with the slicked rag beneath the fabric of his pants. In this position, it was
not unlike tending to himself. Altaïr was quiet, but responsive. Naheem figured
out the ways to hold and stroke that pleased Altaïr based on the softest
sounds. What surprised Naheem was that doing this to another and hearing these
sounds elicited because of his own actions caused him to grow erect as well. He
had to stop a few seconds to adjust his position as new understanding settled
in. This is what happened to Altaïr in the church, no wonder he… should I? He
swallowed and tried not to press into Altaïr from behind.
Altaïr was not lost in the experience; it met a carnally deep need. He felt
Naheem hard behind him and pressed back into the teen. Part of him badly wanted
that, wanted more, wanted that bliss. He didn’t know if the novice would go
that far for him. He would rather Naheem be blindfolded and not see this, even
if he felt it. With Malik in the other room, Altaïr dared not ask Naheem for
more than he was giving.
When it was over, Naheem backed away to finish himself off. Altaïr, exhausted,
tried to sleep through it. Naheem however was less quiet when dealing with
himself and Altaïr pulled a pillow over his head to muffle the sounds.
***** Malik Plots with Tibah *****
Chapter Summary
     This is the start of an early plot bunny’s notes. I think the bunny’s
     name was Malik, too!
Malik slept through everything except Naheem. That dragged him from slumber
grumbling in pure annoyance. He tugged on his black robe as he stomped into the
main room to yell at Naheem to take a cold bath. The teen was done before Malik
made it through the curtain. He stopped when he saw Altaïr curled with pillows
over his head. Shaking his head he pointed at Naheem then pointed angrily into
the back. “Bathe Novice… and stop waking us with your torments.”
Naheem sheepishly gathered his things and retreated into the back without even
trying to make an excuse or give an explanation. Altaïr gave up sleep and got
up to meet Malik.
“What brings you back so soon, Altaïr?” Malik did not intend to sound so
accusatory. He was tired and had awakened to the sounds of a rutting teen…
again!
“I have come for Robert de Sable,” Altaïr stated flatly as he tugged his hood
into place defensively.
Malik sighed, “Safety and peace, my friend. Safety and peace.” He tried to
sound reassuring. “Seeking Robert is folly. We know what comes of that hunt
already.”
Altaïr fisted his hands then let out a long slow breath. “It is not vengeance I
seek, but information.”
“Then truly,” Malik stepped closer, expecting Altaïr to retreat and was
relieved Altaïr stood his ground. “Truly you are not the same man I once knew.”
He retrieved a basin and fresh towels for Altaïr to bathe in his own way in
this much too early morning. “Information, you say? On Robert? I will need to
put the word out. Is he your next target then?”
Altaïr simply nodded. Then he added, “My last target.”
Silence fell like a temple upon them both.
Malik was sure he was not really awake enough to have truly grasped that.
Robert was Altaïr’s last of nine targets? After that, Master Al Mualim would
reinstate Altaïr as a full master assassin. Anything could happen. Seeing
Altaïr stifle a yawn that in turn made Malik stifle a yawn, Malik advised
Altaïr to get cleaned up and they would talk more after the sun rose.
In the actual morning after breakfast, Malik learned nothing more from Altaïr
on the purpose of the target until he sent Naheem to start to clean the
upstairs room. Then Altaïr discussed with Malik how Robert was the last person
to know of the Piece of Eden. “I am executing them all. The fewer who know, the
safer. The Master wants to ensure that no one but himself knows so that it can
be protected, so mankind can be protected from its temptations and dangers. The
Master said that the Templars want the same thing we do, peace, just through
the control of people’s minds.”
The news was sobering and dangerous. Malik now understood the reasons for this
hunt for the nine people who plotted for a New World Order. He vowed to help
Altaïr as best he could. “Robert is not in the city, not yet anyways. My
informants would surely have told me that if he was. I will get them onto
searching for news. I have to run some errands today.” He saw Altaïr glower and
chose to ignore it. Malik did not need a protector, he was fine. “You have a
promise to keep to Naheem as his co-mentor. Teach him about the hidden blade.”
Malik could still see Altaïr’s lips pursed even if the rest of Altaïr’s
features were hidden by the hood. He watched as Altaïr seemed to open his mouth
to say something. Malik refused to let him. He was not going to get a lecture
on how to move about this city from Altaïr. A crash and a yell and some cursing
from above saved him from anything further. He sent Altaïr to ensure Naheem was
alright as he set out his flags for informants and left to run his errand.
Naheem, with Altaïr’s help righted a pile of boxes and returned to the main
room with his father’s wrist blade to learn about the mechanisms and to wait
for the informants to arrive. Altaïr assigned him to draw every part of it he
could for when he returned. Naheem almost protested, but Altaïr was gone. He
threw his hands in the air like Malik, seeing why Malik did that about Altaïr.
Altaïr trailed after Malik in secret.
Malik’s errand took him directly to the apothecary booth. In private, Tibah’s
father had turned Naheem down as a suitor. He was sharp and saw Naheem’s
missing finger. The man did not want his daughter marrying someone training to
be an assassin. Malik had told Naheem who was disappointed, but took everything
in stride. Naheem seemed sorrier for Malik. Malik however, was not ready to
give in to that decision.
He strode to the apothecary stand purposefully. “Miss Tibah?”
The girl smiled behind her veil at him. Her father had not yet discussed
anything with her, so Malik felt he could take advantage of some stealth. “How
may I help you, Rafiq?”
“You asked for my trust. So I am offering it.” He leaned in a little and
whispered to her. “I spy for information and am training others to do the
same.” It was a half-truth. Her eyes lit brightly with excitement and
curiosity. “You know my nephew?” She nodded. She didn’t really know his nephew
having only seen him very briefly that one time. But she did know Malik had one
who was healing or by now healed. “Well, I have a training exercise for him
that I would like your help with.” Malik slid a book secretly over to her.
A tiny glance down and she nearly squealed, but kept herself in check at the
knowledge of the medical book he had slipped her. She hid the smaller book
immediately among her personal things. “Anything you ask, Rafiq.”
Malik was already impressed with her candour. “He needs to learn to be
invisible to the crowd. I will be sending him out this way to observe people,
to listen and yet be unseen. If you see him, for I know you have an excellent
eye, do feel free to approach him. It will be a lesson for him to learn to be
invisible to even the keenest eye.”
“Is he off his crutches then? Do you need anything for his leg?” She offered an
oil to help with the healing and to give Malik more excuse to be talking to her
at the stall. He was just about to ask when she offered.
Malik did not want to send Naheem out here with the obvious identifier of a
cane. “He is with a cane, but mostly off it now.”
“May I know your nephew’s name?” she dared. Her brother in the background
rolled his eyes and turned his back. He had given up on chastising her for her
boldness.
“Naheem. Thank you for the oil, Miss Tibah.” Malik departed with a slight smirk
at what he was sure was the beginnings of success.
At the Bureau, he greeted Naheem at the counter and the two informants who
awaited Malik. “Novice? Where is the eagle?”
Naheem colored and tried not to stammer, “He… uhhhh… is on the roof?” Naheem
knew he failed in that moment of stealth as Malik shook his head at Naheem
before addressing the informants. Malik figured Altaïr started the teen on the
study of the hidden wrist blade, since he could see the resulting drawings and
notes, and then fled to do some searching of his own. Altaïr was never very
good at following orders, listening, or staying in one place.
***** Altair Trains Naheem *****
Chapter Summary
     I love seeing Altaïr teach. Gruff, quiet, yet so good at it. When he
     forgets his insecurities, he can be a great teacher and father
     figure.
Altaïr earned a glare from Malik when he dropped in through the roof. It
stopped Altaïr at the doorway. He shrank back under the lattice and waited on
the carpets to be invited in. Naheem gathered his papers, sketches and his
father’s wrist blade to join Altaïr on the carpets and show him what he had
discovered so far. Trying not to feel rejected by Malik who was now writing in
the log book and checking a map, Altaïr sat with Naheem. He listened to Naheem
explain everything he could figure out about the wrist blade. He reviewed the
drawings Naheem made with wide eyes at the teen’s skill. In a quiet deep voice,
he offered small corrections and answered questions. The rest of the afternoon,
Altaïr showed Naheem how to put on the wrist blade and work it, as well as how
to take it apart and clean it and put it back together.
Malik joined them with dinner. “The news I have for you Altaïr is very little
at the moment, but my informants know to keep their eyes and ears open.
Apparently, there is going to be some commemorative funeral service for Madj
Addin. The new Regent is trying to be very accommodating and encourage peace
within the walls of Jerusalem. He has invited both Richard’s men and Saladin’s
men to attend. I don’t know when or where or any other details, it is too soon.
Maybe you could take Naheem on a scouting mission with you?”
Naheem’s face split into a wide hopeful grin.
Altaïr didn’t feel he was very good as a mentor as he silently considered this.
“No cane.” He did not want to see the cane, and if Naheem could not learn to
manage without it, there would be no way to train him as an assassin.
Naheem whooped and cheered. He quieted when both Malik and Altaïr hushed him.
Later that night, Naheem sat sadly with Altaïr after Malik finally told him he
was turned down by Tibah’s father and why. Even though Malik tried to reassure
him that he was not a failure in any way, and that the rejection was honestly
because of his professional training, and even though he hinted that there
might still be a way around this, Naheem still felt the sting of rejection.
He sat on the carpets with his back against Altaïr’s moping as he recited the
parts of the hidden blade.
“Tibah is Malik’s problem, not yours, Naheem.” Altaïr still disapproved of this
softness that Malik was exhibiting. How dare Malik be compassionate and
understanding to this arrogant girl and not with him. “We will take you
training in the market tomorrow. You and I will listen to the goings on for
anything about this funeral. You will learn to be invisible. If she spots you,
you run and disappear. You will see that she is trouble, so be careful.”
Naheem must have had selective hearing. He heard training… real training for a
real mission. He heard Tibah’s name. Naheem’s spirits lifted. He contented
himself with spying on her from a distance even if he would never have the
opportunity to get any closer. Her father didn’t want her marrying someone like
Naheem. He let go of that desire soon after when he rejoiced at successfully
making the hidden blade obey his wrist movements.
“And that is why we remove that finger.” Altaïr turned and pointed to the blade
jutting out the gap made by Naheem’s missing finger.
That night Altaïr had great difficulty sleeping. Partly he was unsure about
Malik’s reactions, partly because of his memories of what he and Naheem had
done, and partly because of what had not happened with his Master. He lay among
the pillows, eyes closed, but mind buzzing and squawking like angry birds. He
heard Malik walk carefully to he and Naheem. He cracked open an eye and watched
Malik run his fingers through Naheem’s hair and whisper how he wished the best
for him and quietly pleaded for a quiet night. He did not plead with any heart
in the plea. He took the teen’s random wet dream moments in good humour, except
the very moment he was awakened by them.
Altaïr snapped his eye shut as Malik approached him. A hesitant hand gently
ruffled through Altaïr’s hair. Altaïr could not help tensing. His breath caught
and choked. He craved the affection and felt ridiculous since he was a grown
man and should not crave it like a child. Malik continued to stroke Altaïr’s
hair till the tension eased. Altaïr relaxed into the soothing touch till
somehow sleep stole his wakeful mind.
He woke to a small boy staring at him fixedly. Junayd let out a small yelp when
Altaïr snapped awake, grabbing the boy up in his hands and hoisting him above
his head. Junayd wriggled and tried his best to kick and struggle and fight
free.
Naheem woke to the noise, “Junayd, shut up!” Naheem had woken several times in
the night from odd nervous dreams. His last real mission ended with his father
and mentor dead and an arrow in his leg. So he was tired and foul tempered that
morning.
Junayd laughed, “You sound just like Master Malik!”
Altaïr had to agree. He put Junayd down to let him and Naheem go through
whatever their morning routine was. He watched silently by one of the
fountains, trying to be so invisible that Malik came in to train them as if
Altaïr had already taken flight. A glance up and their eyes met. Altaïr held
them a moment before dipping his chin down for his hood to hide his features in
shadows.
After a quick breakfast, Malik took over training Junayd in using blades while
Altaïr and Naheem climbed out the roof for their information gathering.
An overtired Naheem talked more than Altaïr could handle. “Less talk and more
listening,” snapped Altaïr more than a few times. Finally, Altaïr lost his
patience and cuffed Naheem hard while on the edge of a roof. He caught Naheem
by the back of his waist armor. The teen leaned far off the ledge, arms
flailing, eyes wide and heart racing. The crowd below remained oblivious to the
terror-stricken youth above. Altaïr pulled him back to safety slowly. “At least
you have learned not to yell out of surprise. Good. Now keep quiet. Use your
eyes and your ears, not your mouth.” Naheem merely nodded.
Altaïr instructed the teen again on how to blend into the crowd and merge with
a group of monks or scholars or priests. They practiced that as Altaïr kept his
own eyes and ears open for anything about the pending funeral or news of
Templars or crusaders. Nothing as of yet.
When the sun grew too hot, they practiced climbing buildings in shadowed
alleys. Naheem practiced balance by walking the ledge around a fountain. This
he found hard with his limp that seemed so pronounced while he struggled. He
teetered and fought for balance with outstretched arms. Altaïr showed him how
to crouch and pace his steps and his breath. Just as Naheem managed and grinned
cockily with his success, Altaïr nudged him and it ended with a huge splash
into the fountain. Naheem sat in the fountain laughing. Altaïr leaned against a
shady wall mouth quirked in an awkward smile that felt too strange on his face.
He helped Naheem out of the fountain and they sat in the sun on a roof to dry
off. Drying off in the sun worked far better in the more desert-like climate of
Jerusalem than the coastal climate of Acre.
“Your balance and motor skills have improved. You still have a ways to go. But
it is still good.” Altaïr dished out his praise sparingly, and Naheem soaked it
up like a thirsty sponge. “Let us practice eavesdropping in the market.”
Altaïr modeled the technique for Naheem in a little busy area and taught him
the basic technique. They practiced every suitable moment along the way to the
market, picking people out to listen in on. It was almost a game and not. They
did have a goal. They sought anything on the funeral of the old dead Regent,
the one Altaïr killed some time ago. Naheem would pick out someone for Altaïr
who would model various ways to go about this. Naheem would watch carefully and
try to emulate with the targets Altaïr picked for him.
The challenge came at the busy market in the rich district. Altaïr picked a
talkative carpet merchant for Naheem as he blended invisibly into the crowd to
seek information. They agreed to exchange their findings at sunset when they
would make their way back to the Bureau.
***** Malik Lies *****
Malik trained with Junayd, the eternal bundle of energy and questions.
Academically, Junayd still had a long way to go to get caught up to Naheem,
however they were getting close to par in their physical skills. Malik watched
as Junayd moved through the basic sword forms with the measuring stick in his
hand instead of a sword. Malik barked out corrections. Junayd strained the
limits of his patience trying new things.
“Master Malik? What does God think about what we do?” The question came like a
hidden blade in the gut.
Malik called a halt to the training and fetched some fruit and cheese and cups
for water. He needed to think about this answer. He had been asked it a couple
times before. He had asked it himself. When he was about Junayd’s age, he asked
his older brother Faruq this question. All things hunt and kill. The strong
survive. Some cull the herd for this very purpose, to maintain peace and
strengthen the population. That was Faruq’s answer. But it didn’t really have
anything to do with God. When Kadar asked it, Malik found he was answering
something very different to his little brother. God needs help. He can’t be
everywhere, which is why he has people like us and has priests and other
people. It sufficed for Kadar who was barely eight when he asked. Often Malik
wondered if the question was in Altaïr’s mind, but Altaïr never asked it. Malik
asked it of Altaïr once and received a short answer. There is no god, so what
does it matter? Malik was sure the question must be floating on Altaïr’s mind
again, especially now.
When he sat with Junayd, Malik finally answered. “There are two angels that
work with God. Arch Angel Michael and the Angel of Death. We serve humanity
like them. Like Michael, we are the fire of heaven delivering messages. We are
the sword of justice where justice has been unable to previously reach. Like
the Angel of Death, we bring peace to the tortured souls and send them on their
way with the utmost respect.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the ever inquisitive mind of the child novice.
Malik watched Junayd scramble his way up the fountain and out. He wished again
that Altaïr had been there for this. Having novices was like having children
and Malik knew how much Altaïr wanted children. There were recent snippits in
Altaïr’s journal about that as if he were afraid something were about to happen
and there would be no possibility after, like he was on a time limit and the
world was going to end… soon.
Malik cleaned up after the training. Alone in the Bureau felt so odd after a
couple months with Naheem. He found himself at a loss for what to do. He
organized all his medical supplies. He re-alphabetized all his books. He added
to his maps. The heat of the noon sun beat down on the Bureau, so he removed
the black robe, draping it over the stool. He stepped into the main room and
glared at the ledge that ran around the inside of the Bureau, vowing to have
Naheem clean and inspect up there for him. There was nothing left to do but
wait for Altaïr and Naheem to return. He hoped the training was going well. He
wondered if Naheem was aching. He worried that they might have gotten into
trouble with guards and might return injured. With Altaïr, that was a good
possibility. He set out some medical supplies in his back room in anticipation.
Then he waited again. He leaned back against the counter dressed in the dark
grey pants, simple waist armor, and sleeveless waist robe with the hood that he
wore under his black robes all the time. The bandaging was coming loose over
his stump. He didn’t really need to bandage it. The bandage simply reminded him
to be careful with it. He opened the front of the white robe to allow the
faintest breeze to cool his chest. Then he waited some more. He watched the
open-roofed room with the sunny dust motes as the cushions and carpets remained
empty.
Malik’s thoughts drifted to Naheem, the cute teen with the dimples that drove
him crazy at night sometimes. He questioned himself over and over if he had
done the right thing about trying to arrange a match between the two teens.
Tibah could be such a handful. He wondered if he was trying to rule other
people’s lives the way he hated people trying to rule his and Altaïr’s.
He sighed heavily as his thoughts sank into those of Altaïr. So much pain and
hate and anger. So much anxiety and confusion. Those journals from the drugged
trance blew away all things he had thought about Altaïr. The training and what
had been happening to Altaïr... Altaïr was right. Anyone else who might read
such things would swear Altaïr was crazy or possibly a traitor.
The private journal revealed other things to Malik that would not leave his
mind. Altaïr had been an ass pushing him at a distance to protect him. Altaïr
had been tearing himself apart because of a mistake, true that it was a costly
mistake, but it was a mistake. Altaïr had thought he could take on Robert.
Altaïr had thought he could rely on Malik and Kadar to get the treasure while
he created a distraction. He never thought he would be trapped behind a wall of
fallen stone unable to save the people he cared about. Malik never considered
before that Altaïr had been upset or possibly scared in any way.
He tried to imagine being in those shoes. Your best friend thinks you betrayed
them and you have to keep up that appearance even though you want so very badly
to be close to them. You take them onto a dangerous mission and do the most
insane thing that would likely cost you your life but would have saved theirs
only to be trapped behind fallen stone unable to do anything but listen to them
be cut to pieces. Malik shivered. Such a thought could break a strong man. Did
that moment break Altaïr?
Malik toed the floor staring at a small crack there. Altaïr had taken care of
him in his delirious wounded state after doctors had cut his arm off. There
were questions there. Altaïr had wondered if the surgery was necessary. Was it?
Or was it a contrived act by some traitor high up to ensure that Malik hated
Altaïr and to cut the two off from each other, who could together surly
discover the traitor. There was one traitor second to Al Mualim already. What
if he was not alone after all?
Straightening his white robe, he tugged his black one over it again to be
properly attired. The flags outside needed changing. Malik wanted to get
information from a different district, so he was summoning an informant to
direct him there. Outside, Malik set the new flag on the bench while he removed
the current flag. He made a mental note to water the plants out there. Dying
plants were not inviting when you had to uphold the pretence of being a scribe
and map maker in business. The money was actually still good and gave him
enough to do personal things like acquire medicines he could not justify to the
Brotherhood, or buy books of personal interest.  He mounted the new flag.
Returning outside with a watering can for the plants, he felt eyes upon him.
The hairs on his neck stood and the feeling intensified. Instinct still
lingered. He stepped sideways to water another plant and covertly glance in the
direction from where he felt he was being watched. Nina stood there glowering,
a child in her arms. Malik’s heart almost stopped. He looked up and their eyes
met. She stepped back in to a shadow and was gone. He cursed, eyes scanning now
for that hunter. Malik wondered how Nina got so good and becoming invisible and
blending into crowds. He wondered just how good this hunter was. Malik stepped
over to another plant and watered it.
When he entered the Bureau, the hunter stood there. “I know she is still in
Jerusalem. Have to gotten any news, have you seen her? I was sure she was close
earlier today.”
“No and no,” Malik replied flatly. “Several days ago, I already told you the
last bit of news I had of her in the market area of the Middle District. Unless
she chose to actually stand in front of this Bureau and stare at me during the
short time I took to water the plants, how the hell would I have seen her and
do you honestly think she would come this close to the Bureau if she saw me?”
The Hunter cursed and spat on Malik’s Bureau floor. Malik wanted to hit the man
for the disgusting act. The hunter conceded that Malik was right and left to
hunt more. The truth was rarely believable. If someone told Malik this tale, he
would have looked into the matter, but Malik already knew this hunter might be
good at tracking, but he lacked something… and Malik preyed on that to bide him
a little more time. Time for Nina, though, was running out. She knew where the
Bureau was. It was compromised. He weighed the odds of her taking that
information to the Templars. She had spotted him a few times and had not given
him away, yet. He dared offer her the same, for now. Maybe she was seeking
Altaïr? Maybe she wanted to offer a form of peace because of the child? Malik
threw a book at his shadow. Don’t even bother thinking that. Malik! You are
going all soft and optimistic! Get real! She is a traitor and a betrayer and a
bitch in the worst of ways.
Malik picked up the book he had thrown and thudded it back onto the shelf, then
slammed the log book onto the counter over his map. Banging it open, he flung
the pages to a blank one and added the date and the Hunter’s encounter and
continued inability to locating Nina. Malik hoped Altaïr didn’t snoop through
the log book. There was nothing more to do but go back to waiting. Waiting, and
planning an emergency evacuation should Nina give him away to the Templars.
***** Altair Admits Tibah is OK *****
The challenge came at the busy market in the rich district. Altaïr picked a
talkative carpet merchant for Naheem as he blended invisibly into the crowd to
seek information. They agreed to exchange their findings at sunset when they
would make their way back to the Bureau.
Naheem scanned the crowd as he had learned from his father. There were a great
number of people, the cacophony almost deafening. Altaïr had vanished and he
was thus on his own to implement what he had learned from his father and from
his new mentors, Master Malik and Master Altaïr. He straightened his shoulders
proudly to pretend like he completely belonged, pretend he was as much a master
at this as Altaïr, even if he played at it. The information he sought, however,
was not for play or practice. He needed to listen for news of the Templar,
Robert de Sable, or for news on the funeral for the dead Regent.
Weaving through the crowd, he aimed for a bench to sit and listen from. It was
close to the carpet merchant. Naheem wanted to stand on tip-toe to see over the
crowd better and pick the right one of three benches there and to make sure he
was not too close to Tibah’s apothecary stall. Altaïr would be most upset with
him if he failed this by being discovered by her. Invisible, Naheem needed to
be invisible. He silently cursed the throbbing that had begun in his thigh and
tried not to limp.
The bench offered a cool breeze off the water fountain behind it. Such were the
benefits of the Rich District’s market square. He sat feeling swallowed by the
milling afternoon shoppers. He immediately spotted the thugs, robbers and pick-
pockets. He could pick-pocket decently himself and smirked that he had yet to
be tested on that skill. He scrubbed a finger in his ear while trying to focus
on the carpet stall. The sun baked the top of his head and he tugged up the
light grey novice’s cowl understanding why Altaïr always kept covered. Naheem
already suspected they would both return home, to the Bureau, a little sun
burnt.
The carpet stall overflowed with chatting people, exchanging news and
bargaining for the best price. Altaïr had suggested to listen for keywords like
funeral, Templar, crusader, and for any talk of the cultures of the crusaders
like the English, French, German and other European peoples. Naheem groaned
aloud at the hours of talk about threads and weaves and colors and costs. The
news related only to weather, business, family affairs and other totally
useless affairs.
Naheem almost dozed off in the mix of heat and boring conversation. A hand on
his shoulder made him jump in his seat. An apology to Master Altaïr on the tip
of his tongue which he instantly swallowed from the critical brown eyes of
Tibah. “You will get heat stroke just sitting here in the sun like that.
Naheem, aren’t you? Rafiq Malik’s nephew? I know we only just barely met but my
name is…”
“I know who you are, Tibah.” He didn’t mean to sound so rude. She had startled
him awake. He was tired, hot and caught dozing on duty by the one person he was
supposed to be avoiding. He stood trying to remember what Altaïr had said if
she were to spot him. Run, hide, vanish… hard to do when she opened
conversation with you. Dammit!
She raised a brow at his irritability. “You need not be so curt, I was…”
“You are not supposed to speak to me! You just ruined my… You are not supposed
to be here!” His voice rose louder in his frustration. The crowd around began
to quiet and turn to them.
Tibah snapped back, “How dare you! I was being concerned for you and you behave
like a child caught with a cookie!” She grabbed his arm to direct him away from
the crowd.
He tore his arm from her accidentally shoving her. Her hand caught his for a
second and her eyes widened. He pulled away, fisting his hands. Tibah’s brother
Kadar approached from the apothecary stall to save his sister from the ill-
mannered youth she was yelling with. Naheem had rarely been challenged like
this by anyone, let alone a girl. Being tired already and too hot made him
irritable, propriety and etiquette flung far from his mind as the two teens
degenerated to calling each other names in their heated exchange.
A white clad arm reached through the crowd, grabbing Naheem and tearing him
back into a run. Kadar yelled and ran over as guards started to pursue. Tibah
stepped up onto the bench to watch their route then down again to face her
brother. “Kadar, go protect the stall.”
“Tibah, you are not planning on going after that brute, are you?”
Tibah glared furiously at her brother, who thankfully knew better than to
shrink from his little sister’s anger. “Yes. I have to. Go protect the stall
from thieves till Dad shows up.”
“Then I am coming to get you. Stay out of trouble. Try … oh why do I bother…”
He walked back to the stall praying his sister didn’t do anything further to
ruin their family. He dared not push her. He had his own secrets to hide,
secrets she kept for him.
Naheem thought things could not get worse. The run through the crowd, then the
yanking through an alley and around a corner out of sight of the guards, and
finally Naheem was slammed hard against the wall. Golden eyes burned through
him as a blade pressed against his throat. Ok… things just got much, much
worse. He wanted to explain, but what was there to say?
Altaïr said it for him and a low harsh whisper, “What did I tell you. She was
dangerous, smart, DANGEROUS! I told you to run and hide if she saw you. Did you
not hear her the first two times she called your name? You had better tell me
that you were so engrossed in news you were listening to and not actually
dozing.” Naheem lowered his eyes, but was forced by the blade at his throat to
meet Altaïr’s again. “That could have gotten you killed. Sun stroke kills. But
worse, the guards might have dragged you off if they recognized you. You were
supposed to be alert. You were supposed to run, NOT have a chat with the girl.
And especially NOT have a loud enough argument to gain the attention of not
just her guard brother, but the entire crowd in the market AND the city guard!”
While Altaïr did not raise his voice, his words cut deep with his anger and
disappointment. “The Creed Naheem. It is one thing to break the Creed to try to
save lives… breaking it on purpose is one thing. Breaking it out of ignorance
and boyish foolishness, rising to the challenge of a girl… Stay your blade from
the flesh of an innocent. Your actions… I should kill her for it, then you! You
would have broken that part and I would have had to be the tool. Hide in plain
sight… HIDE… IN PLAIN SIGHT! Be invisible. What happened to that?! Never risk
revealing the Brotherhood. The damned city guard were coming for you! If they
caught you, the prison guard would know you for a novice. Have you learned to
withstand torture?!” Naheem barely shook his head. “They would have force out
of you the location of the Bureau, they would have forced out of you everything
about me and Malik.” Altaïr shook with his anger at this debacle. Naheem
swallowed. “They know your name and your face, all of them. Fix it. Don’t come
back till you are forgotten in their minds.”
“Ehem,” Tibah cleared her throat as she rounded the corner. “Naheem?”
Naheem barely blinked a couple times before the flutter of white robes
indicated that his Master took flight up the building and vanished from sight.
Naheem fingered his blade at his waist wondering if he would have to kill this
girl now himself and found he had no stomach for the notion. Her liquid brown
eyes missed nothing as they looked him up and down and paused at his hand over
the hilt.
She walked fearlessly up to him, placing a hand over his on the knife. She
tugged down her veil to expose her face to Naheem then rested her other hand on
his cheek. She leaned in to whisper in his ear as her fingers played over his
missing finger, “I know what you are,” she said barely loud enough for him to
hear. “I am not afraid.” Naheem could smell the soft jasmine perfume she wore
or was it a jasmine soap she bathed with?
She backed away from his flushed face till she was just out of his reach.
Naheem stood numb.
“The Eagle is right. You need to fix things if you are going to be what you
are. I know how you can become invisible again.” She already had a plot
hatching in her mind. If I save him, maybe my father will consider him as an
option and I will get to apprentice under his uncle…
Naheem found his voice finally, “How do you know him?”
Tibah crossed her arms, “Just because I am a woman does not mean I am simple-
minded, ignorant, stupid or blind. And... well… we’ve met. He’s more dressed
this time.”
Altaïr who listened over the edge of the roof buried his face in his arm in
humiliation.
Naheem blinked in surprise, many questions springing to mind. He never got to
ask them though. Tibah stepped closer again. “Here is what you will do,” she
began, “You will find for me… hmmm… a white rose and come back to my family
apothecary stall. There you will make a dramatic apology and beg that I
reconsider you as a suitor.” Naheem’s mouth dropped open in shock at her
boldness. She tapped it shut for him. “Everyone will then figure we were having
a lover’s quarrel and forget you existed as lover’s spats happen all the time
in the market square.”
Altaïr grudgingly admitted to himself her actual brilliance at the plan.
Naheem opened his mouth to say something then froze, tensing as the family
guard that watched Tibah’s stall stepped into view and called her name. “I have
to go now, Naheem.” She smiled playfully and pecked his cheek with a chaste
kiss before pulling up her veil and returning to her brother’s watchful and
almost reproachful eye. “Remember, Naheem, a white rose,” she called over her
shoulder before being guided out of sight by Kadar.
Naheem felt totally ruined. Not only had he made a fool of himself before his
mentor, but also before the girl he had hoped to impress. He sank to the
ground. Altaïr dropped from the roof in front of him. “Get up. I told you to
fix this. She gave you an opportunity to do so. I hate to admit it, but it was
a good idea. Never tell Malik I said so.”
Naheem stood and looked at Altaïr almost pleadingly. “I don’t know what a rose
is.”
Altaïr groaned about ignorant novices, but chose to do so internally so he did
not sound like Malik externally. “It is a flower that is usually red. You now
have a mission. Get to it. I will meet you back at the Bureau.” Altaïr climbed
the wall and vanished again from sight. This was tough love. Altaïr reprimanded
harshly and praised rarely, but vowed to never be truly cruel, manipulative or
damaging. He also wasn’t about to abandon this novice on his first simple solo
mission to fix a potentially deadly mistake, though he would not help him, he
would just ensure Naheem did not get himself killed.
***** Naheem & the Rose *****
Naheem’s first mission, publicly apologize to Tibah and show that he is
courting her in order to vanish from the minds of the people in the market as
just another fool in love who made a mistake. If only life could be that
simple. Naheem stood a long time in that quiet alley sorting out the mess he
created.
He dared not return to the Bureau till he could come back free of shame. He
stared down at his shaking hands. His mentor, the man he idolized, nearly
killed him and Naheem thought it was right. Naheem had put the Brotherhood in
danger because he acted like a child who was hot and tired and grumpy. A real
assassin would know better. He touched where Tibah had kissed his cheek,
confusion starting to mix with a warm pleasure. Maybe he had a chance? Then he
remembered the criteria. Bring her a white rose. Naheem had never seen a rose.
His mother liked these big yellow flowers, but he had no idea what they were
called.
He reigned himself in and took stock of his state. Thirsty, he could easily
remedy that with some swigs from the little canteens on the back of his belt.
Hot, that he would just have to endure. Tired, he was too high on the adrenalin
rush from what just transpired to be really tired now. It meant he would crash
badly later. Master Malik had discussed the effects of adrenalin with him in a
lesson. He had to keep riding that wave and then be somewhere safe when that
wave ended. Naheem wondered if Master Altaïr perpetually lived in that state.
He could hardly imagine what the crash might be like for Altaïr when such a
crash came. Naheem’s leg throbbed. He rubbed it before making his way through
the streets. He had maps memorized in his head and was already calculating the
shortest routes around places to his first destination.
He was on a mission, his very first mission, alone. He practiced blending into
the crowds at every opportunity or sitting between people on a bench to rest
and to survey his surroundings. He found the plant merchant Malik had sent him
to a little while ago for a new green thing for the entry garden after one died
from some bug infestation. He sat on a low wall watching the merchant hock his
wares outside the front of the small building. Inside were many plants and
flowers. He listened to the conversations and squinted, trying to spot white
flowers. Maybe white ones among red ones. Master Altaïr did say that roses were
usually red. Suddenly Naheem worried that maybe white roses did not actually
exist. What will I do then?!
A woman asked about a rose bush for her estate garden. Naheem leaned forward
casually sipping his canteen of water as he listened. “Sorry, miss. We have no
more roses at this time. Maybe next month. I do have a great many
chrysanthemums for the coming honorarium of the former Regent. Would you like
some of those instead? I have many colors.” Naheem almost abandoned the
conversation, till he heard the reason and stayed to eavesdrop on this bit of
news. He thanked God for his luck in this at least. Unfortunately, there was
little more than that tidbit.
Naheem finally abandoned the spot and climbed a ladder. He still could not
manage to climb walls like Altaïr. His thigh burned with pain as it was. His
mission seemed futile now. He had no idea what this rose flower looked like
other than it was a flower that was usually red. He kicked a few wooden crated
out of frustration when he knew no one was looking. After some pacing on that
roof and screaming in his head about being a failure many times over for this,
he sat and tossed gravel off the roof a pebble at a time.
Then the conversation he overheard popped back into his mind. Estates had
gardens and some had roses and roses grew on bushes according to the woman’s
request for a rose bush. The map of Jerusalem’s rich district flashed through
his mind and Naheem was off to sneak around the estate gardens.
He passes a dead guard on a roof and stood stock still having forgotten that
the roofs could have dangers and guards who would kill him. He wondered how
this one died, must have been an assassin. There was the Hunter after all and
maybe others on their way to the Bureau. It served as a good reminder to Naheem
to be extra cautious.
Hours and hours later, Naheem wanted to scream again and just kick all the
flowers in the estates. Nothing bushy was there that was red or white. Nothing
seemed like what he might be seeking. He pressed his back against a wall behind
some larger potted plants as a gardener passed watering them. Naheem wrinkled
his nose at the feel of the water soaking his soft boots and seeping through
his toes. He prayed hard that the gardener did see him.
As the man passes Naheem, the breeze in his wake carried the soft scent of
jasmine. Naheem’s mother had also liked jasmine along with the strange yellow
flowers. He closed his eyes and inhaled the soft scent that reminded him also
of Tibah, who smelled of it. An idea wriggled through his brain shyly. Naheem
wandered through this estate garden. He took out a throwing knife to make
discreet cuts so no one would necessarily see his thievery. He did the same on
the occasional roof on the way back to the market, selecting now on whim.
Naheem pondered what Tibah meant about a dramatic apology. How was a dramatic
apology supposed to help him vanish from the minds of the crowd? Would that
only make his face more known? Wouldn’t the scene only stick further in their
minds? These questions interfered with his planning of a suitably dramatic
apology speech. Thinking so hard on both interfered with his awareness of his
surroundings as he approached the apothecary stall seeing Tibah’s father
serving a client as Tibah mixed something in a bowl on her father’s direction.
Naheem grasped snippets of an apology speech; he opened his mouth to say them
as Tibah looked up.
A city guard grabbed his arm roughly, “There you are! Thugs like you should not
be harassing the good folk of this market. I think a few days in the prison
should teach you well.”
Naheem had dropped the flowers, his apology gone from his mind. Eyes wide he
did not know what to say or do. If he moved for a throwing knife or another
kind of weapon it would go badly and really reveal him.
“Oh leave him be,” Tibah’s annoyed tone invaded the guard’s space. “He is
harmless, a fool, rude, irresponsible, childish… but harmless. I don’t need
your help to protect me from a suitor.” She shooed the guard off.
Naheem fumbled to pick up his flowers. Humiliation burned through him. Anything
he might have wanted to say was long gone from his mind. “I…Miss Tibah…” He
licked the dry nervousness from his lips. The sprigs of jasmine sagged with the
wilting white honeysuckle and the now broken lily. Saying sorry is easy. Just
say it and it makes a difference. “Miss Tibah… I… I’m sorry… for yelling at you
earlier. I tried, I really tried. I search literally everywhere. I could not
find a white rose.” He shoved the fistful of foliage at her.
Her hands covered his fist a moment before he released the pathetic bouquet to
her. He could see her father standing and watching impassively behind her.
Naheem’s cheeks burned again. He took a couple steps backwards into the crowd
and emulated Altaïr. He pulled up his hood and bolted before anything else
could go wrong before the sun was fully set.
He never heard Tibah whisper how Jasmine was her favourite flower. Her eyes
twinkled as she turned to her father with the bouquet. He sighed and offered
her a cup to try to save the thirsty plants.
Naheem ducked through the crowd. He grabbed the corner of a building to help
him swing around it faster and dashed through the darkening street. He rounded
one more corner into a dark alley and ran right into a tall white-clad armored
man.
***** Altair's Secret Mission *****
Naheem ducked through the crowd. He grabbed the corner of a building to help
him swing around it faster and dashed through the darkening street. He rounded
one more corner into a dark alley and ran right into a tall white-clad armored
man.
Altaïr raised a brow as he looked down at Naheem. Naheem looked up, not that he
had to look up very far for he was getting close to Altaïr’s own height.
“Master Altaïr, I… I’m sorry. I failed my mission.” Relief that it was Altaïr
and not a Templar dripped from each word followed by his compounded shame.
Altaïr’s expression softened and he places a gentle hand on Naheem’s shoulder.
“You did fine. My words may have been harsh, but you made a dangerous mistake.
I needed them to sink in.” Naheem mumbled something close to agreement that the
words sunk in. Altaïr felt the urge to hug this teen to him, but did not.
Naheem was no child. He was a man now and needed to be treated as one. Altaïr
still wanted to offer some sort of comfort. “Good. Then those mistakes will
never be repeated. Mind the roof guards when you are on roofs, though. I will
not always be there to deal with them for you. As for the rose, I think you did
better with what you did give her. The people have already forgotten you as
another forlorn suitor, just stop behaving as one when we get back to the
Bureau. Your apology… went over well.” It still irked Altaïr how brilliant
Tibah’s idea was and how well it worked.
“Saying sorry was the easy part,” Naheem spoke quietly into the darkening
alley. “But why… why do I still feel so awful?” His hand fisted over his chest.
“Because words, especially words we are already thinking in our heads, hurt far
more than any blade when we hear them and leave wounds that are sometimes slow
to heal. Trust me. You are not a fool, sometimes foolish, but that is only
because you are a novice. You will learn. You are learning. You are none of the
things Tibah claimed of you.” Altaïr paused to let his words be absorbed. He
hated saying so much but felt that Naheem needed to hear it all. “Novice
Naheem, I am proud that you handled the challenge of fixing your mistakes. You
did well. Now, go listen from a roof at the market and see if anyone is talking
about you. Return to the Bureau in a couple hours. I have an errand and will
meet you there later.”
“OH! Master Altaïr! I overheard something about the funeral. It is not much,
but they have some Christ’s mum’s flowers at it. Seems a bit odd.” Naheem did
not understand Altaïr’s small chuckle.
Altaïr nodded to Naheem, the chuckle still lingering. He then vanished into the
dark using the play of light and shadow to help him. He found a high ledge to
watch Naheem from. The teen sat on a box for a little bit to calm himself and
sort his feelings. Altaïr understood too well how he must be feeling. Tibah’s
words may not have been meant, but Naheem felt their sting just the same.
Altaïr promised to reassure Naheem again later.
As he had also promised not to coddle the teen as he felt Malik did, he left
the novice to his own devices for his errands.
Altaïr slipped back to the plant merchant’s building to get a very good look at
the chrysanthemums. He wanted to memorize the look of the flowers so he could
recognize them later when searching for the funeral site. He traced some of
Naheem’s route though the estate gardens before he stood upon the roof of the
Bureau watching the moonlight filter through the lattice roof.
He adjusted his stance trying to figure the best way to drop into the open-
roofed room one-handed. He slowly and carefully hung by one hand before
dropping softly onto the carpets. Crouched, he remained still. The smell of
cooking food drifted to his nose. Malik was cooking in the back. Sure he was
not going to get yelled at for anything since Malik was not immediately
present, Altaïr padded softly into the main room. He gritted his teeth when the
gate creaked and wished he had hopped over it instead.
“Altaïr? Novice Naheem?” Malik called from the kitchen.
Altaïr dashed silently to the back bed and out again. He escaped out the roof
to wait for Naheem’s return. There he sat cross-legged and opened his journal.
In front of him he set out three throwing knives and opened the ink bottle. He
scratched away in the journal while he waited.
I disagree with Naheem. Saying sorry is not easy. I also had not told him that
some words stay with you forever and those wounds don’t ever heal. Mine
haven’t. The words I have heard in the fog will stay with me, too. There is
nothing after we die said Sibrand. Nothing. This is the only life we have. Why
then do other faiths speak of reincarnation? How could there be nothing after
you die when the dead linger to speak with me? How can there be nothing when
the dead wait to invade my dreams. Or am I truly crazy? Do I hallucinate these
people as they die? Am I only dreaming and confusing dreams with reality? What
is real? Why do I sense and see things that others do not? Why do I heal faster
and endure longer? Why am I different? Who are Those Who Came Before?
Altaïr heard the faint creak of the wood that spanned this building and the
next. A soft curse from the other side told him Naheem was having trouble. He
closed the journal and capped the bottle setting it all aside. He stood and
scanned the area with that extra sight sense Adha had taught him. Red glows
showed in the distance on a roof too far to be a danger. Naheem shone bright
blue on the other building. A red guard patrolled below on the street. Feeling
safe, Altaïr strode to Naheem.
“Having difficulty with the beam?” he asked the novice. Naheem winced and
nodded. Altaïr noted the wince and understood. Naheem was aching and did not
trust his balance. Altaïr held out a hand, “Take my hand, I’ll help you. You
may need to practice low beam walking till you have better balance with that
leg.” He held Naheem’s hand in a sure grip and guided the novice across
steadily. On the other side, he caught hold of Naheem when he stumbled and held
him embraced a few moments till the nervous panting eased. “You made it. Malik
should have food ready for us soon.”
Even though he pretended stoicism, Altaïr felt anxiety and his own nervousness
roil in his belly thinking about meeting Malik. He worried that his errand made
him the fool he claimed Naheem not to be.
***** Malik's Forget-Me-Nots *****
Chapter Notes
     ART!!! This one inspired this chapter:
     http://ameij.deviantart.com/art/Malik-Forget-Me-Not-177625179
Malik heard the gate creak and called out the names of those he expected to be
there. When no one answered, he gripped a knife in his hand and pressed his
back against the narrow wall with one foot on the fountain, ready for a fight.
He leaned forward just enough to glimpse out of the corner of his eye at who
might be in the private back room. A tall figure darted in with a flutter of
white robes, moved a few things on Malik’s bed and dashed back out.
Malik sighed with relief as he recognized Altaïr. The journal was gone from the
side of the bed. Malik was pleased that Altaïr would write more in it. Altaïr’s
writing had indeed improved with the practice. He now wrote as he thought with
sometimes poor grammar, still moving through languages randomly. The spelling
still pained Malik, but it too improved. Altaïr must be thinking an awful lot.
He was not uneducated, just severely out of practice. Malik concluded that
Altaïr needed to do more reading and that would help him see proper writing and
thus emulate proper writing.
Setting the knife down, Malik returned to cooking the meal for the three of
them with some extra in case informants dropped in. He expected Altaïr and
especially Naheem to arrive starving. Naheem was growing and eating Malik out
of the stores faster than he could keep up with. After missions, assassins and
growing novices needed more meat, like any other hunters. He lidded the stew to
simmer for a while more and stepped into the bedroom to stretch from the
cramped space of the little kitchen.
An oddity made him frown in confusion. There was something of color on his bed.
There lay a sprig of blue forget-me-nots and the missing black bishop chess
piece. Malik shivered. This was a bizarre message. He had understood so many of
Altaïr’s little messages. This one could mean anything.
Why had he been hanging onto the chess piece? And if he had it all this time,
why give it back now and with these flowers? Why give me flowers? Why forget-
me-nots? Is he going to leave? Is he planning on this Robert mission being his
last? Does he want me to try to remember something?
He pocketed the chess piece to place on the game table later and picked up the
sprig as he puzzled this message. He simply gazed upon it for a long while
debating asking Altaïr about this. He heard Naheem and Altaïr’s voices as the
two dropped into the Bureau. Malik set the flower in his cup of water beside
the bed. Then he ran for the bubbling over stew with a few mild curses at how
Altaïr was such a distraction sometimes. Not wanting to distress Naheem with
this off message, Malik chose to keep it to himself and speak to Altaïr on it
later. In the back of his mind, he wished there were many more sprigs for these
were Malik’s favourite flowers.
 Is that why he gave it to me? Does he know I like them? I don’t think I ever
told anyone. It is womanly and foolish and… men don’t ask for flowers. I would
never ask for them. So… why did he give one to me?
Malik already knew this would gnaw at him all night. He ladled stew into three
bowls and brought out the bowls one at a time. Naheem and Altaïr were using the
basins to wash up. His critical eye already started analysing each naked man
for signs of new wounds or signs of old wounds acting up. The contrast between
novice and master assassin was drastic. Altaïr bore marks and gashes and lines
from the many wounds he incurred in his profession. Naheem looked like a nobles
son with hardly any marks save for the young scar on his leg that was an angry
red.
In this late hour, Malik ate in silence alone between trips to the back for
salve for sore muscles and bruises. He had expected Naheem to be more vocal
about his first training day outside with Altaïr. The quiet was… disquieting.
Although, Malik did enjoy the watchfulness of Altaïr; noting how the master
assassin attended to and bonded with his apprentice. It was adorable.
Malik recalled sadly how this behaviour of Altaïr’s had started to manifest
when Kadar started as a novice and Altaïr began talking about wanting a child
of his own. Yet what transpired between Naheem and Altaïr was not quite like a
father and son. It was more like brothers or budding friends. Malik turned away
at the little pang of jealousy he smothered for its ridiculousness. The rapport
between Naheem and Altaïr was not unlike Malik and Altaïr many years ago.
Malik pushed bowls of stew into the hands of his charges before retreating to
his back room not wanting his unreasonable thoughts to show outwardly.
“You stretch the tension out like this, Altaïr,” instructed a younger Malik.
Golden eyes followed Malik everywhere. “How come you know so much?”
“Dumb novice, if you actually READ stuff, then you would know, too.” Malik
poked Altaïr teasingly in the side till Altaïr wriggled away laughing and
giggling. “I can’t believe how ticklish you are!” That tussle degenerated into
a tickling match that Altaïr lost.
Malik shook his head and drew himself a cool bath to banish the remainder of
that reverie or memory that begged him to feel more than he wanted to. As Malik
soaked, he wondered if Altaïr was still ticklish and promised to find out one
day. He gazed at the little flower in the cup with the chess piece now beside
it. I forget nothing. I ignore perhaps too much, though. I should have paid
more attention to you and not let my inner jealously blind me so to the truth
of your actions. You asked me to trust you and I didn’t. He sighed and dozed a
while in that bath.
***** Black Bishop, White Knight *****
Chapter Summary
     I thought you all might like last chapter’s Malik memory. Usually I
     do the memory sequences from Altaïr in the Altaïr chapters. I thought
     I should do one from Malik for a change.
Chapter Notes
     Fanfic fanArt done for this chapter! Thank you!
     https://summerseason.deviantart.com/art/Black-Bishop-and-White-
     Knight-178277674
Malik shook his head and drew himself a cool bath to banish the remainder of
that reverie or memory that begged him to feel more than he wanted to. Malik
soaked in the cool bath wondering if Altaïr was still ticklish and promising to
find out one day. He gazed at the little flower in the cup with the chess piece
now beside it. I forget nothing. I ignore perhaps too much though. I should
have paid more attention to you and not let my inner jealously blind me so to
the truth of your actions. You asked me to trust you and I didn’t. He sighed
and dozed a while in that bath.
Altaïr remained as silent as ever under Malik’s watchful eye and even after
Malik retired for a bath. He washed himself from a basin. Naheem did the same,
too sore and too tired to really do much else. Altaïr showed Naheem how to
stretch the soreness out and rubbed the salve into the teen’s thigh. He side-
glanced Malik a few times to see an approving nod. Even as he heard the bath
and Malik sinking into it, Altaïr kept looking in that direction.
Naheem had finally relaxed from the aching and stress of his encounter with
Tibah. His stint of listening in really did prove to him that he had vanished
from people’s minds. He thought he saw something, maybe assumed. “I know you
and he were… once… before things fell apart,” he whispered to Altaïr. “I know
you get urges, tough ones. I… What is it like to… with a guy…”
Altaïr moved so fast that Naheem’s breath was lost. The wall near the non-
functional fountain was cool in the evening as Naheem found himself pressed
firmly face first into it. Altaïr leaned into Naheem from behind. They were
both hyper aware their nudity. Altaïr feeling the tension in Naheem’s body, the
scent of anxious sweat, the speed of each intake of breath. Naheem felt the
heat and pressure of Altaïr behind him, including the bulge that throbbed
against what he always figured a forbidden place. Sodomy got you stoned to
death.
Altaïr placed a hand on the wall beside Naheem. Naheem knew not where Altaïr’s
other hand went. He wasn’t sure he was ready to learn this, not at this very
second. A cool breeze skipped across his back as Altaïr made an inch of space
between them. Naheem turned carefully in the small space knowing he could have
been raped in that second and be able to do a thing about it.
“I don’t like it this way,” Altaïr roughly whispered with his other hand over
his eyes. He stammered and swallowed but could not speak further.
Naheem frowned as he watched Altaïr sink down to the floor. He inched a little
over and sat on the edge of the dry fountain. He knew Altaïr had intense urges
and sometimes there was no stopping something that was started. Altaïr had
never crossed a line with him before, and still hadn’t. Usually, Altaïr would
then retreat far off where supposedly Naheem could not see and weep hard though
quietly. Naheem had always wondered why. There was nowhere here to hide and
weep though. So he witnessed this naked moment of Altaïr weeping on the floor.
Hesitantly Naheem touched Altaïr’s head then his shoulder offering confused
comfort.
Altaïr gave in to the offer burying his face in his arms on Naheem bare knees.
He wished he could hide this. He wished he could stop it. He thought his chest
would burst. He wished this were Malik, wished so many things that would never
be.
“I am not Master Malik… but… I am here for you, Master Altaïr. When you need
me, I’ll be here… for whatever.” It was honest and simple, as Naheem naturally
was. “I’m not much of a lover… and don’t want to be, but I can offer some
comfort… till we both have the people right for us. Maybe if you just tell
Master Malik you are sorry…”
“No,” Altaïr choked out. “Those words… are not enough. Not enough for what I
did. I… I tried… I can’t…”
“I think you can. And I think it would help. It won’t bring back the dead, or
regrow an arm, but I know you mean it and he will, too. He is not always angry,
you know.” Naheem wanted to bridge something to bring these two men together
again at least in friendship. It tore his heart apart seeing Malik moody and
lonely and friendless when Malik thought no one noticed. And seeing Altaïr like
this, so heartbroken, Naheem wanted to cry with him. “He cares, Master Altaïr,
in his way, he still cares.” Part of him wanted to be mad at Altaïr for not
doing the simple thing of apologizing, but he understood why. The wrongs were
deeper than just yelling at a girl, and far more complicated. Part of him
wanted to be angry at Malik for not seeing all the things Altaïr tries to do,
all the small ways Altaïr apologizes, for not seeing Altaïr like this and
knowing why. Maybe I should tell him. Naheem decided that was exactly what he
would do, tomorrow.
There was no room for humiliation. Altaïr felt exposed and more naked now
before Naheem than simply being without clothing. The novice, however, became
the teacher. Altaïr absorbed the comfort with desperation, grateful their quiet
interchange did not draw Malik out to witness it. He backed off Naheem’s lap
and stood, clearing his throat and regaining some of his composure. His golden
eyes flicked over the youth’s body before nodding his thanks. He backed away
further and dressed to sleep.
Naheem was likewise dressed when an informant dropped in surprised to see
Altaïr there. “Master Malik is unavailable at the moment, do you wish to leave
your news with me to be logged?” Naheem asked professionally as Malik’s
apprentice.
The informant declined stating that his news could wait till noon, then
hesitated, “On second thought, tell the rafiq that you should both come for
lunch. My wife,” he grinned broadly, “you can feel the baby move now in her.”
Naheem laughed, “You came over at this hour to tell us that?! I’ll pass the
word along. I am sure we can try to squeeze in some time to visit.”
Malik hurried out with damp pants and pulling on his black robe, “Really?!
Moving?! Of course we will come tomorrow.”
The talk of babies only darkened Altaïr’s mood, made him feel more left out as
he backed into a shadow watching the joy bubble around the room. He backed from
shadow to shadow into the main room, slunk over the counter into the back room
out of sight and hopefully out of mind. Though, he seemed to already have been
both. He turned when color caught his eye. On the shelf lay the little forget-
ne-not drying on its side. With it lay a dried red rose bud and a dried red
carnation. The black bishop piece stood behind them with a much older white
knight chess piece that Altaïr recognized as having gone missing from his own
set long ago. He touched each lost in the moment till Malik said his name. His
hand snapped back away from the items and tugged his hood up as he backed away
from even this.
***** Malik's Quiet Moments *****
Chapter Summary
     The quiet before the storm....
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik had wondered where the assassin had managed to slip off to. Here he was
looking at the little arrangement on the shelf. Malik had stood silently behind
Altaïr for a full minute just observing the man touch each object as if
remembering or trying to. Malik found himself feeling embarrassed by what
Altaïr discovered, as if Altaïr had read a forbidden entry in a private
journal. “Altaïr?” Malik did not expect the great eagle to retreat from the
objects as if burned by the calling of his name.
Altaïr hid in the shadows of his hood, defensively. Malik wondered what he was
hiding or hiding from. Looking over at the flowers on the shelf, Malik began to
explain hoping that Altaïr would finish the explanation. “I found the knight
piece under my bed before I left Masyaf to come to Jerusalem. The rose and the
carnation I had kept dried in a box I took with me. You were fond of them and I
thought the two red flowers suited you. The rose in its beauty hid a secret of
softness I sometimes see in you and hope will grow, yet like you the rose has
deadly thorns. The carnation, well you were so silly smelling them all the
time.”
Altaïr stared at the floor trapped in this back room with Malik. Malik touched
the black bishop piece and the forget-me-not seeing how Altaïr’s golden eyes
flicked at the movement. In a deep hoarser than expected voice Altaïr filled in
the gap. “You are always beating me with your black bishop. It is the educated
piece that sees what most don’t and can traverse the whole board.” He hesitated
before explaining the flower. “You… like forget-me-nots.”
It didn’t explain why Altaïr had given them to him but it did answer some of
the questions. “How did you know? I never told anyone.”
“You draw them in your books when you draw pictures of … of your family.”
Malik licked his lips at the pain of the memories. “My family used to grow them
around the house. They are not common here, how did you find them?” Memories of
his family pained him still. The loss of Kadar stung, though not as badly as
the loss of Faruq who was as much father as he was brother. Malik’s jaw
clenched and unclenched unconsciously.
“An estate, north and east in the Rich District. A man is cultivating them
there.”
Malik chewed on his request in the lengthening silence before voicing it. “Why
Altaïr? Why give these to me?”
The assassin opened and closed his mouth several times before just shrugging.
“The chess piece is yours… I’m not sure why I hung onto it.” Malik suspected
that was a lie. Altaïr likely had been hanging onto it for many of the same
reasons Malik had hung onto the old knight piece. “I… The flower…” he stammered
a few more moments, “Forget it.” Altaïr pushed past Malik back to the main room
to sleep on the carpets with Naheem.
Malik sighed wondering what he said or did this time to scare Altaïr off. He
needs to talk to me. He needs to get out the things he has bottled up inside
before they destroy him. Sometimes I think he trusts me and then there are
times like this.
Malik had the urge to grab the flowers and chess pieces and throw them in his
frustration. He didn’t though. He beat his towels instead as he packed away the
bathing supplies and dumped the bath water.
Sleep came slow for everyone but Naheem who was asleep long before Altaïr
escaped Malik. Although, Naheem woke first to the sounds of Altaïr’s
nightmares. He sat up in a rush at the yell and the tossing. His heart
pounding, he shook his mind clear reaching for a dagger before he realized it
was just Altaïr. He pushed the dagger away again and blinked in surprise at the
man in the throws of a night terror like Naheem had never before seen. He
wondered what horrors caused the bravest man he knew to suffer one. Naheem
crawled closer to Altaïr to shake him awake.
Malik woke to the yell, too, and lurched from his bed and staggered into the
main room. Seeing Naheem reach over to Altaïr he yelled, “No Naheem! Don’t!”
Naheem’s hand landed on Altaïr and in the next breath he was pinned to the
floor struggling to breathe in the death-grip around his throat.
Malik yelled at Altaïr in the background. Air rushed into the teen’s lungs as
Malik tackled Altaïr off of Naheem and with great practice had Altaïr pinned
face down into the carpets. “Don’t EVER touch a sleeping assassin, Naheem.
NEVER! Wake them from a distance. They could kill you before they know it is
you. In a dream like this, he would kill you before he was fully awake.”
Naheem backed off to a safe distance, the lesson frightfully learned.
Malik released Altaïr when he was sure the man was awake and no longer
struggling between dreams and reality. Malik’s hand then traced gently over the
red marks that would surely bruise by morning on Naheem’s throat. “You’ll be
ok,” Malik said more to reassure Altaïr than Naheem who knew he would be fine.
“Is that rule for all assassin?” Naheem asked wide-eyed.
“For all… all assassins and all warriors and guards and soldiers,” Altaïr
muttered with an almost apologetic tone.
“Especially for experienced ones, like Altaïr,” finished Malik. He wondered
what caused this nightmare. He watched as Altaïr took up the journal. “Why
don’t you write in the back with me? That way Naheem can get some undisturbed
sleep.” The hood bobbed as Altaïr nodded.
Naheem opened his mouth to protest that he was ok again, but Malik shook his
head. He lay back down and watched his mentors leave.
Altaïr shied from any physical contact, flinched at every sound, and would not
meet Malik’s eyes, not that he really did that anyways. Malik could only
imagine the many things that must have stewed in Altaïr’s dream to put him on
edge. “You can use my bed. I’m awake anyways.” Altaïr hardly needed more
coaxing to cautiously lie on Malik’s bed and start writing the mess he had
dreamed. Malik watched quietly as he set up some cushions and selected a few
books to read.
“Do you mind if I read out loud?” Malik doubted Altaïr was in any head space to
read, but likely was in the perfect head space to listen to something that was
not the horror of his mind. At Altaïr’s silent nod, Malik read a poem dated
1120 by Omar Khayyam called The Wisdom of the Supreme.
                          All we see-above, around---
                         Is but built on fairy ground:
                          All we trust is empty shade
                          To deceive our reason made.
                           Tell me not of Paradise,
                         Or the beams of houris' eyes;
                       Who the truth of tales can tell,
                        Cunning priests invent so well?
                        He who leaves this mortal shore
                          Quits it to return no more.
                         In vast life's unbounded tide
                         They alone content may gain,
                         Who can good from ill divide,
                           Or in ignorance abide---
                         All between is restless pain.
                     Before thy prescience, power divine,
                       What is this idle sense of mine?
                     What all the learning of the schools?
                  What sages, priests, and pedants?---Fools!
                    The world is thine, from thee it rose,
                      By thee it ebbs, by thee it flows.
                 Hence, worldly lore! By whom is wisdom shown?
                  The Eternal knows, knows all, and He alone!
Altaïr stopped scratching away in the journal and simply listened. When Malik
finished reading, he looked over at Altaïr. “Do you want to talk about it?” He
hoped Altaïr would open up, just a little.
“No,” Altaïr declined the opportunity. “Malik? Read more?”
Malik set down his first book and took up a book of Gnostic wisdom, one Altaïr
had shown interest in before and started from the beginning. He often wondered
if Altaïr was asleep when he and Kadar read texts to each other during
training. Now he knew, as Altaïr would quietly interject his opinions or ask a
question for clarification. Malik supposed this was a step. In a way it was, in
another way, it was more like Altaïr had hopped onto a precarious pillar
without looking and stood there so close, yet just out of reach and ready to
fall. No actual bridge spanned the gap.
Chapter End Notes
     Poem taken from here: https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/halsall/source/
     omarkhayyam-wisdom.asp
     12th century Medieval Islamic poetry.
***** Altair: Naheem & Curiosity *****
Chapter Summary
     WARNING! YAOI content ahead.
     Curiosity killed the cat.... .... .... ....
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr slept better in Malik’s bed; he always did. He even found himself
sleeping in. What woke him was the sound of steel hitting steel. The only
reason he did not jump was that the sound was accompanied by voices. Malik
instructed Junayd and Naheem as he beat them with a sword. Altaïr chuckled
softly to himself thinking that the novices had likely considered it to their
advantage to take on Malik together. Oh how wrong they were finding that!
Altaïr stepped out and evaded the swinging blades, stealing one from Naheem who
swung too wide. The novices jumped out of the way as Altaïr took on Malik more
for show than with any real fight. He mimicked some of the novices’ moves and
followed them by the correct moves. When golden eyes locked with charcoal ones
in a long steady pause, the novices bolted for cover as a true sparring took
over. Their favourite place was also the safest, up on the wooden ledge running
above the scene, rooting each for a different mentor.
As ever, Altaïr found himself on his back with a bleeding cheek and Malik
looking down at him smugly. “I am still the King of Swords, and you are still
the novice, Altaïr. Now get your ass out of here and find information about
your target.”
Altaïr did just that, swiftly arming and armoring himself. He flew from the
opening in the roof, scaring the bolder pigeons on his way out.
Altaïr wasn’t sure where the morning fun came from. At least he thought it was
fun. Likely it was because he slept so well. He wondered where Malik slept. His
jaunt for news revealed little, but still useful information. He crouched on
one of the higher towers of Jerusalem thinking about this mission, about Robert
de Sable, about how this was going to take a while. He usually never spent more
than a few weeks here. This mission would take easily over a month maybe a few
months. With the open invite to all sides of the war, it would take time for
them to arrive.
Gathering news and information would have him all over Jerusalem. Already he
spotted a couple informants that were not the usual in Jerusalem. He wondered
if Malik knew of them. Of course Malik knew. This is his city and he is head of
the Bureau here. Informants check in like Assassins, I think. They must. He
dismissed the issue immediately after and spread his arms, eyes closed as he
felt the wind whip at his robes.
Instinct always guided his leaps of faith. He never missed the hay. Altaïr
turned around to face the inside of the tower. He imagined Malik standing there
watching reproachfully. Would he care if I died? I am always a stupid novice to
him. Naheem says he cares, and sometimes I think he does. But is that just
duty? Am I reading into it too much and hoping too much? I am a fool. I should
remain stone cold. These fog dreams, these messages from the dead, these
nightmares… The more I feel, the more I want to feel, the worse they are. I am
just lying to myself. Nothing is true. But he said some things are true. Maybe
we are wrong and Robert needs to live. What if my doubts are true? Then I have
broken the Creed many times over with each kill. It means I am nothing and
never will be.
He spread his arms again but could not banish the image of Malik watching him.
God knows our lonely souls, Malik.Holding that image of Malik standing and
watching him, he took a step back along the wooden post to the very edge. A
leap of faith meant exactly that. If there was a God, one with some plan for
Altaïr, then by miracle he would survive. Every leap of faith was like that. He
never told Malik that though. It sounded suicidal and would only anger Malik.
He closed his eyes and leaned back. He fell. The wind rushed past him as he
gazed up at the cloudless sky. The wind stole his breath, stole his thoughts,
he accepted the pending death.
And then instinct took over.
By some miracle, Altaïr walked away from the hay… again.
When he returned to the Bureau, only Naheem was there with some snacks. He used
his cane to ease the strain on his leg as he moved about like he owned the
Bureau. He smiled, dimpling, at Altaïr’s arrival. “Good news? Find anything? Or
do we get to take advantage of Malik out visiting that informant’s unborn and
do some training?”
Altaïr pushed back his hood and raised a brow at Naheem. “First, my news. Are
you going to log it?” Naheem opened up the log book with a professional air and
noted down the bits of information from Altaïr. “I thought you were going to go
with him?”
“He wanted someone here for you.”
Because I cannot be trusted? Altaïr’s skepticism invaded every time, his doubts
clouded some of his judgements, especially when it came to Malik. However, he
was glad to see Naheem. There was no tension between them.
“Master Malik was telling us how training had changed from the founding of the
assassins. That it went through major shifts with each new leader.” Naheem came
around the counter and leaned his cane against the wall. “Do you know what
those changes were? We ran out of time, and I am curious.”
“You are always curious,” commented Altaïr. These kinds of questions meant he
would have to talk a great deal. That should be more Malik’s role than his.
Naheem’s sweet face and slight innocent dimples and mischievous eyes could not
be denied. “Oh fine. Get me some food first, rafiq novice.”
Naheem chuckled and brought out some sandwiches. He eagerly waited on the
carpets for Altaïr to join him. His curious expression faded at Altaïr’s
serious look.
“Training to be an assassin is not easy, nor meant to be fun. The job is
dangerous.” He removed his armor and weapons, then exposed one arm for Naheem
to get a good look at the scars. “Half of the wounds we incur come from
training alone. You are so behind in your training that you missed much of the
physical push. It will come. You train in endurance, flexibility, acrobatics,
unarmed and armed combat. You are trained in languages and tactics, mathematics
and architecture, literature and cultural activities, and even religion. You
are beaten for your faults and mistakes to toughen you. In the past, this
started when you were four years old. Those that survived to the age of ten
would then be grouped under Masyaf mentors and weapons specialists. Those who
lived to fifteen trained under a private mentor and went solo at the age of
eighteen if he reached that age. Among that training were the subtler
techniques you know as those of the assassin. Also, the other training involved
enduring the worst of tortures, so you could survive capture should it happen.”
Altaïr sipped water and ate a sandwich watching Naheem process this
information. “The first major shift came when training was changed to start at
the age of ten and indoctrination was abolished in favour of education and
teamwork. Novices were teamed up with a partner they would likely remain
partnered to for the time of their work as an assassin. Testing ensured to find
the best position and tasks for novices. By fifteen they were mentored as a
team and started smaller missions. They never soloed. They worked as a team,
watched each other’s backs, and were completely responsible for each other’s
actions good and bad.” Altaïr paused and quieted to finish his food. “It was
still hard training, but the partnership eased the strain, and increased
support and brotherhood and loyalty. Some training techniques were abandoned
entirely, some were not, depending on the mentor. In the last ten years, some
of these changes were being reversed as assassins were less and less
successful, less able to endure as they used to. Soft assassins are dead
assassins. So partners were split up and mentors took over training. Partnering
became a rare thing only if the mission was complicated and would need more
than one person to pull it off.”
Naheem thought about all this as he silently realized he was a very soft
assassin, perhaps too soft. He wanted his mentors to be proud of him. He was
old enough to know he was severely behind in the training, at least the
physical training. He was mostly up to date with the academic training. “Are
you still tortured to train you to endure?” He shuddered at the cold look he
got from Altaïr’s golden eyes. “Right, depends on the mentor.” It made him
wonder what his mentors had in mind for him and if he would have any say in
anything. Malik afforded him so much freedom to choose, as did Altaïr. They
pushed him very hard in each task he set himself, too, but never more than
that.
The two lounged in the sun for a while. Altaïr sensed that Naheem had many deep
thoughts he wanted to ask about, perhaps forbidden ones that he was mulling
over asking. Naheem already knew he could ask anything, of either mentor. The
trick was asking the right mentor in order to get the fuller answer. Malik gave
you a very complete answer, but tended to be academic and clinical and dry. He
backed everything up with references and tied it into literature to make you
think. Altaïr rarely gave verbose answers. When he did you really had to
listen. Altaïr preferred to answer through action, showing you so you learned
through experience. Naheem had concluded that sometimes you had to ask the same
question of each mentor. Each had one side of the answer, and you needed both
for a complete answer. Then there were more sensitive questions that Naheem
knew Malik would answer with coolness and distance, but Altaïr would describe
with feeling or show through actions.
Questions about sex fell into that latter category. Naheem thought through the
experience the other night from being pinned against the wall with the chance
of being penetrated there and then, to Altaïr’s heart wrenching breakdown, to
the night terror, to the gentleness he overheard in the back room. Oh yes, he
learned eavesdropping like a pro. He mulled over how he felt about things and
what he was willing to be curious about. Assassins supposedly lived short
lives. And Naheem had made some promises to Altaïr that most religions
condemned. He sat up shrugging, ENH! You only live once, right? So try
everything at least once so you know.
“Master Altaïr? You told me never to ask unless I was willing to follow
through.” Naheem licked his lips at the sharp predatory look in those eagle
eyes. He found himself whispering his next words, “I’m willing to follow
through, at least this once.”
“You pick strange times to ask, Novice Naheem.” Altaïr looked up at the open
lattice above them. “Anyone could drop in.”
Naheem smirked and struggled not to laugh. Malik had warned him of this and he
really didn’t believe it. “Don’t you ever check the flags outside?” Altaïr
frowned like he just missed something important and thus made himself look
stupid. “It is the one that says no one is here and to come back later.”
Yes, Altaïr felt like a fool.
“Master Malik says you ignore them anyways and magically find your way in
despite locks and such. So better someone be here for you in case you did that
while hurt.” Naheem got up and closed the lattice. “Master Malik will be back
around dinner time.” He turned to face Altaïr feeling a bit nervous under the
scrutinizing gaze. “I want to do this, Master Altaïr, if…if…” Now his nerve
started to fail him.
Altaïr was unsure if he wanted to teach this to Naheem and yet the idea of
doing so stirred him inside. To be wanted, actually wanted, twisted all kinds
of things inside him. He stood slowly and helped Naheem lock the roof shut. He
studied the teen before him, eager, too curious for his own good, too sweet to
be an assassin, but that could work to his advantage. No one would expect the
adorable ones to be deadly. He thought about Naheem’s promise last night and
nodded silently as he already felt heat swell in his loins in anticipation. For
Altaïr this would only be the second time he had ever done this. There was an
excitement to that, even though Altaïr was more use to and really preferred it
the other way.
Altaïr’s study of Naheem revealed surprising discoveries. The teen really was
hardly that. He matched Malik’s height and as proof needed new pants. He may
yet sprout higher to meet Altaïr’s height. He was filling out muscularly with
the training of the last few months and stood fairly straight despite the leg
injury. Altaïr concluded that Naheem would probably keep the round cheeks and
dimples forever, kind of hoped he would. Naheem was a man who made a decision
he was willing to accept the consequences of. Naheem’s eyes held only trust and
Altaïr swore not to ever break that or lose that. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes,” murmured Naheem.
Altaïr guided Naheem to the carpets and cushions then sought the salve from the
belt pouches he had removed. The sun warmed everything or was it the rising
rush of blood for the experience? When Naheem started to undress, Altaïr
stopped him. “Let me.” He turned Naheem and gave him a gentle shove to be on
all fours.
Naheem swallowed, but obeyed. He could hear the slight rustle of fabric behind
him imagining that Altaïr was likely dropping his pants and readying. Naheem
did not feel ready and worried about this, suddenly doubting his decision. His
muscles jumped when Altaïr knelt behind him and rested a hand on his lower
back. Altaïr said nothing as he pushed a pillow under Naheem and laid a cloth
over it. Naheem at least was used to Altaïr’s silence, and only looked over
curiously trying not to let his nervousness show.
Altaïr debated much in his head about this lesson. He would never have done it
if he were not asked. He reached around and undid the ties to Naheem’s pants.
Pulling them back and down, he noted how fair and unscarred the young man was.
Altaïr was nervous, too. Naheem thought he had so much experience. Altaïr only
had receptive experience. He closed his eyes and tried to remember things Malik
taught him and things his own Master taught him. “It will hurt. It would be
better if we worked you up to it, but that takes time and repetition. I’ll use
a lot of salve and I’ll go slow.”
Naheem felt Altaïr’s firmness press slickly against him. It felt bizarre being
rubbed back there with no fabric between them. His only last experience of that
with clothes on was in that ruined church a while back. Altaïr’s hand slid over
Naheem’s manhood till it stiffened. It helped ease his anxiety; well it turned
this more into a thrill than a worry.
“Remember how I showed you to breathe and relax certain muscles?” Altaïr asked
leaning over Naheem’s back to speak in his ear. Naheem’s breath caught but he
nodded. “Then relax you ass.” It sounded crude, and yet not to Naheem’s ears.
When he felt poked, he knew instantly what Altaïr meant. Instinct made him
clench instead of relax.
AltaïrgGently coaxed by arousing Naheem to distraction then pushing in far
enough to be past the crown. He knew it hurt Naheem by the small outcry.
“Shhhh… I warned you it would hurt. It won’t hurt for long. Breathe with me and
relax this. It will go easier.” He breathed slow and long in Naheem’s ear till
he felt the novice matching him, “Good.” He slightly rocked to test the tension
and get Naheem a little used to the feel of being penetrated. Each rocking
eased the way and Naheem began to relax and move with Altaïr. Only then did he
deepen his rocking little by little.
Naheem thought Altaïr would be a rough fierce man, as he was in all other
things. This surprised him. Altaïr was slow, careful, and gentle. Naheem
thought this would be invasive and uncomfortable. It was at first. It hurt like
hellfire for a minute or five, and then he started to lose sense of the world
in the sensations front and back of him. He heard Altaïr struggle to maintain
steadiness of breath and movement. There was an excitement at knowing he was
pleasing his mentor in ways that were difficult to control. He felt pressure
build and knew he was close to his own release. He could not help tightening
and tensing his muscles. His fingers dug into the carpets.
Altaïr gripped Naheem’s hip with one hand as he tried to pleasure him with the
other. Virgins, they always had this knack of making it impossible to last long
or stay focused. Altaïr had forgotten how good this felt. Men and women had
their own unique feel and he liked them both. However, as he drew close to
orgasm, speeding his gentle thrusts and deepening them till he was fully
sheathed, he could not help but think of Malik, of that one time they had
together. He tried to keep his eyes open to stay focused on the fact that this
was Naheem, but that too swiftly became impossible. As much as Altaïr prided
himself on being quiet, soft groans escaped him.
Naheem was sure he heard Malik’s name in the soft groans emanating from Altaïr.
It didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the growing intensity that suddenly
exploded behind his eyes and shot down his spine into his groin and out. Altaïr
came soon after. The discomfort followed. The wrongness of having something
inside him, made Naheem wanted to tell Altaïr to get off. He whimpered.
Altaïr heard the whimper and knew reality must be catching up now, and likely
regret. He eased back and spoke softly, “You will ache, and it will be leaky
and messy. Use a towel and go straight to the waste grill. I’ll prepare wash
basins for us.” He removed himself carefully and covered himself with a cloth
offering a spare towel to Naheem.
Naheem sat over the waste grill in the kitchen area for a long while deciding
that he did indeed regret this experience. There were moments in it that were
incredible, orgasmic, and ecstatic. But as a whole, he did not like the feel of
the initial pain, the invasiveness, and now the disgusting after effects. He
felt gross through and through and concluded he would never do this again. Each
time he tried to get up off the grill he sat back down. This was decidedly not
fun. He felt like he would leak crap forever. He buried his face in a hand
worrying what to do now.
Altaïr showed up dressed and frowned to himself. “I told you not to ask for
something you were not willing to follow through on.”
“I was willing!” Naheem protested. “I just… I … Don’t like this… here… now… I
feel disgusting…” He felt embarrassed, too, which did not help his predicament.
“Basins for washing are ready for you.” He offered another towel and collected
the dirty ones for washing.
“I don’t know how you could want this,” Naheem took the proffered towel and
apologized for his tone when he saw his mentor’s withdrawal. Altaïr’s
expression darkened and he turned away from Naheem leaving the novice to make
his own way out to wash and redress.
When Naheem made it out to the basins, Altaïr had opened the lattice roof and
was gone. He cursed aloud. He cleaned everything and washed the towels and
stretched them to dry. He opened the lattice more fully and fed the pigeons.
Then he started dinner for everyone glancing at Malik’s instructions for
cooking. By the time he was done, and the majority of the experience had faded,
he was satisfied as a whole with having gone through it. He now knew what it
was like and that he would rather not do so again.
Altaïr did return for dinner. Naheem handed him a plate with a warm smile. He
was rewarded with a softer look and a slight smile in return. Altaïr sat to eat
while Naheem did his best to run the Bureautill Malik returned, and do so
without sitting on the stool. The sun had not set yet and Naheem wondered where
Malik was. “Master Altaïr? I think I want to check if Master Malik needs a hand
carrying anything back. It is not like him to be late and…”
“Lock the lattice when I leave,” Altaïr ordered. “I’ll follow you.” Altaïr did
not expect the anxiety to hit him in the gut as hard as it did. Malik was
probably fine. Malik would probably be in the foulest of moods to find that not
just Altaïr but also the novice went out for him. Malik would blame Altaïr for
Naheem coming along. They went anyways.
Chapter End Notes
     .... .... .... .... and satisfaction brought him back.
***** Malik: Betrayed *****
Chapter Notes
     ***start rant ***
     I hate hate hate fight scenes. I HATE fight scenes! HATE THEM… grrr…
     correction… I love fight scenes. I HATE WRITING FIGHT SCENES. Hate
     writing them! I suck at writing them! Apologies to all those who read
     this who can write them better than I can. After rewriting this
     chapter more than eight times… I give up and am posting it anyways.
     *** end rant ***
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Lock the lattice when I leave,” Altaïr ordered. “I’ll follow you.” Altaïr did
not expect the anxiety to hit him in the gut as hard as it did. Malik was
probably fine. Malik would probably be in the foulest of moods to find that not
just Altaïr but also the novice went out for him. Malik would blame Altaïr for
Naheem coming along. They went anyways.
                     ------------------------------------
“He should be easy to follow,” the blond woman handed over a small bag of coin
to the eager guard.
He grinned ruthlessly at her, “A pleasure. I have been waiting to get to him.
Thank you for the tip. Crips like him ought not have such plush and opulent
jobs. I will be sure to put him out of service for you.” He bounced the bag of
coin in his hand before dropping it into his own belt pouch and striding off to
the market square.
                     -------------------------------------
Malik enjoyed the brief break with his informant’s family. It was a needed
break without novices and annoyances and annoying novices. This would not have
been possible without a novice assistant and he regretted denying having one
this long. Then again, Naheem had turned out to be much more reliable and
skilled in the position of rafiq than Malik had anticipated. He had to admit
that Altaïr made the very best choice of apprentice for him. This exceptionally
good day deserved a good reward for his good novices, providing Altaïr
continued to be good. That was never a guarantee. Although, Altaïr should be
out or even back with some news from his information hunting.
As reward, Malik detoured to the market. Altaïr loves pears. Maybe I can get
some more for him. Naheem likes those powdered jelly deserts that taste of
rose, the ones I got last week that he ate all of. Malik chuckled. He had
gotten only a few to try the imported dessert. Imports like that were pricy,
but Malik thought Naheem was worth the price.
This morning’s sparring with Altaïr did wonders for Malik’s ego. He did
sometimes wonder if Altaïr let him win, but after fighting off his own self-
doubts and remembering he was always the better swordsman, he confidently
accepted his win. Altaïr won when he was desperate or fighting for his life, a
target, or teaching others a lesson. Whenever he fought with Malik he never
focused quite enough. Even though Malik wanted to see Altaïr fight his very
best with him, he valued the fact that Altaïr believed Malik the better and
able to pin him. That thinking meant Malik could still pin Altaïr when the time
came and the necessity arose, like the nightmare last night. That was a bad
one. Malik wanted to read the journal and promised to when he returned to the
bureau. For now, he smiled to himself at the almost goofy mood Altaïr was in
this morning. It was rare, too rare. He hoped to see it again. Pears indeed,
and honey. If I remember, he really likes hot pears with honey over them. Too
sweet for my liking, but… he’s worth that too, I suppose.
He bought some of all the items he thought about; glad he had brought a side
satchel to carry them in. Tibah ran out of her stall to greet him and ask about
Naheem. “I did see Naheem training yesterday! But it caused a little more
trouble than I expected. He is so sweet. Will I get to see him again?” He
raised a brow clearly not understanding her bubbly babble and followed her to
the apothecary stall where he politely greeted her father. There Malik learned
of Naheem’s fiasco. Malik wanted to groan how novice and mentor were clearly
too much alike, except Naheem was also his novice.
Tibah leaned into her father’s arm, “Naheem brought me flowers, my favourite
flowers, jasmine and honeysuckle. It was amazing seeing him about without
crutches or a cane or anything.”
Malik and Tibah’s father both sighed, though for very different reasons. Her
father clearly had not had any peace from the encounter. Malik could not be
more relieved that Naheem and Tibah had a positive experience that he hoped
could lead to more. “My nephew’s excursions yesterday took its toll some.”
“I can make a medicine or a salve for his leg wound. Should it be a hot one? Or
a cool one? What wound did he have?” Tibah’s father gave up on trying to say
anything to Malik, only looked at him pleadingly whereby Malik shrugged
innocently.
“Thank you, miss Tibah, for the offer,” Malik took out a coin from a hidden
pouch and handed it to her father. He then described Naheem’s wound to Tibah
naming the muscles that were cut to free the arrow and clean the infection,
along with the state in which it was healed. Tibah’s father observed as Tibah
pondered the wound and made a suggestion of a salve that earned a nod of
approval from her father. Malik and her father quietly redebated the issue of
suitors while Tibah prepared the little pot of salve. As she handed the salve
over, Tibah’s father was grudgingly willing to consider the possibility of
Naheem courting his daughter. Tibah squealed and hugged her father. Both men
had not expected her to have been eavesdropping so well on them.
Malik tucked the salve into the side satchel with his fruit and planned his
route home. He always tried to take a different route. Targets who stuck to
routine were easy targets. Malik wove through the late afternoon crowd as he
avoided any contact with guards or thugs as best he could. A glance over his
shoulder as he stepped to an alley proved he could still see Tibah who watched
him from her stall smiling. Malik tapped his mouth and watched her raise her
veil more properly. He shook his head chuckling as he turned.
An iron grip sent pain up his stump to his shoulder and up the other arm to
that shoulder moments before the wall and his back slammed into each other. The
second the hands released him, Malik braced to run. The guard’s fist thudded
hard into his gut then into his face till he hit the ground. Another impact in
the gut came from the soldier’s boot. This was not the average attack and
torment. This was deep intent to harm or kill. Malik fought internally against
his instincts to fight back. That ended when the familiar sound of steel
leaving a sheath caught his attention. This attack was aimed for his life and
he had no intention of losing his life. Instinct kicked in and faltered as the
pommel of the guard’s sword cracked into his brow and again into his mouth.
Malik spat blood and pulled the little knife from his belt. His world slowed to
each breath. The guard laughed and stepped in to hit Malik again. It earned the
city guard a few well-placed cuts too skilled to be of an average map maker and
scribe. “Assassin,” murmured the guard as he started to recognize moves and
some of Malik’s clothing under the black robes. Malik lunged to kill, but his
vision was too blurred from the earlier blows. His knife cut the man’s face.
Pain shot through Malik again as a knee hit his gut. Malik doubled gasping.
Plunging his tiny knife into the city guard as he dropped.
Blood dripped in front of Malik’s face. A string of Arabic cursing spat at him.
A scream from a voice that sounded like Tibah split the air. The guard bolted.
Kadar and Tibah arrived. Everything went dark for a few moments then light and
full of pain then dark. The fluxing of this made Malik nauseous.
Chapter End Notes
     *grumbles more at awful fight scene*
***** Altair: Monster *****
Chapter Summary
     short chapter to remind people that sometimes… Altair IS a monster…
Naheem knelt there, too. Malik wondered where he came from and why. Naheem
asked again, for the secondtime? For the third time? “Uncle, Malik, what
happened, who did this?”
 
It was Tibah who answered in a shocked whisper, “I saw a city guard hit him.
They fought. He stuck the vile man good. I hope that guard bleeds to death for
this. They are getting to be such thugs these days.”
 
If there was more, Malik didn’t know as he blacked out again.
 
Malik did not see Naheem turn to someone and nod. “He will be dealt with. Let’s
get you home.” Naheem helped Malik to his feet with Kadar’s aid. “I got him,”
Naheem said sternly to the young man he did not know to be Tibah’s brother. “I
got him, thank you.”
 
Malik tried to protest that he was fine as the humiliation started to set in.
Naheem ignored him. When Malik had better control of his feet, he shoved Naheem
aside to walk on his own. “I am NOT crippled.”
 
Naheem stepped in front of Malik and crossed his arms. “No, you aren’t. But,
you are hurt and you told me there is no shame in accepting help when you are
hurt.”
 
Malik hated more than anything having his own words thrown back at him. He
relented and let Naheem help him back to the Bureau. “And how are you going to
deal with him?” Malik asked suspiciously.
 
“I am not. He will be dealt with, though.”
 
Malik sighed Altaïr’s name. His humiliation now included Altaïr witnessing his
failure to fight back and his failure to fight close quarters and his failure
to kill… and his failure to remain passive to the attack. Truth be told, the
guard aimed to kill him. That was a first. The guard called him an assassin. In
a way, that bolstered his sense of self. It also told him he and the Bureau
were compromised. “We need to move the Bureau.”
 
“No we don’t. Not yet. I said he would be dealt with. He’s marked. You marked
him good. I saw the blood. He won’t get far.” Naheem reassured Malik.
 
Tracking the blood was easy. Altaïr followed it till he saw the guard. There
were two other’s with him now. Malik had left a throwing knife in the man’s
leg. Like an eagle dropping upon prey in the alley, Altaïr crashed down among
the guards. His left hand shot out. The hidden blade deeply embedding in the
throat of one guard. He spun drawing his short knife for the narrow alley and
cut down the second guard while the wounded one fumbled for his sword and for
balance.
His scream of assassin was smothered and cut short.
Altaïr pounced on him and cut the insides of his elbows. He forced the guard’s
face into the alley’s wall and gashed the backs of his knees. Then he stripped
the man of his sash and bound and gagged him with a long length with which he
used to haul the man onto the roof and out of sight.
Altaïr turned cruel when he was furious. He wounded instead of killed. He
prolonged the agony. This man dared lay a hand on Malik. He would suffer. The
guard begged, muffled through the sash. Altaïr managed to barely make out
words. He barely remembered the Creed and to never disrespect a target. He
didn’t really respect this one, but gritted his teeth and offered peace, for
Malik’s sake. Malik would want him to be an assassin and not lower himself to
the level of this guard.
The fog came unbidden. Altaïr cursed then took advantage. “Why did you do it?
Speak before I damn you to your Hell!”
“Was paid well to deal with a cripple, one who ought not be living well off the
rest of us…”
Altaïr’s face contorted into something furious and monstrous. The fog
dissipated. An assassin in robes more red than white walk away from a roof’s
alcove. The body left behind was no longer recognizable in the mass amounts of
blood sprays and body bits. Chunks of flesh stuck to crates. A skull mashed
open rolled lazily in the blood-soaked hay a few feet from the chopped up
remains of the body.
***** Malik: Injured *****
Malik heard the strangest noises. His mind puzzled over and over the gaps in
his memory. He had taken a beating in the market place. He had argued with
Naheem on the way to the Bureau. Yet now he was stirring in his bed with the
smells of his usual incense, the strange sound of chopping, and a little
distance away was the sound of Naheem vomiting.
Malik concluded he had collapsed or blacked out from the blows he had taken.
His stomach and chest ached from having been punched and kicked and kneed
there. His face hurt over the right cheek bone where the fist in studded
leather had hit him. A slight shift of his head brought pain where the pommel
of a sword struck several blows to his temple. The chopping sound ceased and a
moment later and soft cloth that was damp and ice cold gently lay over the
large lump on his brow.
“Next time, don’t miss with your knife. You are supposed to clean up my messes,
not the other way around.” Altaïr spoke quietly though it didn’t sound like
him. There seemed to be no emotion in the words, like a soulless being had
spoken.
“Instead, I have to clean up your mess, master Altaïr.” Naheem sounded very
grumpy. The tinge of blood scent and other smells of death wafted in the air a
little.
Malik curled in on himself briefly. He wanted to yell at them both, throw
things, but the waves of nausea prevented him. Then a wave of panic pushed him
to sitting, “We have to evacuate, move the…” He lurched forward into grey-clad
arms and a white robe. The clothing smelled of incense.
“Nothing is moving or evacuating. I dealt with them.” Altaïr pushed Malik back
into the bed and continued to tend the head wound.
Malik had a surreal moment where he hallucinated being once again in Masyaf in
the infirmary there. These same hands with their quiet tones and few words
tended him. It was a memory he had forgotten. “Altaïr,” murmured Malik.
As usual, there was silence from the eagle. But as Malik curled on his side,
Altaïr’s hand rubbed his back. As sleep overtook Malik again, he could vaguely
hear Naheem complaining in the background about the disgustingness of the robes
he was cleaning.
Naheem let out a short yell of horror. Several things crashed as he had lept
away from his discovery. A moment later, he was again vomiting over the waste
grill.
When Malik woke again it was to his name being called and then his shoulder
being shook. Naheem had learned not to touch before rousing with words. Malik
barely recalled that someone had done this almost every hour through the night.
Though this time, he sat up slowly. Naheem watched from beside him, unsure if
Malik should be getting up. Altaïr was asleep on the bed mat across the room,
though he rose at the sound of Malik rising. Altaïr always was the lighter
sleeper unless locked in a night terror.
Naheem handed Malik some water to drink. “You gave us quite a scare. I don’t
know what medicines you should have for the pain, I’m sorry.”
“Infusion of willow bark. That should do me well enough. And get me a mirror.”
Malik touched at the lump on his head, exploring it. Beside his bed was a wood
box with a block of ice that had been chipped at with a knife. That explained
the chopping noise he heard earlier and the ice cold compress. “Where did the
ice come from?”
Altaïr muttered from his bed, “I told Naheem to take coin and see the mountain
merchant. I could not find your other block of ice.”
Malik groaned. Ice was extremely expensive. It would not last long in their
climate either, maybe a couple weeks if that. He took the polished metal mirror
from Naheem and inspected his wounds more critically. Nothing seemed broken.
They did well for the obvious concussion. The bandaging around his chest was
primitive by his standards, Altaïr’s work for the possibly cracked rib he had.
He was bruised in many places. It would be days or even weeks for these to
fade. His bruised ego would take longer to heal. He had been saved and that was
humiliating. Thankfully, neither Naheem nor Altaïr were treating him like an
invalid.
“Malik. Someone hired him to kill you. Some merchant or other who thought you
did not deserve to be well off.” Altaïr stated flatly before flopping back to
sleep.
That news sat ill with Malik for the remainder of the night. Someone tried to
have me killed because I am doing well as a scribe and map maker? It seemed
preposterous.
This puzzle would annoy Malik for days. It annoyed him more when he eventually
figured out that Altaïr had asked only that far before killing the man and not
fully interrogating him. The two growled at each other for several days while
Altaïr hunted for information on his official assassination target. Good thing
Naheem remained mostly in good spirits and handled anything coming through the
front while Malik took things very easy and healed. Altaïr avoided Malik’s fury
and slept with Naheem on the carpets.
***** Altair's Lonely Soul *****
Altaïr eavesdropped from a bench in a courtyard or from the edge of a fountain.
He watched long from various high perches in the city and only returned to the
Bureau every few days. He hovered in the open-roofed room till greeted, wary of
Malik. If Naheem was at the counter, he approached with ease. Malik spied from
the back when he heard Altaïr’s voice.
Naheem lifted his chin and greeted Altaïr as professionally as he could, like a
Dai. “Safety and peace, Altaïr. Have you found anything? You were gone near a
week.” He pushed a plate of dried meats over to Altaïr, the ones he himself was
nibbling.
Altaïr accepted the food with a bob of his hood, his gruff voice deep and
hushed as he spoke. “I know where the funeral is being held now. At the
cemetery, in the north of Jerusalem. It is a commemorative service according to
the monks and scholars. I have seen some of the Templars dressed finely and
bearing expensive gifts. They plan to attend the Muslim funeral. I think it
would be a good place to take out Robert.”
Naheem was now used to Altaïr’s simple short statements. It was also how he
trained unless Naheem asked a complicated question, which he tried to do at
least once each time they met. “If the Madj Addin was such a horrible person,
why are they hosting a commemorative funeral service for him?” He had read
about the Regent’s assassination and reason for it.
Altaïr was not sure how to answer. It was a question that was in the back of
his own mind. “I… I don’t know.” He hated those words. I don’t know. Now he
wanted to know, badly.
Malik stepped out with some juice for them all. “Because it is a political move
by the new Regent. He is trying to change the negative perceptions that have
been left in the wake of the Madj Addin. By doing this, he shows he is a better
man, with respect even for those who may not deserve it. It also offers the new
Regent a chance to unite people in the city and encourage economy and
discourse.”
“Dis-what?” asked Naheem.
“Discourse,” Malik replied enjoying the opportunity to teach new and
intellectual vocabulary to both Naheem and Altaïr. “It means dialogue and
discussion along specific themes. The different scholars and religious leaders
here in Jerusalem would all starting to talk about this funeral and what it
means. The Madj Addin was cruel to everyone so this unites them all under the
same theme and allows them to talk about the same issues.”
Altaïr set a scrap of map on the table. “Robert’s men will be working with the
city guard. They are doubling the protections for the funeral.” He backed up a
little to let both Naheem and Malik look over the map. It did not look good. “I
can avoid them now that I know where they will be.”
“But when exactly IS the funeral?” Naheem got straight to the point. Nothing
would happen without that bit of knowledge.
Altaïr stayed only long enough to fill his canteens and pack some food. Naheem
tried to encourage him to stay and rest, but he protested.
Little did Naheem know, nor Malik for that matter, that Altaïr actually dropped
in every night like the eagle he was. He would land silently and look over
Naheem. His eyes often landed on the cane. Naheem still used it mostly for show
now, but sometimes after morning workout, he would really need it. In truth,
Naheem would likely always need it, and more so when he got older, if he lived
that long. The life of an assassin tended to be short.
Padding delicately from room to room, Altaïr explored the Bureau till he
watched Malik through the fake curtain/wall. Malik often groaned and shifted
trying to be comfortable with his injuries. Altaïr slipped in and took the
moment to rub Malik’s back and do what he could to ease the sleeping Dai. He
had to remind himself over and over that THIS was not his fault. What was his
fault was not properly interrogating the man who tried to kill Malik. Altaïr
lost his cool and… tore the man literally into pieces. Although he barely
recalled how he had killed him. Everything had gone red and then he was half
way to the Bureau soaked in blood.
Malik groaned again before finding comfort. He shifted a little more to offer
his back for more rubbing. Altaïr knew Malik was still asleep for Malik would
never allow this otherwise. Altaïr’s fingers ghosted over the facial bruises,
but Malik did not stir. In the darkness, Altaïr just barely made out a bottle
beside the bed. He recognized it as a painkiller of a sort, milder than what
Altaïr had been knocked out with in the past, but still effective. It must be
wearing off if Malik was groaning now and then. Malik likely took just enough
to help get him to sleep. He was a heavy enough sleeper that once asleep, he
would usually sleep through the night unless really awakened by something, like
a yell or a crash. Neither happened this night. “Safety and Peace, Malik,”
whispered Altaïr.
Altaïr came in again late one night and sat beside a sleeping Malik, writing in
his journal to the fading light of an exhausted oil lamp. He didn’t know where
Malik kept the lamp oil.
Robert’s men plan to attend the funeral. If it were anyone other than the Madj
Addin, I would have second thoughts. Doubling the guards poses a problem, but
the map I snatched will help me avoid most of them. Is that arrogant? Am I
being too sure? Maybe I should consider other possibilities, just in case?
Supposedly, Robert wants peace and that is why he goes to the funeral. But I
know the truth, the Master showed me the truth. He does not seek peace, but
control. Dominion over the land and the people. I will deny him this!
I have seen some of the Templars now, the armed ones not the finely dressed
ones. They seem well prepared. To fight them would be unwise. Should I lose
control of the situation, it might be best to make a brief escape and return
later to eliminate them one by one.
Reaching Robert might prove difficult given the number of guards. Maybe I could
join a group of monks or scholars. Then I could make my way to him much more
easily. The Creed. I will do my very best to hold to the Creed this time when I
face Robert.
Altaïr paused in his writing to yawn. He had been out searching for information
for days. Sometimes he crouched for hours through a night on a narrow ledge or
nook listening in at a window to Templars talking. This had been one of those
long nights of many, and he was tired, more than. He yawned again. Looking over
at Malik, he wanted to touch him, wanted to hold him or be held by him. This
was one of those stray frustrating moments where he felt the need to…. He
picked up his journal before he did actually touch Malik in ways Malik did not
want.
I can’t help wondering what I did wrong. I thought I did everything right, but
received no reward from the Master. He did not show his pleasure. Maybe I asked
too many questions. Maybe my questions were stupid. Maybe he was displeased
with my challenges. I should not have challenged him. Yet, he taught me no
lessons. I really thought he would when we were in the private office.
Every time I see a map, I wonder.
Every time I see Naheem’s cane, I can’t stop the small shake inside.
I need to feel that bliss. Yet, he denied me. How can I feel it for myself? How
will it bring me closer to...?
Sorry is not good enough, is it?
Altaïr yawned several times and curled up there on the floor beside Malik. He
abandoned the ink pot and quill and journal for a short nap, or what he hoped
would be a short nap. He was too exhausted to realize how hard he actually
slept or that he had curled close to Malik in his sleep.
Malik woke to warmth pressing into his back. He stirred warily and rolled over
to find Altaïr deeply asleep. His first concern was that Altaïr was hurt or
ill. Why else did he do this? But there didn’t seem to be any marks or
indications of either as his eyes roamed over the assassin. Then he noticed the
journal. He carefully sat up and frowned. He corked the ink bottle with an
annoyed tisk. The journal still read as moving from language to language every
time Altaïr changed paragraph. That was novel. Altaïr wrote in paragraphs now
and not either a single long pile of sentences or single sentence paragraphs.
Malik was proud of the effort. He laid back down facing Altaïr to watch him
sleep till sleep reclaimed him as well.
Altaïr blinked awake as the light changed in the room. He sat up swiftly,
gathered his things and hurried out to the main room to finish strapping on his
hidden blade. It would be true morning too soon from now, and Altaïr wanted to
be gone and hunting. He needed that crucial tidbit of information. When was
that funeral being held? He packed some bread and cheese into his belt pouches
and grabbed a pear from a tray, too. He would have to eat that soon or it will
become a smelly mush in his pouch. He filled his canteens while he watched
Naheem. He felt like he had neglected the teen and promised to stay next time
he came back, providing he had the time.
When he climbed out onto the roof, the sun was rising beautifully over the
city.
“Master Altaïr!” The cheer was soon followed by a 10-yr-old rushing into him
and hugging him.
Altaïr felt totally baffled by the experience of Junayd doing this. It seemed
distortedly wrong to be hugged on the roof of the Assassin’s Bureau by a child,
an assassin novice. “I am eleven! Today! Naheem told me that on your birthday
you have to hug someone special to share the good fortune or you have no good
fortune at all. So I am hugging you, because you are special, Master Altaïr.”
Junayd’s actions and words stirred more emotions than Altaïr was prepared to
deal with. He stood stalk still for several seconds before lowering his arms
around Junayd. After a breath or two he had to push Junayd to arm’s length just
to reign in his internal mess of feelings.
Junayd bounced back with a grin, oblivious to Altaïr’s discomfort. Altaïr
watched the boy hop and skip across the lattice like it was a game to not fall
through. He wondered where the child found the energy to be awake, this much
awake, this early in the morning… earlier since Junayd had to travel from where
he stayed to get here. The boy came to the end of the lattice, flopped on his
belly and leaned dangerously over the edge. “HELLO! Good morning! Naheem! WAKE
UP! I am ELEVEN! And I hugged Master Altaïr!!”
Altaïr heard a groan and watched a pillow hit the lattice. Junayd laughed,
rolled over the edge and hand-walked under the lattice till he could drop over
Naheem. There was a great yell and a tussling. Altaïr shook his head unable to
stop the grin that pulled at the corners of his mouth as the memory of the
crazy silly things he did at that age to Malik tickled his brain.
Then he was off, determined to find out the date and time of the funeral. The
awkward feelings spurred by Junayd and by the secret moments that Altaïr
watched over or cared for Malik cut deep into the awareness of how lonely he
felt. Altaïr climbed the very highest spire in Jerusalem. The wind tugged him
like his fierce emotions. The eagle cried loudly as it circled alone around the
top. Altaïr crouched in the eagle’s place, equally alone. No past. No mate or
true and equal friend. No offspring. He let the wind steal his own screams into
silence.
***** Malik: Enter Nina... *****
Chapter Summary
     All I can sat for this chapter is... Oh-oh.
There were decent nights and then there were the bad aching nights for Malik
with the cracked rib. The bruises were healing, the headaches easing, but
broken bones just took longer. Malik gauged everything against the pain he had
felt when they took his arm. This was very bearable. Then there were nights
that were more peaceful than any he had had.
He had one of those this night. He had woken to Altaïr curled up to him. At
first he had worried about Altaïr’s health, but he seemed physically fine.
Mentally and emotionally was another matter. Even as Malik tisked and corked
the ink bottle he knew this was a bad night for Altaïr. Much was written in the
journal that Malik promised himself to read later. He watched the deeply
sleeping assassin for a little while. Altaïr always seemed to have that
troubled frown when you managed to look under the hood. Malik fought the urge
to gently rub out the frown lines before they became permanent wrinkles on
Altaïr’s face. But sleep claimed him too soon for that forbidden touch to
happen.
He woke again, this time to the sounds of a yelling child, Junayd to be exact.
Soon Naheem yelled in surprise and frustration and it turned into quite the
fight. Malik rubbed his eyes and noted Altaïr’s absence. He didn’t worry if
Naheem would hurt Junayd. Naheem was remarkably too gentle. It sometimes made
Malik worry that perhaps being an assassin was not what Naheem was cut out for.
But that decision, he wanted Naheem to make for himself. He put himself
together and readied for the morning training with his two novices.
Junayd cheered often about his birthday and that he had hugged Altaïr. That
surprised Malik a great deal. Junayd had hugged Altaïr! He had to play with
that concept for a while in his head imagining it and wishing he had been awake
to witness it.
As the training came to a close, Naheem changed the flags outside for the
Bureau to be “open for business” as the scribe and map making endeavour it
masqueraded as. Before Naheem could re-enter the building, a mostly toothless
scruffy message boy ran up him. “Are you da rafiq? Madik? I haff a message.”
His missing teeth made pronunciations awkward and Naheen tried not to laugh.
“Uh, no and no but yes,” he confused the child. “This is the right place.
Please come in. My uncle Malik is here to receive your message.” He had seen
many little message children like this when he was taking care of his sick
mother (God rest her soul). The messages then had all been from his father and
the only indication that his father and mentor (God rest his soul) cared at all
for them beyond provisioning. Naheem guided the boy inside and gave him a cup
of fresh water and a piece of fruit.
Malik read the note the boy had brought in. So, Tibah’s father wants to meet in
a few days. Alright. It is an invitation to … look at his twins? Oh right!
Tibah’s mother recently gave birth to twins. Malik tucked the note into his
personal log book and neatly scribes a reply of agreement in five days’ time.
Naheem worked on a manuscript they were contracted for as Malik finished up a
map and set it to dry. He came to look over Naheem’s shoulder at the high desk
and gave some pointers for the filigrees in the corners of the pages,
explaining the symbolism for that particular rabbi’s interests. Naheem proved
very talented. Malik only truly realized how talented when he was permitted to
look through Naheem’s journal which had by far more sketches than words. It was
a practice book for him. Naheem seemed to have pages and pages of eyes, noses,
hands, facial expressions, bits of the interior of the Bureau, some remembered
landscapes, and more. Malik decided to help nurture this talent. He wrote a
request letter to an architect he had done some maps for to see if Naheem might
be permitted to spend a little time learning drafting. Beyond that, he ensured
now that he offered stimulating things for Naheem to try drawing.
The day went on quietly like this, productive and full of drawing. Between
projects, Malik read through Altaïr’s journal. He ignored the bad spelling.
Altaïr would never learn to spell. He remembered Altaïr once telling him that
the symbols (letters) never looked like they were supposed to and it frustrated
him too much to try to fight them onto the paper coherently. The moral
struggling that Malik read reassured him that Altaïr really had learned through
this experience and was really questioning his choices trying to make the wiser
choice and not the first impulsive thing that came to mind, if he even let it
get as far as his mind before acting.
The last pages, however, were dark and troubling. They read like a man addicted
to something and suffering withdrawal. Yet, Malik knew Altaïr was not addicted
to drugs of any kind. Could he be addicted to the sexual practices that Master
Al Mualim engaged in for training Altaïr? Malik tried not to think too hard on
that. People like that found all kinds of self-destructive ways of dealing with
that kind of trauma. It also reaffirmed to Malik that Altaïr was far from ready
from anything that could be called a loving relationship. Malik did not want to
become the next crutch in the addiction.
In the afternoon, Altaïr dared drop in. “Altaïr! Do you never look at the flag
outside!” snapped Malik in shock. What if clients walked in?! What if this blew
their cover?! Did Altaïr already abandon the Creed?! Never compromise the
Brotherhood.
“But Malik… I know now. I know when the funeral is scheduled for.” Altaïr’s
excitement soured instantly at Malik’s tone.
“Naheem, change the flags now, before someone comes in here. Dammit Altaïr.
What if I had someone in here? Some citizen?”
Naheem capped his inks and swiftly packed his scribe work so no possible damage
could befall it. Then he grabbed the cane and hurried to the trunk, grabbing
the “closed for the day” flag then changed his mind. The rising argument at the
counter only decided Naheem on selecting the flag that did say closed, but also
warned all Assassins and those in the Brotherhood to stay away. He opened the
door and changed the signs as a woman and child walked up to him.
She looked him up and down, “Well, you won’t last long. Be careful novice, or
the city guard might deal harshly with your… kind.” A chill poisonous slid into
Naheem’s stomach with epic realization. She strode inside the Bureau even as
Naheem protested to her. Naheem closed the door knowing it would be for the
best.
Malik froze mid-sentence of ripping into Altaïr about protocol. Altaïr turned
to see what successfully silenced Malik for a change.
“Nina…” Altaïr’s stunned whisper echoed loudly through the main room.
***** Nina's Revenge on Alrair *****
Chapter Summary
     The asp has struck true.
Malik froze mid-sentence of ripping into Altaïr about protocol. Altaïr turned
to see what successfully silenced Malik for a change.
“Nina…” Altaïr’s stunned whisper echoed loudly through the main room.
Malik breathed a colourful curse in Hebrew, “Satan’s saggy scrotum…”
A woman of average height and build stood in the room dressed as any
traditional Muslim might. Her fair skin, pale eyes, and stray blond locks
defined her as foreign. She adjusted the child on her hip who whimpered at the
strange surroundings and the strange people. His eyes grey and gold, they would
be amber gold like Altaïr’s when he grew older. A single blond curl hung like a
feather light wisp on the baby’s brow.
Her sharp eyes stabbed each man where they stood and pinned Naheem back into
the door. Altaïr clenched and unclenched his fists and jaw trying to sort out
exactly what was happing or about to happen. Malik was not affected, having
encountered her already. Malik stepped around the counter through the gate and
passed Altaïr.
Before Malik could say a word he was cut off. “Defending him again, Malik? He
is not some little boy.” Malik snapped his mouth shut to swallow the terrible
things he almost said in front of the child. “I figured I would find Altaïr
here at some point. I also figured he would be arrogant enough to completely
ignore the Bureau’s oh so important signage. Even us wives learn to obey it.”
Naheem already could see why Altaïr divorced himself of this woman. She was
evil incarnate as far as Naheem was concerned.
Altaïr stepped forward his eyes still on the small child as his mind calculated
the baby’s age and the likely length of time of pregnancy. The almost golden
eyes alone spoke volumes of who his father was.
“Don’t step any closer, assassin.” Nina tightened her hold on the baby. The
baby fussed.
“Is he… is he really mine?” asked Altaïr with such wonderment it broke both
Malik and Naheem’s hearts.
Nina scoffed. “Amazingly, yes. Despite your calling out Malik’s name when
fucking me. I am amazed a sodomite like you could manage to spill your seed in
the right place at all.” The baby started to cry. “I wanted you to know you
spawned something. I wanted you to feel what it is like to have something you
wanted more than anything in the world taken away from you. Now you know. I am
leaving. Get your look now, Altaïr, for this is the last time you will ever see
your son.”
She turned on her heel. Naheem bolted out of her way like she was the Devil.
The baby wailed again. Altaïr stretched out a hand wanting so badly to touch…
his… son.
Over her shoulder, Nina shot a warning, “Oh, and if I even think I see or sense
one of the Brotherhood, or especially you, following me or watching me or
anything… I hand him to the Templars who want him oh so badly.”
Naheem regretted not locking the door. The baby wailed loudly with the heavy
tension in the room. Naheem shrank from Nina and she left unhindered as she had
planned. Planned. It took months to plan this encounter. She was surprised to
see Malik alive, but that didn’t matter. Now Malik and that novice knew
Altaïr’s shame. No man would openly admit he was in love with his best friend,
let alone Altair to Malik. So she let the truth out, very openly. Her revenge
was exacted so smoothly that she smiled to herself, never looking back on the
Bureau.
***** Malli: Fallout *****
The Dai and the novice knew Altair too well. Naheem slammed the bolts of the
door lock into place as Malik put himself between Altair and the door. Of
course Altair would want to try to go after Nina. It was HIS child she had, had
and kept from him. Altair felt like he had tunnel vision and at the end of the
tunnel were the door and Nina and his… his son. And Malik in the way. Nina’s
words had not really been heard.
“No Altair, you cannot go after her. You don’t want to risk your son. There is
enough danger with a Hunter after her.” Malik’s words trickled warningly.
Then it clicked. A mix of panic and fury and desperation drove Altair into
action. “You knew! You… you knew she was here! You knew she had a child… MY
child… my SON?! You knew and didn’t tell me?!” The rest was unintelligible.
Naheem’s eyes widened and he dove out from where he was between Malik and the
door as Altair roared and rushed Malik, slamming him into the locked door. The
fight was ferocious. To Naheem, a madness seemed to overtake Altair. He backed
away from the fighting men till he bumped into the counter. It was like
watching two feral cats fight in the back yard of his mother’s house.
Malik did not defend himself verbally, but he sure fought back with Altair.
They rammed into the large crate of vellum, cracking the wood of the box.
Naheem winced knowing that Malik must have recracked his ribs from that.
They crashed into the chess table smashing it to bits and sending pieces
flying. Altair’s hidden blade snapped out and sparked off the stone floor as
Malik dodged.
Naheem recalled Altair’s robes covered in gore that he had washed a couple
weeks ago and went white. He screamed at them, “STOP! Master Altair! STOP!
STOOOP!!! You are hurting him! Stop fighting! PLEASE! Altair!!” It did no good.
Naheem ran through the gate into the back. If this trick worked with fighting
cats, then maybe it would work with these fighting men. Naheem knew Altair
disliked water after all, just not by how much or the reasons why.
There was another clatter and crash, wood breaking. Naheem guessed that was the
desk chair or the table or both. His heart pounded fast with worry for Malik.
What if Altair did to Malik what he did to Malik’s attacker? As quickly as he
could, he struggled with a large basin of water. He slid it onto the counter
and pushed through the gate. The men were tumbling and wrestling and yelling at
each other in various languages, many Naheem did not understand, or at least
using words Naheem had not learned. He got as close as he could to the tangle
of arms and legs. He tried hard not to look if there was blood, too afraid he
might see some. Then he dumped the basin full of water over their heads and
jumped out of the way.
To Naheem’s relief, his mentors sprang apart like soaked cats gasping and
sputtering and coughing from the water. What he did not expect was what
followed. Malik yelled Naheem’s name like a chastisement. Altair scrabbled to
the edge of the wall where he stopped and gasped with a completely blank look
that teetered on the edge of terror.
“Don’t EVER do that Naheem! Not ever!!”
“But Master Malik, he was hurting you! I thought… I thought I was doing the
right thing. I thought he was hurting you…”
Malik peeled off his wet black robe. “Get towels and clean dry clothes for us
both,” he snapped. “I’m fine, bruised but fine. Altair would never truly hurt
me.” Malik was not totally sure of that, but it was said more to reassure
Naheem.
Altair swam in a sea of internal panic. Water everywhere. Drowning. Drowning.
He coughed and gulped desperate air. He saw nothing but the water. It permeated
his clothing.
Naheem dashed off to do Malik’s bidding.
Malik knelt near Altair and touched his shoulder. He jumped a little at
Altair’s swift movement. Altair grappled around Malik, clinging to him like a
life-line, like a drowning man. “Altair, it’s ok. I got you. I got you.” Malik
held him back, firmly, listening to the shallow and fast breathing. As Naheem
approached, Malik instructed, “Altair, we need to get your armor and weapons
off. You have to let me go.”
There was a short strangled whimper and Altair gripped Malik’s robes tightly.
“One hand at a time then,” suggested Malik. And so it went painfully slowly.
Altair relaxed just one hand and Malik told Naheem to remove the bits of armour
and weaponry a little at a time.
As Naheem removed the waist armour, Altair started sobbing into Malik’s
shoulder. “I have a son… I couldn’t hold him, not even touch him.”
“I’m sorry Altair,” apologized Malik. “I wanted so badly to tell you, but I
knew she would threaten this. I have done everything I can to send the Hunter
astray of her.” Malik tried to soothe this deeply saddened man. He knew how
badly Altair had wanted a child. Now to know he had one and watch it being
taken from him and used as a tool like this was torturous.
While Altair sobbed out his loss and frustration, Malik hatched a plan in his
mind. Altair deserved to hold his son. Malik intended to make it happen, at
least once.
***** Altair: Calm After the Storm *****
While Altair sobbed out his loss and frustration, Malik hatched a plan in his
mind. Altair deserved to hold his son. Malik intended to make it happen, at
least once.
After several minutes, the sobs broke up awkwardly and Altair forced himself
back away from Malik, humiliated to have been seen so vulnerable. He fought to
gather his wits, though they seemed so scattered. I have a son. And if I try to
see him, she will give him to the Templars. Each breath came with great tension
as he forced calm over himself.
Of all things, this was the scariest thing for Naheem to witness. Altair felt
nothing in moderation. Everything was in extremes. The frightening thing was
how he could go from heartbroken to ice cold control in a matter of some
focused minutes made Naheem shiver.
The control and calm was only outward. He stood a little unsteadily as he
stripped off his wet clothes. He flinched at the small splash his feet made in
the puddle of water around them. His fists clenched a moment. Then he dressed
as Naheem handing him dry clothing. Malik did the same once he was satisfied
with Altair’s physical stability. The welts looked angry over his body. Naheem
helped him dress and thankfully said nothing.
Malik suggested sitting in the back to talk. Altair’s strides seemed so sure,
however passing the sounds of the fountains made his teeth chatter
uncontrollably till he finally sat on the spare bed. Malik stepped back out and
motioned Naheem over. Silently, Naheem helped Malik tend to his wounds and
brace the ribs… again.
In the back, alone and quiet, Altair gathered his thoughts. He closed his eyes
and recalled the image of that baby. I have a son. What is his name? How old is
he? When was he born? He sighed a shuddering sigh. How has she stayed hidden?
How has she avoided a Hunter from Masayf?
He did not hear Naheem and Malik whispering to each other. Under normal
circumstances he could have if he wanted to focus on doing so. However, Altair
was deep in his own thoughts.
“Master Malik?” Naheem asked nervously, “She threatened me when she entered.
Threatened me that I should be careful or the guards would deal with me. She
knew Master Altair was here, but not you.” Naheem nibbled his lower lip
wondering if he had to say more or not about his hypothesis.
“Thank you, Naheem. I will make sure that does not happen.” By the very dark
expression on Malik’s face, Naheem knew that Malik instantly puzzled out who
had hired the guard to try to kill him. Altair didn’t need to know that right
now. It would only complicate things even more, if that were at all possible.
Altair lifted his head as Malik entered through the curtain into the back.
Naheem remained out front to clean up the extensive chaos from the explosion of
emotions. The journal sat in Altair’s lap unopened. “I want to write in it, but
I don’t have the words.” His hand stroked the soft leather of the almost full
journal.
Malik sat on a cushion close to Altair. “The words will come.”
They spent the next couple hours discussing the situation of Nina. Malik
updated Altair on everything he knew of Nina from the time she was reported in
Jerusalem through all the sightings, her habits, and how they have been dealing
with the Hunter. “If the Hunter gets to her, she will run or give the baby up
to the Templars. Either way, she will resist him and not return to Masyaf
willingly. That means the Hunter will kill her and take the baby to Masyaf
himself. But your son is too young to be without a wet nurse for that long.”
Altair nodded his understanding. He had calmed and tugged his hood up for
comfort.
“You still have a mission, Altair.” Malik’s tone held an unasked question.
Altair answered it. “I know. I can do it.” He pinched his eyes and sighed
again. Nina was so much trouble from beginning to end. It made him miss Adha
who was gentle, sweet, and courageous. Nina was a deadly viper. Altair had
referred to her as such on occasion when he and Malik still spoke to each other
before the mission to Solomon’s Temple. Now Altair had to do his mission and
try NOT to be spotted by Nina in case she thought he was following her. His
heart felt so heavy. He wanted to curl up into Malik and forget the world, but
he didn’t dare.
They both heard mild cursing in the main room as Naheem stepped on a chess
piece by accident while cleaning.
“Do you want something to eat?” Malik asked, but Altair shook his head.
Altair curled up in a small ball on the bed, hugging his journal to his chest.
Malik pulled a blanket over him and patted his shoulder. Then Malik left to
check on Naheem and help out there. In truth, he just sat and watched and
steeped some willow bark tea. The hurting started to really set in now.
That night, Altair’s night terrors were especially bad and many. It was a
couple days before Altair could really get back enough real focus to track down
more information on his target, Robert. He did recall the date of the funeral.
It gave him a little over two months to plan. That news was relayed to Al
Mualim who promised to send assassins to start to deal with the growing number
of Templars in the city.
***** Malik's Offer *****
Malik often remained quiet, even during morning training sessions. His thoughts
determinedly puzzling out the situation of Nina and the baby. He observed and
gave verbal pointers to his apprentices, but could not participate or
demonstrate. Naheem knew then that Malik had been hurt when Altair exploded.
While Naheem helped rebandage Malik’s ribs, Malik asked, “Tell me again what
Nina said to you.” He had asked this every day. Naheem knew the scene by heart
now.
They weighed the danger of her knowing so much about this place. Since no
Templars came snooping about, Malik concluded that they were still safe. Nina
would keep this secret if only to make sure she knew where Altair could be
found should she want to damage him more.
Malik agreed with Naheem that Nina must have been the person to hire the guard
to attack him. For that reason he wanted to keep Naheem close or travel
together only. Naheem didn’t mind. He didn’t think it was insulting at all. He
knew his skills with a blade were not yet good enough to fight someone really
trained with one, and his hand-to-hand combat skills were still rudimentary.
What pleased him more was that Malik would have company. The apprentice could
happily break politeness and be blamed for being a teen or being new or both.
It worked out well for getting supplies.
There was a meeting in the Bureau for all informants and any assassins in the
city. The Hunter was not there. Remarkably, Altair was. Though, truth be told,
Altair slept there most nights to avoid potentially encountering Nina in the
night. This meeting was about just that. Malik addressed them all about Nina
and her warning. It was not just a warning against Altair, but everyone. She
knew who they were and how to identify them. Pissing her off could endanger
them all, not just the baby.
Naheem woke to Altair’s inability to sleep after that meeting, the knowledge of
Nina and the baby again raw in his heart. Naheem wrapped himself around Altair
to try to comfort him, as he often did for his own mother when she was so upset
by her pains and illness. Malik came in the morning to discover this. At first
he was not sure what to make of the sight before him and felt embarrassed by
the twinge of jealousy that rose in him. But Naheem was not asleep. Naheem
turned a little to see Malik, deep pity in his eyes. Malik understood. Altair
was hurting in places he could not heal and Naheem was trying to do the only
thing he could think of, do what Malik would have done if Malik had been there
to know from the start.
Malik quietly prepared breakfast. He chose to let them both rest there. “Novice
Naheem,” Malik whispered to not wake the emotionally exhausted Altair, “I need
to go out and speak with Tibah’s father and see how their newest children are.
I fear they may have a problem. I’ll be back later today. Manage the Bureau as
I showed you, as best you can.”
It was too early for most people to be up. Malik veered clear of guards and
slipped from shadow to shadow, employing sneaking skills he had not used in
over a year. He felt rusty and pushed to recall each lesson. Finally he arrived
at Tibah’s house. He was let in where he greeted a servant.
“Girls.” Tibah’s father adored them and lamented. “Why oh why could I not have
had more sons!” He had one, but Kadar as his second wasn’t likely to ever have
children. That comment hatched another part of Malik’s plan in his head. He
looked in on Abby. The man was healing well and starting to engage in the
family business. Malik patted Tibah’s father on the back and told him he
inherited a new son and should rejoice.
“Oh great. Yes, I have two sons. I might as well say I have six for the
husbands of daughters I have. None of their children are carrying on my family
name. And Abby is not about to birth a child nor plant one in Kadar.” It was
not true grouching, but more amused grousing. He was too happy with the twin
baby girls.
The babies were now a month old and just barely able to be viewed. Premature
babies tended to be fragile and easily susceptible to illnesses. Malik was
invited to inspect them to assure they were healthy and fine. Mother and twins
retired right back into the hiding of germ free rooms immediately after.
Tibah’s father then drew Malik into a private room to discuss the matter of
Naheem courting Tibah despite his refusal. Malik played completely innocent,
claiming that he can’t control such a teen in love. The shock was that there
was another suitor with a fine offer for Tibah and he was considering it. His
concern with Malik’s offer was that it did not provide Tibah with anything
financial should Naheem die or other tragedies befall Tibah. The negotiation
that followed was painful and Malik hated bargaining for a human being. He
understood though. Dowries were to be gifts from husband and his family to the
bride to be her very own should anything happen and to compensate the bride’s
family for the loss of their daughter. Malik calculated the funding he had
hidden away and then calculated where he could sell the vellum to make up a sum
that could not be refused. He only hoped Tibah’s father could be patient enough
for him to sell the vellum. That in itself would be tricky as Malik had
informed Tibah’s father when he acquired the vellum by accident on his ship.
Malik then leaned his elbow on his knee. “How many people know you have twin
daughters?”
“Only the mute midwife,” replied the older man. “We dare not tell anyone till
the babies are three months, in case, you know… they don’t make it. We lost a
set of twin boys three years ago.”
Malik considered this information and thanked God for it. “Sorry for the other
loss. I am glad the little girls are doing well so far. You know you can call
on me any time for them.” It was a good way to make a friend he might need. “I
have an offer for you. How about a son in exchange for a daughter?”
The man laughed loudly at the preposterous idea. “Do you know how many families
made me such ridiculous offers?”
“I am serious. I son, who will know no one else as his father but you. A son to
carry on your name. If no one but a mute midwife knows you had twins, then… say
you had triplets.” Malik had the man hooked with the excitement of the idea,
and watched the wariness slowly set it.
“And how will you miraculously manifest such a thing? Steal one from the church
orphanage? I don’t want one of their flea-infested Christian babes.”
“No, not one of them. I have a babe, or will soon, that will need a milk mother
and a safe place to hide. I am offering you the son of the Altair Ibn-La’Ahad.”
Malik let that sink in and watched the man’s eyes grow wide.
“The Eagle had a son?”
Malik then took the time to explain the situation that had arisen with Nina,
the whole terrible truth of it. “He is a little older by a month than the
twins, but was also born small, so he could pass as the larger of triplets.
Will you do it?”
“The son of the Son-of-None will be cherished in this house.”
It was an agreement that would take time to happen. In the meantime, Naheem had
to play cool while Tibah’s father made some careful politics to turn down other
suitor without insult. Malik thought the time would be good for Naheem anyways
considering the fiasco of the last encounter. Also, Malik wanted to really make
some changes to Naheem’s training and their hands were somewhat full with the
Templars coming into town and the funeral and the contracts and missions to
handle, not that Malik divulged all that.
***** Altair: Comfort *****
Chapter Summary
     The comfort in another's arms... WARNING for the YAOI.
Chapter Notes
     So… why didn’t three assassins take out Nina when she was in the
     Bureau? First is shock factor. Second is that Naheem is not a killer,
     not really, likely not ever. Third, Altair was too stunned about that
     being his son. Fourth, to kill her might cause her to hurt the baby
     (drop it or worse, she might actually have her own small blade hidden
     under the blankets to stab it if they try to kill her, Malik believes
     that). Killing her has to be timed for when she does not have the
     baby in her arms. Malik is already plotting.
Altair slowly woke, feeling held and warm. At first he thought it was Malik.
The soft voice that greeted him from behind came from Naheem. His first impulse
was to jerk away and refute this invasive touch. His second was to curl into it
deeply in desperation and the need to feel held, loved. He gritted his teeth
against the urges and the rising want to feel more, more that helps one forget,
even if that forgetting is for but a fleeting moment. He gripped Naheem’s arms
and held them tight around himself as if he was going to fall apart into many
little pieces if Naheem let go.
Naheem held fast. “Master Malik will fix this. He fixes everything.”
Altair wished that were true and thought how naïve Naheem was for thinking such
a thing.
Naheem felt Altair relax in his arms after. He was not sure what else to say.
What could one say in the dark wake that Nina seemed to leave behind like oily
smoke that clung heavily to and ruined everything. Only in hindsight did Naheem
think of the million things he could have done, even as a novice assassin.
“Master Altair, what can I do?”
Altair tried to think of a proper suggestion. What would Malik tell him?
“Whatever you were told to do. Whatever you promised to do…” That sounded
right. That sounded wise. That sounded like Malik. Oh wait, those were once
Malik’s words to Altair.
Naheem interpreted his words very differently though.
Naheem held his breath and chewed his lip before swallowing hard. He took a few
steadying breaths. His nervousness resounded in the pace his heart took. He
wondered if he should get up and change the flags and lock the lattice roof. He
wondered if someone might spy them through the lattice. He shifted a little to
move away only to be held firm by Altair. The sense of risk was a mix of panic
and excitement. He tried to banish all thoughts and keep only the task in mind.
Like a mission, stay focused and let your body move as it needs to. It knows
how by instinct. It was something he learned while trying to walk wooden beams
placed on the floor. We start by learning to walk before we learn to run and
jump. So he decided to take this slow.
His eyes flitted about recalling the need for salve and breathing a silent
thanks to God for the pouches within his reach, though Altair would have to let
at least one of Naheem’s arms go if he was going to make use of that. Walk
before running, stupid novice! Naheem noted they were very clothed and that
nothing was going to happen in that state.
Altair felt Naheem’s small tenses and shifts through the teen’s thoughts
without knowing what those thoughts were. Naheem’s fingers caressed Altair’s
chest finally and he knew. He was afraid to hope, but his addicted need stirred
that hope anyway. He relaxed his grip on Naheem’s arms and kept his breath
steady in case he was wrong. Naheem’s hand fumbled its way down and Altair
sighed. Yes, let me feel and forget, just for a little while.
Altair gave in and closed his eyes finding himself trusting Naheem’s
inexperienced touch. In a way, the inexperience made Naheem more trustworthy
than someone experienced. His own hand covered Naheem’s to help guide it till
finally Altair was very hard and emitted a soft moan that was barely audible.
Naheem found this not unlike arousing himself and sensing Altair’s arousal also
aroused him. With some awkwardness, Naheem managed to undo each of their pants
and push them down far enough to be bare against one another while still lying
on their sides, spooning like lovers. Pressed between Altair, Naheem found that
part of Altair remarkable soft compared to the callouses and scars on the rest
of his mentor’s body.
Altair shifted his hips and Naheem gasped. It took a few more small shifts
before Naheem found a chaste pace. The room warmed from more than the early
morning sun and Naheem was sure he would sweat soon. His breath was heavy on
Altair’s neck. His bit his own lower lip again to keep himself quiet. Reaching
for the little salve jar was easy. Opening it was frustrating. He was sloppy
with his lubricating efforts. He needed to return to the gentle rocking to
refocus and to try to banish from his mind what he was about to do.
Altair had not realized how badly he wanted it till the reality of this
possibility was clear. He arched a little, wanting, wanting like a thirsty man
in the desert wants water. When Naheem finally adjusted into the right
position, he breathed, “there… yes… there…”
Naheem had never actively penetrated anyone or anything before. It was all
theory and fantasy… and female. He understood why Altair sometimes asked him to
close his eyes. He did so now and wondered if this is what Altair had done
before to answer the question of what it was like to be in a woman. He pushed a
little against the tight entrance, feeling it relax and open for him. He rocked
back and forth till the pressure grew then he knew he had pushed past the tense
ring of the entrance. He gasped aloud at the surprise of the sensation.
Altair groaned quietly into his hand and kept rocking to encourage Naheem to
continue.
Naheem bit hard on his lower lip. He pushed a little and found himself slightly
trapped as he pulled back, then pushed in again. It was like a gentle tug of
war that sent fire through his thighs. He deepened each push as he savoured the
feelings. He wondered how long he could hold out. He panted into Altair’s neck.
Pacing himself with their breathing. “How… how deep… How deep can I … go?”
Curiosity called the question out. Altair always answered the strange and
awkward questions.
“Very… please…”
The novice complied. Naheem did not last long though, not remotely as long as
Altair would have liked. That bliss was but seconds. Altair almost did not
finish with Naheem, but was grateful for the teen’s bravery and compassion and
effort. Altair hoped this might happen again with better results. Practice made
perfect after all.
Naheem did not feel as revolted by this act as he was by the reverse positions.
In fact, he concluded that he could do this again, maybe better next time.
Maybe with practice, he could become a very good lover. He asked Altair about
that.
Altair confirmed it for him. Your wife, when you have one, will be pleased well
by you.” Altair decided on today’s information hunting, he would also find
something for Naheem to help him court Tibah.
Without discovery, they cleaned up, ate food and got back to work. No one would
ever know what transpired. Before Altair left, he rested his hand on Naheem’s
shoulder. Those golden eyes softened as they looked at the teen. “Thank you,
Naheem.” He pulled up his hood and flew out the roof with the pigeons.
***** Malik Schemes *****
Chapter Summary
     Plot... plot... plot... much plotting is going on.
Considering the tentative success he had with Tibah’s father, Malik now needed
to ensure he could follow through with all his promises. He walked through the
streets thinking about to whom he could possibly sell the precious yet very
illegally obtained vellum. His found that his feet lead him to a set of stairs
where a black feather crossed a white one on the ground. Three stairs went up
to a door of a large building. It was where the Gnostics met. Malik picked up
the feathers recalling Tibah’s dreams and the other few yet very odd encounters
he himself had had.
Malik adjusted his side satchel, walked up the steps and knocked upon the door.
Nothing. He knocked again. Again nothing. He waited for several minutes then
once again knocked. Sighing at his failure, he descended the few stairs. The
door unlocked and creaked open, “Do you give up so easily, Master of the
Sword?”
Malik protested that he would have returned. The stranger laughed and invited
him up the stairs to the door. “Why have you come? Are you ready now to open
your mind? Are you ready for gnosis? For Sophia?”
Malik weighed this trick question, wondering if it was a trick at all. Am I
ready? For knowledge and wisdom? A couple years ago, he would have confidently
stated he was. Was I really that arrogant then? Was I really no better than
Altaïr? “No, I do not think I am ready.” The former Dai had stated so. Malik
was too wrapped up in his own world of affairs to be ready for this secret
order. Maybe when he was old and retired. “I have come with an offer of trade,
if you trade with coin.”
“We trade with knowledge, but sometimes coin for knowledge.”
Malik nodded, “How about for something worthy of recording this knowledge
upon?”
The man in the doorway seemed unimpressed, “We really can’t use paper. It is a
waste and does not last.”
“How about vellum?” Malik ventured in a quieter voice.
There was silence from the man, and then the door closed and locked. Malik
heard the man’s retreating feet and voices within. He waited, hoping. Many
moments later, the door opened again and he was invited inside. Victory! Malik
remained outwardly calm.
He was lead through a long room where men sat and discussed various issues over
drinks, game tables, hookah pipes. Inside, it appeared to be a house of sin.
Belly dancers entertained, though with their husbands close by. He saw all
kinds of men from all cultures in here. This was the other side of Gnosticism
Malik had heard tell of, their decadent ways, their fall into depravity. At the
end of the hall, there was a stair upwards and a series of rooms around the
stair. A door opened to a stair downward. And here I descent into Hell or meet
Shaitan. Oh wait, I have already done so.Malik mentally mused to himself till
his thoughts were silenced in awe.
The lower floor contained shelves of scrolls and books, alcoves of religious
relics, shrines to several religions practices. “No faith is turned from us.
All who seek to know, all who are ready, all who strive to be wise are welcome
in the halls of gnosis for Sophia. When you are ready, rafiq, we will be here
for you. This way, please.” Malik followed along trying to drink in the wonders
all at once. He entered a side room before English accented Latin Christian
prayers could call him to turn and look.
There he sat with an old man and discussed vellum and gold. The man spoke
Persian, not quite Arabic, but his Arabic came through clear enough. They made
a discreet arrangement. Malik wanted to hoard his vellum for his own writing.
But in the face of this, all this, he could not do it. Selling it to them would
make him one of the wealthiest men in Jerusalem. He decided to keep some,
enough for a few very important journals, the rest he agreed to part with. He
decided this would be best to keep secret. He had a feeling, that it would be
needed soon for the Brotherhood. Considering Robert’s first attack and the
costs of the recovery damage, Malik knew this fund could not be his alone. He
would make a small personal use of it for supplies, a dowry, books… He
immediately stopped planning, not wanting to jinx anything.
As he stepped out of the room to be guided back out and froze. His eyes fell
upon the large man chanting his slow Christian prayers. A Templar knelt there.
All of Malik’s instincts jumped. He had no suitable weapon to defend himself
with, no sword, and Altaïr had proved to him that he was not such a good
fighter in small close quarters like this. His guide noted the growing tension.
“We accept all who are ready to open their minds to knowledge and wisdom.”
After a pause the man then whispered, “Perhaps you could help us with him? We
have had a small rumour from a bird about your skills in doctoring. He gestured
for Malik to approach the Templar.
The large Englishman stopped his prayers in a slightly shaking tone. His head
turned a little at the sound of Malik’s hesitant approaching steps. In decent
Arabic he spoke, “I will not harm you. I can see you fear me.”
“I do not fear a Templar,” Malik almost spat out in his protest against the
truth of his feelings.
“No, you just hate instead. That is alright. My own hate me, too. I was caught
curiously reading the Quran and declared a blasphemer, a heretic and traitor.”
He turned and Malik could not help the swift intake of his own breath. “ ‘May
my eyes never again see such evil.’ That is what they told me before they
exacted their punishment. God is All, though. I pray for peace within and
without now. I pray… He can…” He turned away.
Malik could hardly believe the sight. The blood was just dried on the man’s
face from where his eyes had been gouged out. “Why has he not been treated?” he
could not believe he was asking for care for a Templar. The explanation was
obvious. No Templar would treat this man since he was a blasphemer, for reading
the Quran of all things. Malik thought that was ridiculous. The smart man would
read the Quran in hopes of understanding his enemy better in order to defeat
him. Also, in this building of knowledgeable people, they lacked one with
medical skill?
Malik cautiously approached and knelt beside the man at the Christian shrine.
“Will you let me help you?” he asked in English.
The Templar breathed the word assassin, already knowing that they were multi-
talented. “Will you help bring peace?”
“I cannot bring peace to your soul. That you will have to do on your own, but
my Brothers will try their best to bring peace to this part of the world.”
Malik traitorously found himself saying, since the man had already seemed to
have deduced what Malik was.
“You remind me of a friend I had some time ago. God rest Faruq’s soul. He
taught me Arabic… and more.” The sadness and loneliness in the Templar’s voice
spoke so many volumes to Malik of the unknown life of his brother.
Malik dug into his satchel and used his emergency treatment kit to clean and
stitch and heal this man. This man, who knew his brother, perhaps intimately?
Malik had always wondered why Faruq took no bride. Perhaps Faruq, like Malik
preferred men to women. Malik wanted to suddenly ask this man so many
questions. But what if it was a different Faruq?
They retired to a small bed chamber for the final stitching and bandaging.
Malik gave him the tiniest bit of painkiller he had with him, telling the
others where they could get more and how to treat this man. The Templar chanted
his prayers to help him endure the further pains of treatment.
From the cot after the surgery and bandaging, he reached up and tried to take
Malik’s elbow, finding only the stump. He then patted it lightly, “Will I
live?” Malik assured him he would. “Good. We should talk. There are traitors
among us. Even Richard doesn’t know, or your Brothers… we are all in danger…”
He would have said more, but the drug Malik gave him took hold.
Yes, we will speak again, Templar. You know things I must know.
Malik instructed the people of this Gnostic order how to care for their newest
injured member. He still could not believe he just treated a Templar. The man
was not really a Templar, though. He was too educated. He knew Faruq’s name.
That twisted in Malik a great deal. He finally concluded as he shaded his eyes
from the noon sun, that it could not have been his brother Faruq.
He debated briefly about the safety of being out in small back and forths or
out in one long get-everything-done errand day. Naheem was likely worried. An
amused grin tweaked at his lips and he changed direction to visit the family of
one of his informants. The informant was out, but his pregnant wife and small
daughter were home. Malik asked if they had sent the pigeons off to Masyaf,
yet. He wanted to use one to send a message to his apprentice at the Bureau.
This is exactly what he did, to teach Naheem how to deal with a message, to
reassure Naheem that he was fine and would be back later, and for his own
personal weird amusement.
Now he had a trap to lay….
Malik and Altaïr deal with anger in very different ways. Altaïr gets annoyed
and he yells or hits a wall. Altaïr gets angry and he turns inward, bottling it
up till he is triggered and explodes. When Altaïr is truly furious, people die
horrible gruesome deaths as he rips them apart in a red-blind rage. Malik gets
annoyed and he bites verbally or throws things. Malik gets angry and he
demolishes a room. Get Malik truly and deeply furious and he gets even… or
worse. He already regretted ruining much of Altaïr’s ego for while he blamed
Altaïr for things outside the assassin’s control. Nina on the other hand… Malik
was too level-headed to make that kind of mistake again. She was a poisonous
asp when she first married Altaïr and nothing much had changed since.
Junayd was more than happy to run around delivering messages to the other
informants. They were to inform the Hunter of how to hedge Nina in. Junayd came
back to Malik at the old Dai’s home to report each mini mission. There Malik
learned of the Hunter’s distain for the waste of placing an incompetent cripple
in charge of a city Bureau. Other unsightly bits of information finally
trickled back to Malik about this Hunter, how he has killed several women now
within the city. Stay your blade from the blood of an innocent. He learned how
the Templars are on the watch for assassins; someone had been making attempts
on them then vanishing. Hide in plain sight, never reveal yourself. And if he
killed Nina and took the baby on his own to Masyaf, there would be no hiding.
He would lead everyone back to Masayf by the wailing child till it died along
the way for lack of a wet nurse. Never risk the Brotherhood. Malik had to lay a
double trap then. His timing would have to be very careful and very precise.
The trick was not to tip off Nina and drive her to the Templars.
As Malik walked home to the Bureau, the sun set in lovely shades of blood red.
Tomorrow would be a very hot day. His mind wandered as he walked, plotting out
the steps and nuances of his own private mission, playing over the risks. Then
he thought about the little things that had happened in the recent past. His
walk was slow, for his ribs ached. Thankfully, he actually had not recracked
that rib, just earned a great many bruises.
He played the scene with Nina in the Bureau over again in his mind. Like
Naheem, many things came to him for what he could have done… if only he had two
hands. That was the only thing that prevented him from acting, from killing her
there. He could not trust he could catch the baby when Nina dropped. He could
not predict Altaïr’s possible reaction. There were too many problems and in the
end he had not acted at all. Her words drove daggers into them all and then
they simply let her go. She was not getting away a second time. She would not
run anymore, not if Malik could do anything about it.
He stopped as a few thoughts skipping into his mind. Altaïr says my name when
he engages intimately with people? It was odd to hit him now and color warmed
his cheeks with a mix of pleasure and humiliation. Then it dawned on him that
Naheem had not been remotely surprised by that. Does Naheem know? That spurred
a twinge of jealousy as Malik wondered how Naheem might know. Altaïr would
never… not with his novice… Naheem would know better. Naheem doesn’t have
interests in men. Malik shook his head and finished the last few meters to the
Bureau.
***** Altair Dead? *****
Chapter Notes
     Please, don’t kill me! Read all the way to the end before you panic!!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Altaïr moved from perch to perch, alley to alley, almost aimlessly. His
thoughts plaguing his waking mind instead of just his sleeping mind. Nina. A
son. Myson. Every time he heard a child cry he slammed himself into hiding. The
past few days had unproductively been like this. Last night’s meeting just
anchored his anxiety. The image of his son just out of arm’s reach danced in
his vision. He wanted to kill her. He still did. But did he have the right to
take away her life? He doubted the rights and wrongs of it till it paralyzed
him. He would never have thought about it a year ago. Now it was all he could
do to not think too hard on it. Each target planted these seeds of doubt and
wonder.
Then there was the brief respite this morning. Naheem. Naheem had
misinterpreted him and took initiative to do something Altaïr never thought
would happen. It wasn’t really Naheem he wanted that from. He didn’t really
know who he wanted it from. He just wanted. He had wanted so badly, he was
ready to get creative with strange items and objects he could find. Naheem did
well enough. Altaïr partly wanted more and none at all at the same time. He
hated the wanting. He hated feeling like he did something wrong all the time
and needed a lesson or punishment. He hated how badly he wanted that one small
moment that was bliss, like touching God.
But what was it like to really touch God? What if there is no God? What if it
is all illusion, fantasy? What if my targets are right? That there is just…
nothing? But then, what if there is a God? What would God think of all I have
done? Have I sinned so much? How could I redeem myself?
He wanted forgiveness, from Malik and from whatever moved the heavens and
earth. Then again, maybe what he had done was so terrible that this situation
with Nina and the baby was part of his torturous punishment. He wondered how
much he could handle and found himself once again on a high perch, the eagle
upset with the invasion. What if it ended here? Would anyone care?
He still had a mission and Nina had become a complication and interference.
Logic bade that she be ended and soon as a liability. He let his vision shift
and watched the shimmering forms of red and white and a few blue wandering
below. Then he saw a blink of gold. Nina. He shook his head from the vision.
Nina was not his target. Robert was. Templars were. Four Templars for
information. He spotted them soon enough and dove. He wove through the crowd,
his hidden blade biting swiftly into one then another as he slipped between
people and was gone before their bodies hit the floor and people screamed. He
received his information and disappeared.
Redemption and death. They seemed to go hand in hand. He climbed a tower for
another eagle’s eye view. Then Naheem’s words about saying sorry surfaced. They
distracted him a moment as he considered them. The Templar on the roof of the
tower, however did not care about Altaïr’s thoughts. The French words about the
last time an assassin tried to kill him and failing never registered in
Altaïr’s ears. Altaïr made a desperate stab with his hidden blade while
clinging to the outer edge of the wall. The blade glanced off the armor as the
Templar’s plated fist grabbed the front of Altaïr’s tunic and shoved.
He did not scream. Altaïr would never make a noise for the enemy or anyone. He
could not help flailing though in the nothingness of the air rushing past him
before instinct and training finally kicked in and he righted himself in his
frantic fall. The wagon of hay was not directly below. A snap of his robe
helped him tilt just an inch, maybe enough to get him into the hay. Suddenly he
wished a thousand panicky things. He wished he had just said sorry to Malik,
even if he was never forgiven. He wished he had rushed Nina and tore the child
from her or at the very least actually touched his son, just once. Hay pricked
and swallowed him as he had turned and landed in a messy toss of hay bits on
impact.
The Templar watched the fall. He watched the thump and scattering of hay. He
stayed watching to see if this assassin got up out of the hay as the other one
had. He grinned for having been ready this time. No movement happened in the
hay below for the many long minutes that he watched. “Un assassin mort!” he
cheered. “Merci Bon Dieu!”
There really was nothing. Darkness, numbness, nothing. There was no God. There
was no redemption. Nothing. Altaïr was disappointed.
 
…   …   …
 
…
 
Later in the day, a boy of maybe eight or nine called his brother over,
“Ishmail! Look! There’s a dead guy in the hay!”
The young teen brother came to see. “So there is.” He poked the grey-brown pant
leg. Then he touched the white robes and traced a finger over the fancy metal
arm bracer of the body’s left arm. “He’s missin’ a finger too. Isaac, lift the
hood. Let’s see his face.”
“I don’t wanna lift it. You lift it. You’re the big brother,” he protested
since the hood hid most of the body’s pale face. They could see some blood
dried on the neck where it had oozed from maybe the corps’s ear or nose.
“Fine. You are such a baby.” The teen lifted the peak of the hood. The foreign
pale face had bled from the nose and right ear. The light brown hair was matted
with some blood that soaked through the hood.
Golden eyes snapped open to too bright afternoon sun. The dead man coughed and
gasped before resuming breathing shallowly again enough for them to think he
was dead.
“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” the teen let go of the hood and bolted across the street
with his brother.
The golden eyes closed again welcoming the quiet as the awareness of the
screaming boys faded as they ran in fright. So, I am not dead. Or am I and I
just don’t know it yet? He started with his memory of what happened. He fell.
How strange! He never falls, not off a tower. No, he was pushed, by a Templar
who seemed to have been waiting for him. Ready. They should not be expecting
him. Maybe he was too distracted with thoughts of Nina and the baby.
He slowly wiggled his toes. There was no pain. Altaïr felt no pain at all. That
was not a good sign. Pain told you that you were still alive. But there was no
pain. He shifted his feet and legs. He felt a wave of relief that he was not a
quadriplegic. That would be death, long and slow. He took a deeper breath, and
then felt pain. I’m alive after all. He knew he had not made a graceful
landing, not even a decent landing. Not even a novice bad landing. It was
worse. Why he lived, he did not know. He landed mostly in the wagon’s
cushioning hay. He stretched his back and gritted his teeth against the ache.
He wiggled his fingers. His left hand rose and wiped the blood and sticky hay
from his face. His right arm abandoned his will entirely. He made a fist and
forced it to move. Stars exploded behind his eyes with a hard thunder in an ear
that at first heard nothing.
He opened his eyes again to see stars through the hay. I must have passed
out.His took stock of his body all over again. Then Altaïr very carefully sat
up. He braced himself against the pain. Ready for it. It was easier to bear now
that he expected it. He still could not move his right arm much. It didn’t hurt
unless he tried to lift it. It didn’t make sense to him.
“Malik will fix this. He fixes everything.”
Naheem’s naïve words encouraged Altaïr to return to the Bureau. He sat on the
roof looking down wondering how he would get there. Slowly and precisely, he
hung from his left arm and dropped. The roll was graceful enough and saved him
further injury, but he remained on the carpets. Naheem’s yelp of surprise at
the sight of Altaïr told Altaïr he must look worse than he felt. “I told you
never to do that. I already had children do it in my ear and I think they made
me deaf,” Altaïr grumbled and both Malik and Naheem knew he was not so injured.
After inspection, it was a goodly smack to the side of his head, easily
treated, and a seriously dislocated shoulder that hurt way more to correct than
it did getting into the dislocated state. Altaïr agreed to stay overnight for
“observation” as Malik put it. Although clearly Altaïr’s hearing was fine since
he heard Malik’s annoyed comments about the ruination of a robe he just got.
Altaïr seemed to go through robes like babes through bum-rags.
Chapter End Notes
     *wipes brow seeing as I am still alive and you have all read through
     to this point.*
***** Chapter 156 *****
Chapter Summary
     It is so hard to do the right thing sometimes… even for Malik, but he
     does it even so.
Altaïr sat against in the back propped with a pillow on the spare bed, his
journal in hand. He just stared at it not knowing what to do. Malik wondered
what ate at or seemed to paralyze Altaïr’s thoughts this evening. As he brought
some late food out to Naheem, he blinked a few times to see what the young man
was deeply concentrating on. Looking over his shoulder, Malik saw a deep red
rose with some thorns on the stem. The petals were a little crunched, but
Naheem managed to smooth them out. The teen was sketching it in as much detail
as he could in many little roughs. On a clean piece of vellum, he had drawn a
few starting lines.
“Where did you get that?” Malik asked.
Naheem looked up with a dimpled smile, “Master Altaïr gave it to me.” He turned
back to drawing the rose.
Jealousy was a terribly green monster. “And… why is he giving you roses?”
Naheem looked back up at Malik like he had two heads for a moment, “So I can
know what one looks like. So I can draw it. Maybe… if I draw a real nice one
that looks like a white rose, Tibah will like it?”
Malik winced inwardly at the stupidity of his jealousy. Of course Naheem wanted
one to draw to make up for the white one he could not find for Tibah. “Don’t
stay up too late. Tomorrow you start drafting lessons, architectural drafting
lessons. I’ll give you the address in the morning.”
“REALLY?!” Malik did not remotely expect just how much excitement sparked in
Naheem’s eyes. Tibah would have hard competition with Naheem’s desire to draw,
unless she let him draw her.
“Yes, really.” Malik peaked at the rose and the sketches. “I think she will
love it. Maybe we will try sneaking you into the market square again so you can
draw her as a gift for her father.” Malik was comfortably pleased to see Naheem
blush shyly.
He returned to the back with his own private log book to note things from his
day. “Altaïr. You are just staring at it. The words will not manifest by your
will or by sorcery.” He tried to keep his tone light, joking. If it were
Naheem, the response would have been laughter. However it was Altaïr. His
response was to shrug and then growl at the pain the shrug caused him. Malik
sighed, turned down the oil lamp and sat upon his own bed. “Then why don’t you
read something?”
“Do you read my book, Malik?”
Malik had this feeling that everything Altaïr was going to say and ask tonight
would be very loaded and he would have to tread carefully. “Yes, I read
everything.”
“You never talk to me about what you read. The things in here… they don’t leave
me.”
Malik set his log book down and turned to face Altaïr, sitting cross-legged for
comfort. “I am processing it. There is a great deal that seem like many small
scattered pieces to a much bigger problem or puzzle. But despite everything you
write and all the research I have done so far, I can’t yet see the links or
find the solution. I don’t know who the traitor is. But there definitely is
one. And… if you are still wondering, you are not crazy. I believe your words
and visions.”
Seeing Altaïr relax from this simple admittance relieved Malik. Altaïr seemed
always wound so tight. He was afraid he would do something foolish. In fact,
considering all this with Nina, he had thought that maybe Altaïr had done
something foolish, but training and instinct prevented him from truly
succeeding. “Come here, Altaïr. I know how to ease your shoulder pain without
drugs.”
Altaïr rose from the spare bed and approached. As directed, he removed his hood
and shirt, but would not meet Malik’s eyes. He sat in front of Malik and turned
his back to him as Malik asked. Malik scanned the small head wound and snapped
his fingers by Altaïr’s ear. Altaïr flinched. “See, you can hear just fine from
it.” Malik then looked at each scar. He knew them by heart from healing Altaïr.
It was the ones he had no hand in healing he looked for. The shoulder was
bruising black and purple. “You should not go throwing yourself off of
buildings like a fool.” Altaïr’s jaw clenched, though the rest of his shoulder
and back muscles did not. The fact that Altaïr did not retort back worried
Malik that maybe Altaïr had actually tried just that.
“A Templar was on the tower. He surprised me. He was ready for me. He pushed me
off.”
Malik gently knuckled through the muscles, avoiding the bruises, rubbing out
the tensions. “You have to be more careful. With all the assassins out there,
and all you have done to this point. You have to assume they expect you. Be on
your guard for just that.” He opened his hand and massaged Altaïr’s neck and
shoulder and arm. “Does this help?” Malik asked after maybe twenty minutes of
massaging. Altaïr did not answer at first, so Malik ran his fingers carefully
through the short feather soft hair. “Altaïr?” At that he heard a soft sigh and
Altaïr’s body relaxed a little more. Malik smiled knowing it did indeed help
and Altaïr was drifting mentally and not really listening.
“Malik?” came the assassin’s near whisper full of uncertainty.
Malik chose to remain silent this time. Say my name again Altaïr. You never say
it enough and I like hearing you call me by name and not by title. Say my name
because you trust me.
Altaïr half turned, “Malik? Is there a God?”
The question totally caught Malik off guard. “Of course there is.”
“I have always said there is no God. Sibrand said there was nothing, that it
was all a lie. That is why he was afraid, that when he died there would be
just… nothing.”
Malik frowned. Altaïr had been contemplating the existence of God. He wondered
where this odd revelation came from.
“When I fell, I wondered what would happen to me after. I wondered if there
would be nothing. For a long while, I could not move. I thought maybe I was
going to die. But I didn’t die, so I don’t really know. And,” Altaïr turned
fully around to face Malik, clearly on a role with his thoughts out loud, “and
if there IS a God, why would he let such terrible things happen in the world?
Is he such a terrible God? Has he maybe abandoned us because we are all such
horrible creations? And if he is watching over us, what does he think about
what we do? Are we doing the right thing or the wrong?”
This was definitely not what Malik had expected. It was not unlike the
questions Naheem had asked about God and their profession. However, it was so
loaded with concern and need for justification or answers. It was also more
than Malik thought he was ready to answer. Yet, how could he not try to answer
Altaïr? Those golden eyes pleaded for… something. Malik knew he could not give
Altaïr the answer he gave Naheem, unfortunately.
“Whether there is a God or not, Altaïr, everyone needs something to have faith
in. I believe that there is a God. I also believe that He respected us enough
to give us the freedom to choose our fates. Some choose very poorly, so poorly
that they force the fates of others. We act as the ones to deal out what must
be done, what no one else has the courage or the ability to do. It is a heavy
responsibility, and we do our very best.” Malik wondered though if perhaps
mistakes do get made. But we are only human and not perfect.
“Altaïr, you of all of us know better about what is out there. You meet them at
the moment between life and death. You speak to the dying souls. Some will be
afraid, some won’t. Don’t let the fear of others paralyze you.” Malik needed to
believe in something more out there. He was the last of his family after all.
Faruq and Kadar must be in a better place. Malik needed to believe that for his
own heart and sanity.
Malik and Altaïr sat so close that Malik could see the shifting in the shade of
gold in Altaïr’s eyes. Their eyes met and held for a long while before Malik
spoke again. “There is something out there, Altaïr. If you can’t trust
yourself, then trust me.” Malik felt his own heart skip as he spoke. Trust me,
Altaïr. Please trust me.
Altaïr closed his eyes in a gesture of trust. Malik could simply lean in and
press his lips to Altaïr’s. It was an invitation of sorts, a silent one between
them. Malik wanted to lean in, wanted to warm himself against Altaïr’s mouth.
He raised his hand and brushed the hair back from Altaïr’s brow. Do not become
his crutch. He needs to heal first. He is too broken for this. If I do what I
want, it is taking advantage of him. That is not fair to either of us. And, it
could do more damage than good.
Malik swallowed his desires back. “Get some rest, Altaïr.”
***** Altair: Snuggling *****
Chapter Summary
     Short bit of YAOI-ish... not really.
Altaïr knew it would end like this. How else could it end? Malik had already
rejected him a while ago. Malik had all the reasons in the world to not want
such things with Altaïr. There still was no forgiveness. Altaïr had yet to ask
for it and he knew it. It didn’t mean that the rejection now didn’t hurt. It
hurt like hell. Altaïr pulled his shirt back on and his hood, seeking the
shallow comfort its shadow gave him. He felt naked like he had exposed himself
indecently and inappropriately. He pulled on all his robes and armor, though
not the weapons, as if the armor could protect him from what was roiling
within.
He had foolishly made Malik another offer of himself and been turned down. The
embarrassment stung. He lay on the spare bed facing the wall. It meant he was
on his left side to not aggravate the right shoulder that was aching and
healing. He hardly noticed that pain compared to the pain that tugged in his
diaphragm and through his lungs and heart. The ache of loneliness never healed.
He could not help curling in on himself. His chest tightened and he fought to
keep his breathing even and quiet. He turned his face into the pillow to
smother any uncontrolled noise he might make.
He wondered over and over why he had not died. If there is a God, he must hate
me so much for all this. Altaïr wished he had died. Wished there was nothing.
Nothingness would feel better than this empty loneliness.
He heard rustling behind him from Malik. Then felt a whoosh of air as something
big fwumped onto the floor behind Altaïr, followed by a few others. Malik moved
about the room for a while, dimming oil lamps or putting them out and lighting
some incense that he carried into this room. He heard Malik remind Naheem again
to get to sleep and not be up drawing all night and reminding him to put the
rose in water. Altaïr’s fingers dug further into the pillow he clutched to keep
himself quiet. He felt unstable like he was walking along unsteady scaffolding.
He felt like he was the unsteady scaffolding about to crumble and fall apart.
This feeling came more often these days than it ever had before. I am nothing.
I am alone. I am ruined. Everything keeps being taken from me. I need to be
stone… Then the memory of that baby in Nina’s arms would surface and he would
fold in more tightly.
Malik settled himself on the many pillows he set beside Altaïr’s spare bed and
opened up a book of Sufi poetry to read quietly aloud to Altaïr. The harshness
so common in Malik’s voice softened and rolled like warm honey as he read.
Malik read for about an hour before putting the book down. “Altaïr…” Malik
sighed and rested a hand on Altaïr’s tense and shaking shoulder.
Altaïr rolled over, ignoring the ache that held no comparison to the ache in
his chest. He wrapped an arm around Malik’s waist and buried his face into
Malik’s chest. Malik sighed heavily again. “You are not going to let me up to
change into sleep clothes, are you?” In response Altaïr only held a little
tighter. “Fine…” Malik held Altaïr, trying to soothe him.
At some point sleep finally stole them both.
…. At least until there was a bang on the Bureau’s door near dawn.
***** Crossing Malik is BAD *****
Everyone jumped. “Shhhh…” murmured Malik to Altaïr. Malik listened carefully,
calculating what he might need to grab and run with and the route he would
take, along with the blade closest to him to defend with.
“Just some dying guy…” Altaïr murmured back. Malik hated how sometimes Altaïr
would freak him out with unnatural senses. It made Malik want to hit Altaïr.
Naheem leaned in through the curtain with a surprised look upon his face at the
snuggled position of Malik and Altaïr. Malik scowled at him. “Open the door…
carefully. You are a map making apprentice watching the shop at night.” Naheem
nodded and disappeared.
Malik sighed with a huff and shoved Altaïr over. “Don’t go anywhere. I don’t
want anyone spotting you.” Golden eyes glared angrily back at him as if to
counter that no one would. Malik pointed at Altaïr and commanded, “Stay.”
Altaïr growled under his breath that he was not a pet lap dog. He might have
growled it louder, except Malik would have retorted how Altaïr was curled in
his lap most of the night. Altaïr took the time then to double check his armor
and strap on his weapons. He tugged his hood up and over his eyes harshly and
growled again at the ache the motion caused his shoulder.
Naheem rushed back in, “He’s one of ours! Master Malik!” Both Malik and Altaïr
rolled their eyes and snapped in a hushed tone for Naheem to stop yelling.
Malik hurried out to see. Indeed it was one of his informants, gasping and
clinging barely to life that was fading too fast for Malik to even hope to
save. “Malik… I tried… Hunter… too close to her… I tried to stop him…. I gave
her time to hide… I was in the way… I am not a traitor… I am not…”
“No, my Brother. You are not. You did well. Rest now in safety and peace.”
Malik hated this. Someone died on his order. He prided himself on saving the
lives of the Brotherhood in Jerusalem. But then, a Brother did not take out
another Brother. This Hunter crossed the line. First, setting Altaïr up to be
killed by Templars and now this. Whose side is he on?! The informant, ill-
equipped to defend against any serious or trained fight never stood a chance.
He died in his next breath in Malik’s arms. Malik spoke a soft prayer of
release and respect for the soul.
Dark brows furrowed over dark charcoal eyes. “Naheem. Run for the Guard. Yell
that someone was murdered at your shop.” Malik set the corpse down. “This is
just a shell, a body like any other and one we do not know. Understand?”
The notion seemed preposterous at first to Naheem but he did understand the
logic. They had to seem like any other citizen. So in his sleeping pants he ran
yelling for the guard that there was a murder.
Malik stepped inside stripping off his bloodied clothing and shoving it to the
bottom of the laundry basket. As he donned clean clothing he ordered Altaïr,
“You have but minutes now. Get gone. Be back here at noon if you think you can
get past the guards. Try not to be later. Go! Now!”
There was pride at watching something as graceful as a great eagle take to
wing. And there was a wince of pity at the faltering flight due to the injury.
The assassin made adjustments to his flight and disappeared from sight. No one
would have seen him through the panicked escape of several pigeons. Then Malik
slid a sheathed short knife into the front of his waist armor and a small
throwing knife. Let the Hunter become the hunted.
Naheem returned just as Malik was stepping out. “The guard are coming.”
“Good. Let them take this away. You have no idea why he came here. You heard a
noise and found him dead.” Malik whispered an apology to the soul. Then he
shoved a small paper into Naheem’s hand. “Get yourself to your drafting lesson
and back here immediately after. You are running the Bureau till I return.”
Naheem shivered at the look in Malik’s eyes. “Why are you armed, Master?”
“I am still an assassin,” was all his whispered before walking off and turning
down an alley.
The guards soon showed up. It horrified Naheem to watch them drag the dead
informant’s body away by the feet. One guard patted the youth’s shoulder, “I
know you did not know him. It can still be shocking. We’ll set his body in the
main market and hope the family claims it.”
Naheem looked down at the smear of blood on the door, the bench, the tiled
stones of the courtyard, the rung of the nearby ladder. Shook the vision from
his head of them dragging away someone he could name, but didn’t. It felt
sacrilegious. It made him wonder about his own mentor and father that they just
left behind without burning or burying. The air seemed stuffy even outside. His
body went hot then cold then hot again. He stepped in to drink some water from
the fountain before filling a basin. The morning air was still chilly as he
scrubbed every speck of blood he could find. He even climbed the ladder in case
the informant was on the roof. The clean streaks he made annoyed him and so he
cleaned everything. It was silly because it would only get dirty and dusty
before the end of the day; it just made him feel better for having washed away
the evidence of the terrible thing that woke him. He mumbled through morning
prayers and offered what he could for the soul of the informant. Then grabbed
his cane, sketchbook, some supplies, bread and fruit, dressed swiftly and
hurried to his morning destination.
Malik strode purposefully through the streets as the sun rose. He knew from his
informants exactly where Nina was likely to be. She should be hedged in without
access to Templars. He needed only get there before the Hunter did. He casually
asked about a woman and child concerned for her safety and was directed by a
woman setting her washing to dry in the early morning sun. The alley turned
into a less used area. Some homeless usually lingered, but they seemed to be
vacating in a hurry. Malik picked up his pace till he heard the baby cry aloud.
Nina yelled something unclear at someone. The yell was cut short.
Malik stepped into view hand upon his short knife in case he was about to face
a Templar. The Hunter released the woman’s lifeless form to drop into a
bleeding heap at his feet. He eyed Malik, “Your informants told you I found her
I assume. I thought you normally wait till we come to the Bureau and present
you with our feather.” He knelt and soaked his feather in Nina’s blood. “Safety
and peace, Brother. You can put away your knife. I am no Templar. She never
made it far enough to reach one.”
Malik sheathed the knife, “I assumed since I did not give you the feather that
you might just leave without informing me of the completion of your task in my
city. Well done. I did my best to hem her in to this locale for you as soon as
I knew her whereabouts.” Malik approached. “Good kill. I wanted to witness it
myself, if you do not mind my living a bit vicariously.”
The Hunter grinned and laughed. “I see! Then now you witness the way a kill
should be handled, swift, clean, with no witnesses.” The smile vanished.
“Let me check the child before you take it on your way.” Malik approached the
basket and wailing babe. The Hunter waved a hand indifferently to let him while
the Hunter cleaned his blade. Malik then backed away from the child after
quieting it. “He is the right babe.” Looking back at the Hunter he asked, “Will
you not show respect to the dead?” He referred to Nina’s body.
The Hunter scoffed. “I have chased her through eight cities and across hills
and desert. The bitch deserves nothing but what she got.”
“I agree that she deserved what she got. It was long overdue. But we should
always show respect to the dead.”
The Hunter knelt to plan how he would carry the baby. “Malik, it is not like
they will haunt us. Don’t tell me you still believe that fluff they told us as
children. You really have gone soft.”
The Hunter did not expect Malik rushing him and pinning him deftly to the wall.
Something bit into his gut and cut tidily into his diaphragm. “There is nothing
soft about me when faced with a traitor who will kill another Brother without
listening to reason. There is nothing soft about me when dealing with a Brother
who has laid traps for other Brothers to be killed by Templars.” The Hunter
gripped Malik’s shoulders with a gasping shocked look; each sentence was
punctuated with a small and perfectly placed stab. “There is nothing soft about
me when you cross me.” He stepped back shoving the Hunter off him and leaving
the small thug’s throwing knife behind. The hunter slid down the wall clutching
it, bleeding out. Malik simply and coldly watched.
Before the very last breaths left the Hunter, Malik knelt close to him. “And I
always show respect to the dead. It is the right thing to do. Safety and peace,
Brother. I release you from your duties and set you free. Go now to your God.”
The baby started to cry loudly again. It quieted as a shadow passed overhead,
distinct in its human form yet with clear wings. Malik stared at the shadow
disbelieving. By the time he looked up there was nothing to see. He verified
that no traces of blood showed too obviously upon his robes. He wrapped the
bloodied feather and tucked it in his pocket. He had several notes to send to
Master Al Mualim. His lies were already forming in his mind along with the
sense of shame for lying to the Master of the Order. Where are my loyalties?
The answer lay in the basket watching him with slightly fearful, uncertain, yet
far too wise looking eyes. The future of our order, the safety of families, the
adherence to our ideals. That is where my loyalties lie.
Malik stripped the Hunter of the hidden wrist blade and anything else that was
unique to the assassins and tucked them in the basket with the baby. Then he
walked away with the basket and babe using all the instinctual skill he had to
make his to the Bureau unseen.
***** Altair: Rough Morning *****
The comfort of the night before had been ripped from Altaïr. Now he was on the
run, while Malik made himself equally scarce, while the novice played the
innocent citizen faced with a murder on the doorstep. His last thoughts were of
wanting to be like stone, not feeling, empty inside. Empty inside felt horrible
though. The stone attitude was somewhat easy, easier to drown in blood.
Especially when a lower ranked assassin huddled in a nook hiding because a
Templar saw and identified him. This same younger assassin begged for Altaïr’s
help. Altaïr was more than willing to spill Templar blood to distract himself
from his own dark thoughts.
From rooftops, Altaïr tracked them. Four Templars roamed a district shaking
each young man they came across, seeking their target. The hunters should not
be hunted. There is a better hunter in town…he swooped down from the roof. His
hidden blade glinted in the morning sun for a second before he landed on the
Templar, its point deeply embedded in the back of the Templar’s neck were the
helm and back armour plate left a small vulnerable gap. Altaïr pulled the blade
free and snapped it back into its sheath. It’ll need cleaning later. He dashed
under an overhanging balcony while people screamed and ran. He used the crowd
and ran with them till he climbed a ladder and resumed his hunt.
The other three kills helped waste his morning away. He sat on a bench to rest
and hide. A woman sat beside him with a basket full of baby. Altaïr froze
thinking it was Nina. “Oh, I am going to buy some peaches from over there, can
you please watch him. He is getting a bit heavy now. I will be right back.”
Altaïr thought this woman was insane for just trusting a stranger like that. It
definitely was not Nina. The baby started to whimper and cry. Hesitantly,
Altaïr reached his hand in, remembering having done so when he used to sneak
into town in Masyaf, and rested his hand on the baby’s chest. Then he rubbed
gently causing a slight rocking motion that soothed the child. The woman came
back and Altaïr snatched his hand away as if burned. He stood about to retreat.
“Here,” the woman bent down and lifted the child out. “You can hold him, sit
down.” She guided Altaïr to sit and showed him how to hold the baby.
“He is… so… small…”
She giggled softly at Altaïr’s husky words. “I would expect so. He was born
only a few weeks ago. I am taking him to be baptized on Sunday.”
It was too much for Altaïr to continue; he stood and gave the baby back to the
woman, swallowing repeatedly around the growing lump in his throat. Then he
bolted. It was almost reckless as he knocked a few people out of his way aiming
for a darkened alley. He pressed his back against the wall sucking in huge
gulps of air desperately trying to steady himself, squeezing his eyes shut
tightly against the images in his mind of the son he didn’t get to hold. His
teeth clenched as damp streaks meandered down his cheeks. He pressed his palms
to the wall, too, hoping it would help steady him. Stone, he needed to be
stone.
Something silky soft wiped at one cheek. His eyes snapped open to meet Tibah’s
large brown eyes. Fearlessly she wiped his other cheek with the hem of her
veil. “What makes an eagle fly through a market like that and hide and cry?”
Altaïr could not answer her. “The angels say to believe… trust and believe…”
“Tibah!” Kadar finally found her. “You can’t keep running off! How am I
supposed to watch over you?!”
When Tibah looked back from her brother’s loud entrance into the darkened
alley, Altaïr had already vanished out of sight.
“What are you doing here?!” Kadar demanded.
“I found a wounded eagle. I was trying to help it, but you scared it and he
flew away.” She crossed her arms accusingly as she turned to face her brother.
“An EAGLE!? Tibah! You cannot go saving every wild thing in existence. They are
wild! And an EAGLE! They’ll take out your eyes… or take off a finger! Haven’t
you seen dad’s finger?!” She exasperated him sometimes. “Save your healing for
God’s creatures.”
“Oh really?!” she marched past him. “And isn’t every wild thing God’s
creatures?”
Kadar ground his teeth and quoted a section of one of the holy books about
creation and how every creature was God’s creature.
Tibah smiled having won this interchange with her brother.
Altaïr made a mental note to either avoid Tibah like the plague or the market
of the rich district entirely from now on. He inched over the edge of the
building to look at the retreating forms of Tibah and her guard brother. He let
his vision shift and gasped in surprise as both shone bright blue in his
vision, not the expected innocent neutral white, the blue of trusted allies. He
rolled onto his back on the roof letting the sun blind him a little. It hung
right overhead, high in the sky. Noon.
NOON!!!
Altaïr cursed and headed back to the Bureau.
***** Malik's Gift *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Naheem could hardly focus despite what should have been the most exciting thing
in the world for him. The architects’ guild was very welcoming and tested his
drawing skills. They seemed impressed. He learned about the basics of line
perspective and drawing along angles. It made drawing buildings and other still
things much easier. However, he did not learn as quickly as he felt he could
have. His thoughts kept running back to other thoughts. Malik planning to kill
someone. Was he going to take on the Hunter? Can he even do that? Does he have
a plan? It seemed so impulsive, so unlike Malik.
On his snack break he swiftly sketched a rough draft of the scene he walked in
on of Altaïr snuggled into Malik. He almost got caught with it and hid it in a
crumpled mess at the bottom of his supply bag. Someone might think he was a
sodomite and stone him to death. That brought up other distracting questions
about himself. Am I? Just because I might sometimes, but my true interests are
in girls, does it make me one? He didn’t understand the right and wrong of it
or even if there was a right and a wrong.
He tried to run back but found the first short dash drew out a painful ache in
his leg and forced him to slow and use the cane. It was more due to the
climbing and crouching he had done scrubbing blood from the Bureau. The noon
sun told him he was late. He muttered some of the new curses he had learned
listening to Malik. It would take him almost an hour to get to the Bureau. He
resigned himself to being late.
Altaïr had arrived first to an empty Bureau. Naheem was likely out at his
lesson pretending to be nothing more than the map maker’s nephew. Malik must
still be in hiding. The guards were all gone; even the blood and any possible
evidence that a murder happened here at all was gone. Altaïr dropped into the
Bureau only after making very sure it was safe. In the quiet and solitude, he
had time to recompose from his earlier moments of exposure. He dug out his
journal and dumped his dark thoughts and feelings into it. The language shifts
were fewer, mostly fluctuating from Latin to German to Arabic. Malik would be
proud of the improvement. The script seemed almost neater, not that Altaïr
remotely noticed.
Malik slowly made his way back, encountering Naheem as he did. Naheem’s mouth
dropped open. Malik slapped it shut and then shoved the heavier bits of armour
and blades he carried into Naheem’s supply bag and onto his person to conceal.
He instructed Naheem to wait to a count of a hundred before approaching the
Bureau and told him firmly to use stealth.
Once at the Bureau, Malik let himself in and set the basket down. He let out a
long sigh for handling this kind of weight one-handed was quite encumbering. He
lifted the baby from the basket to verify that he was unharmed.
“Malik?” breathed Altaïr in shock behind him.
Malik turned, with the baby cradled against his chest and held firm in his arm,
supported by the stump of his other arm.
“Is that? Malik? How?”
“How about you take him from me for now, and I will explain what I can.” He
watched the emotions jump and change across Altaïr’s face before it really hit
him that Altaïr had dropped his hood back to see this better.
Hesitant and disbelieving hands almost lifted the child from Malik’s embrace.
The blood of his last Templar kill staining a sleeve stopped Altaïr. Malik
watched as Altaïr stepped back and practically ripped through his armor and
robes to get them off like they were offensive. Half naked, he then took the
child and held him close.
Naheem entered to the tender scene of a teary Altaïr hugging his son to him.
All his earlier worries faded. He dropped his bag in the corner and dug out his
sketch book. This he was not going to lose the opportunity to draw. He knew it
could not last.
Malik leaned against his counter watching Altaïr lost in this moment of holding
and exploring his son. His mission had gone very smoothly. Swiftly executed, no
witnesses (he really thought the Hunter was considering doing him in before
leaving due to his comment about no witnesses), and back to the bureau with no
interferences. He had hoped to get there before Nina’s death. He had many
choice words for her. Then he would have watched as the Hunter took her out
anyways and carried out the remainder of his plan as it went. He felt a little
let down for that, however his time ran a little shorter than expected. In the
end, he was still proud of his success. I am still an assassin.
Naheem skirted the perimeter of the room, eyes flitting from page to Altaïr and
back to the page, till he bumped into the counter. He leaned the back of his
hips against the counter beside Malik. “How, Master Malik?” he whispered over.
Malik glanced at the rough line sketch with a slight smile. “Planning, lots of
planning. Put that away, now. We need to lock everything up and you need to
clean those.” He pointed to the abandoned robes and armor and bloody weapons on
the floor.
“But Master,” Naheem whined. “Master Malliiik.” He gave Malik the very best
puppy eyes he could muster.
Malik was not so easily swayed. He ignored them like a true master and changed
the flags outside. He locked the door and the lattice roof. Naheem gathered the
soiled robes and bloodied weaponry to add the others he had in his supply bag.
Malik put his arm over Naheem’s shoulder to guide him into the back, “Why don’t
we give Altaïr some privacy with his son? It has been long overdue. You can
rework your picture in back and I will explain what I did.”
A last glance over Malik’s shoulder and he saw Altaïr nuzzling the soft skin of
the child, who made burbling noises back at him. Malik could honestly say that
he has never been more pleased than this moment, being witness to this scene.
The curtain fell behind him, leaving Altaïr alone in the main room with his
small son.
Chapter End Notes
     What did Naheem draw?
     http://guiltyone.deviantart.com/art/I-am-home-170705601
***** Altair & His Son *****
Chapter Notes
     Tissue warning! Best have the box of Kleenex on hand. I needed a box
     just to write this!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When Altaïr heard the door open, he hid the journal and waited behind the
curtain with his blade ready. A peek through the crack revealed it was only
Malik. So, Altaïr stepped out to prove he had been there on time. Nothing in
the world could have prepared him for what he saw. Malik turned around with the
baby, Altaïr’s son in his arms.
“Malik?” breathed Altaïr unable to find his voice. “Is that? Malik? How?”
“How about you take him from me for now and I will explain what I can,” offered
Malik as Altaïr dropped his hood about his shoulders to better see the child.
Is that really him? Malik how did you find him? How did you get him? My… son…
Can I? Can I really hold him?
He took cautious steps closer afraid even Malik would take the boy away before
he could touch his son, hold him. But Malik offered. He reached out. There was
still blood on his sleeves and on the slight glint of the hidden wrist blade.
Not wanting to soil the child or accidentally harm him, Altaïr scrambled out of
his armor and weapons. He nearly ripped off his hood, robes and shirt in swift
desperation to be somewhat clean to hold the baby. His filthy articles
scattered about the main room of the Bureau, forgotten.
He lifted the child from Malik’s arm and hugged him gently. He was larger than
the tiny thing he held this morning. The baby hugged back. Altaïr swallowed
several times. Soft baby skin clung with small soft baby hands to his hard
muscled chest and shoulder. Altaïr blinked at the wetness forming in his eyes,
trying to clear his vision. He didn’t notice Naheem enter.
Altaïr adjusted his hold to cradle the child in one arm while his other hand
traced over the baby’s face and light blond-brown fuzzy head. The hair felt
softer than down and stood straight up. The eyes were that blue-grey all babies
seemed to have but had started to darken to a brown with hues of gold. Altaïr
wanted to memorize this small face.
The baby’s hands grabbed at his with more coordination than Altaïr would have
expected. One hand grabbed hold of his thumb and the other his pinkie finger.
He found himself silently counting the fingers. My son… mine… with all his
fingers. I should count his toes too. He regretfully tugged his hand away from
the grasping hands and touched and measured each foot. They are all so small.
There were ten toes as he expected. In hindsight, he might have considered
himself silly for having done this, but that thought was not now. Did she hurt
you? He panicked a second or three till he found no marks or bruises. The ribs
did not protrude either, so he was well fed.
Altaïr’s world vanished around him to just this. It was like standing in the
fog with a dying soul. The sounds faded to nothing but the burbles of the baby.
The vision blurred at the edges so the Bureau seemed to cease to exist. There
was even the slight haze of the fog as one soul explored another.
The baby explored Altaïr as much as Altaïr explored the baby. The eyes looked
over this new person fearlessly, curiously. The baby’s eyes tracked Altaïr’s
easily. Altaïr felt like he was being touched on the inside. For this one
moment there was a different kind of bliss.
Altaïr held him again up against his chest again. He rubbed his stubbly chin on
the fluffy hair. He nuzzled the baby’s ear and cheek with his nose. He inhaled
the strange sweet scent that seemed unique to all babies. The baby patted at
Altaïr’s face and shoulder. He kissed the baby’s head.
Faith, she said to have faith. Is this what she meant? She could not have known
this. Is Tibah gifted? I heard her say something of angels… what if they are
true? What if… some things are true?
Altaïr wanted badly to speak, to say something. He wanted to say thank you to
Malik. He looked up with so much gratitude in his eyes, he hoped Malik
understood, but the curtain fell to leave him alone with his son. He was
grateful for that as well. He figured Nina was likely dead. There was no other
way Malik would be able to bring the child here otherwise.
He paced about the main room absorbing the feel of the small warmth squirming
in his arms. Altaïr could barely hear Malik murmuring to Naheem about how he
worked out his plan and the time it took to carefully enact it. He wished he
had known that before he pounded his fists into Malik. The rest of the words
were lost in his enjoyment of the babe in his arms. He rubbed noses with the
child and nuzzled the round belly as they both grinned broadly.
The baby then scowled and balled his fist. Altaïr wondered what he had done
wrong. Then the baby laughed and giggled. The joke was totally lost of Altaïr
for about a minute, maybe less. The rising odor made him cringe and hold his
son out at arm’s length, “Malik?” Malik was definitely taking too long and the
baby cried. “MALIK!”
Malik came into view. “What? Is he hungry? Does he need changing?”
Altaïr peeked into the baby’s nappies and cringed again. “Here… fix this…”
Malik tried to cough and clear his throat to cover the choked chortle. “Oh no.
He is your son. You change him.”
Naheem stepped out and rolled his eyes just as Malik might, “Oh for the love
of…” Naheem claimed the baby and changed him rather expertly. “I helped care
for the children next door to my mom’s. Six children between newborn and eight
years old with another on the way. This really is not that hard. You do more
dextrous and dangerous things than this… both of you.” He handed the cleaned
and no longer fussy baby back to Altaïr.
“I’ll do it next time,” promised Altaïr. The joy in the room faded almost
instantly and Altaïr felt they were signalling that there wouldn’t be a next
time. He looked from one to the other and knew it in their faces. “I… I just
got him… Malik…”
“I’m sorry, Altaïr. You cannot keep him. I have a family who can nurse him and
care for him. He will be safe there. No one will…”
“N-n-no Malik… Please…” he hugged his son to him, “Malik please…” begged
Altaïr, but he knew the answer even as his tears streaked silently down his
cheeks to dampen the baby’s hair.
Naheem explained, “He needs a wet nurse, Master Altaïr. None of us can provide
the nourishment he needs right now. And with Hunters specifically after him to
bring him back to Masyaf or to bring him to the Templars, he must be hidden
somewhere safe where no one will follow or watch and give away his location.”
Naheem had to swallow hard the lump that rose now in his throat. He just felt
he ought to say it since it will be Malik taking the baby away; it might be
easier if they all shared the pain of this.
“You still have a little more time with him, Altaïr. I have to make
arrangements for him. Why don’t you think of a name for him? Nina never told me
the name and none of my informants overheard one for him.” Malik hated himself
for this, but there really was no other choice.
Altaïr rubbed his wet cheek over the baby’s head, “Kadar…”
Malik smiled at the honor, “Let’s not give him a name tied too closely to me.
Not that I am not pleased with it.”
“Stephan?” suggested Altaïr out of some whisper in his mind of familiarity.
“Stephan? Was that… your name? Before you came to Masyaf?” Malik was afraid to
ask. Encouraging Altaïr to remember things now was dangerous. Yet this seemed
so right, except for the name standing out badly due to the family the baby was
to be hidden with. Altaïr only shrugged in reply. “He will be with a Muslim
family. He will need an Arabic name for now. How about Sufyan? It sounds close
to Stephan. And when it is safer, when he is older, then he can learn the truth
and take his true name of Stephan.” It was the best Malik could offer. “He
likes feathers…” Malik brought over an eagle feather.
Altaïr took the feather and retreated to the carpets and pillows with his son,
to snuggle in the sun for as long as he had left with him. He heard Malik’s
shaky sigh but dared not look away from Sufyan/Stephan and miss something. He
dragged the back of his hand across his eyes to clear them and kissed the
baby’s head again. In soft German, he whispered, “ich liebe dich” (I love you).
Altaïr wished there was forever between the minutes, but they already felt like
they slipped by too fast. He muttered small things to the baby, describing him
aloud in Arabic or in German, his two most comfortable languages, trying to
commit everything there was about his son to memory.
Malik pressed his sleeve to his eyes.
Chapter End Notes
     Fanart for this chapter: https://the-hybrid92.deviantart.com/art/My-
     Child-181687370
***** Malik Delivers Sufyan *****
In soft German, Altaïr whispered, “ich liebe dich” (I love you). He wished
there was forever between the minutes, but they already felt like they slipped
by too fast. He muttered small things to the baby, describing him aloud in
Arabic or in German, his two most comfortable languages, trying to commit
everything there was about his son to memory.
Malik pressed his sleeve to his eyes. From the most wonderful, to the most
heart-wrenching all in the span of a few hours, Malik ached for having to do
this to Altaïr. But it must be done.
Ich liebe dich. Altaïr had spoken those words once to Malik long, long ago,
only the once. Altaïr had been about twelve almost thirteen years old. Malik
was feeling a little like a pervert for some of the things he and the younger
Altaïr had been doing alone in their room. Although, Altaïr had been an early
bloomer and already as tall as Malik. Emotionally, Malik was more mature at
times. The bigger brother. The older best friend. Malik had been fifteen and
ready for a relationship. But none had interested him. There had been too much
between he and Altaïr, no room for a girl. He hadn’t been really interested in
any girls anyhow. His older brother Faruq never pushed. Kadar, however, even at
ten and starting training, flirted with… everything. Malik had found it
sometimes embarrassing. Altaïr had loved the attention. That only had served to
teach Malik all about jealousy.
Until one night, Altaïr had woken from a night terror and snuggled in
smotheringly close to Malik. Malik had soothed Altaïr’s shuddering and panic.
The younger must have dreamed of drowning by the way he had clung so hard.
Malik had reminded him over and over that he was there and that it would be
alright. That had been the one and only time Altaïr had murmured the words.
They had been the first German words Malik had ever heard and it had spurred
him to delve into learning that new language. Faruq knew German and had
provided the translation and had assigned Malik a German tutor. Altaïr had
denied ever having said the words. Malik had wondered who those words were
reserved for.
Then out of the blue almost a year later, Altaïr had disarmed Malik when they
had been running and hiding in Masyaf while training, “Those words… those
German words I told you… I meant them.” Malik had stumbled off the roof into a
pile of old hay and horse manure. Altaïr had run off grinning with the prized
flag in his hand and Malik cursing his name.
The memories were bittersweet. Malik knew Altaïr had meant them. He saved them
for moments like this. It made those words all the more meaningful. And, at the
same time intensely frustrating, for Altaïr spoke so little that you wanted to
strangle the thoughts and feelings out of him just to hear them. At the moment
though, watching Altaïr with Sufyan, those emotions poured openly from the man
and Malik had to again press his sleeve to his eyes before shooing Naheem to
hidden blade repair duty while he prepared his lies.
Master,
Evil befell Raja and your wolf. The prey has been caught and killed but so have
they.
A feather marks her place in the log. I happened upon the scene this morn.
The treasure, however, was lost. The basket was empty.
I will inquire at the orphanages.
Dai
 
It was less candid with little code to hide the message, but Malik did not feel
very ingratiated at the moment. He was quite sure the bird would get to its
destination.
He then wrote another note, one he dreaded for it marked his failure openly.
Assam,
I regret to inform you that on mission, your son, Raja, fell. His wounds were
beyond my care and he passed with honor before I could save him. I am sorry for
your loss and ours. Nothing he has done has revealed anything. There is no need
to flee.
Safety and peace
Malik
This note he would deliver by hand, not bird. Malik could speak directly, but
that risked more than the note which could be burned after being read. It made
him feel like the coward, but he sent Naheem on that errand. Malik dared not
leave Altaïr unattended with the child. Altaïr was already less predictable
than he had ever been. Instead he leaned over his counter and pretended to work
on a map as he watched Altaïr cuddling the child among the pillows. They were
quiet long enough for the pigeons to return.
Malik coaxed one over and attached his message to it. When he set it free, the
sudden flapping startled the baby who in the next moment squealed piercingly
load with glee. All the pigeons took off beating Malik with their wings. Little
Sufyan laughed and laughed and giggled. Even Altaïr chuckled quietly. Malik
would have given his life to be able to repeat that and hear Altaïr laugh
again. You used to joke around and play and laugh all the time when we were
young. Now you almost never even smile.
The quiet with the baby ended too soon with fussing and drooling and crying.
Altaïr panicked and so Malik came over to check. “He’s getting a tooth. That
sort of thing hurts them. I’ll make a soother for him to chew on… Or, would you
like me to bring over the supplies and you make it for him?” As he thought,
Altaïr wanted to make it. Sufyan fussed and cried on a large pillow while Malik
showed Altaïr how to sew and stuff a soft leather pad. Malik then used and
ointment on his that would help ease the pain. It only soothed Sufyan for a
short while till Naheem returned.
The baby still cried. “He must be hungry.” It was Malik’s only way to push the
need that he had to leave with the baby.
“Mal… Let me take him there. Let me go with you,” Altaïr was ready to beg
again. Malik could see it in his golden eyes still red from the earlier
emotions.
“No. Stephan.” Malik was not sure if he referred to the child or Altaïr. The
name held Altaïr’s attention. “No. I am sorry. Your son needs to be safe and
that won’t happen if you know where he is. I stand out less than you do. Please
Altaïr, for your son’s safety. I promise he will be safe and well and loved. I
promise I will even keep you updated on how he is. But he must remain secret.
Do you understand?”
With great reluctance that broke Malik’s heart, Altaïr gave up his son. The
babe was swaddled against getting sun burned and laid back in the basket
despite his fussing. Naheem made some food to try to distract both himself and
Altaïr from this. Altaïr wanted nothing to do with anyone.
Malik left the Bureau and Naheem locked up behind him. Altaïr climbed the roof
to watch them go. Naheem hurried up there the best he could and sat with
Altaïr. Malik swore Naheem was a godsend to stay with Altaïr like this. It
meant someone would make sure Altaïr did not follow. Just as a precaution,
Malik went to the Gnostic temple. He was admitted without question this time,
except about the child and a reminder that they do not accept those not old
enough to make their own informed decision. It was like a religious joke, but
Malik did not find it funny at the moment. They arranged for someone to fetch
Tibah’s father.
From there, Malik watched as the man inspected this new son to be. “His name is
Sufyan. I ask only not to change that.” Tibah’s father was already in love. And
as the babe was crying most insistently to be fed, he took him away immediately
to do just that. Malik promised to come by in a few days to see how the
triplets were doing. Stealth was an instinct it seemed that no assassin lost,
no matter how long they have been away from the profession.
Sufyan… Stephan will be with a good family. He will grow up in a normal life,
like Naheem did. He will even inherit well and pass on to his children great
wealth.
These were not things Altaïr could promise the child at the moment. Most
importantly, there was someone who could nourish the child. Not like he or I or
Naheem were going to suddenly by some sorcery sprout milk laden teats.
When Malik returned to the Bureau, Altaïr was in a very deep melancholy. The
day moved to evening with Altaïr becoming only more reserved or moody. Finally,
Altaïr just left.
“Will he find his son?” asked Naheem.
Malik shook his head. “No, Sufyan is well hidden with a family who lost sons
repeatedly and desperately wanted one who could carry on their family name.
They know who they have and they know all about being invisible.”
“An informant?” Naheem rocked on the balls of his feet with some excitement.
Malik patted Naheem’s cheek. “Nice try. But I keep this secret from you too
just in case someone tries to torture it out of you. You have not yet been
trained to endure torture.”
***** Altair's Mistake *****
Chapter Summary
     Where instability had laid just under the surface… that veil has been
     stripped now… the instability lay bare and sensitive.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik patted Naheem’s cheek. “Nice try. But I keep this secret from you too
just in case someone tries to torture it out of you. You have not yet been
trained to endure torture.”
Altaïr wandered almost aimlessly from shadowy alley to hidden nook. He hid in
the ruined church of the poor district where he had trained Naheem a while ago.
There he kicked things, he punched walls, he threw planks from the second
floor, and he discovered a glass window behind some boards… the hard way. He
raged so hard even the homeless and drunks ran away crying demon in the
abandoned church. No one would come close.
Once he was mostly exhausted and bruised and bloody by his own hands and the
environment, he sought someplace high. Jerusalem offered the highest tower in
all this part of the world. Altaïr swore he could almost see Masyaf from it, if
you squinted hard. The wind tried several times to tear him from the side as he
climbed it. He even considered letting go a few of those times. He had no idea
why he didn’t. He crouched out on the plank where an eagle’s nest lay
abandoned. He just stayed there till the sky turned crimson like a pool of
blood. Then darkness swallowed the light. The streets below started to dot to
life with oil lamps and candles.
His leap of faith was flawless. As he lay in the hay looking up through the
bits at the stars he recalled when he thought he was dead. The terrible ache in
his not fully healed shoulder, however, firmly reminded him he was very much
alive. He rolled from the pile of hay. Any other man, assassin or not would
still have died from impacting with the hay from the height Altaïr had jumped
from.
He roamed the darkened streets of the Middle District. He spied every child he
heard cry. He tried to work out where Malik would place his son. Well off meant
with a merchant family but not one so well off as to be the center of
attention.Malik had not given much else as clues. His frustration boiled over.
Cooled, he walked away from the alley where blood pooled from several guards.
There was no real grace in those kills, just rage. Now he was spent. He did not
want to go back to the Bureau. He thought about sleeping on a roof or behind
some crate. But… if he went back to the Bureau, maybe he could hear more clues.
He returned to the ruined church to calm down a little, try to focus. He felt,
for lack of any other possible description, thin, like the old thinned and
weathered veils that sometimes get forgotten on the roof gardens. He dug out a
little two inch polished copper plate he sometimes used to peak around corners
with. With one of his knives and decided to shave some of his scruffiness,
hoping that maybe the grooming will help him feel better. He nicked himself and
dropped the copper mirror. He watched the little drop of blood on the edge of
his knife, his blood, that he drew. I can’t throw myself from a roof or tower,
instinct always saves me… Or something saves me. He rolled the knife in his
fingers considering how little that nick hurt and how easy it was to draw his
own blood. He pressed the blade to his left forearm, but only for a moment
before he finished shaving the stubble from his face and shortening his hair.
It was so easy. And it didn’t hurt near as badly as he expected. He didn’t
think he could do it, not to himself. This was just a test.
He dragged himself back to the Bureau feeling oddly distorted and disoriented.
I have a son…. I had a son…. I held him, I smelled him, he was mine… mine…He
shook his head trying to clear the buzzing of torment. Altaïr climbed a ladder
to the roof of the Bureau and watched Naheem sleeping through the lattice. He
heard scratching on paper and knew Malik was still awake. “Altaïr, stop
hovering and just come inside.” Malik didn’t sound nearly as caustic and Altaïr
expected. Looking down, clearly his shadow gave him away.
He dropped silently down onto the stone floor, avoiding waking Naheem. He
lurked in the doorway. Memories of the day halting his steps and blurring his
vision. “Where is he, Malik?”
“Safe.” Malik did not need details to know who Altaïr asked about.
“But, where?”
Malik came around the counter. The gate creaked causing Naheem to stir a little
but not wake. Altaïr shied away from Malik. “You are hurt.” Malik didn’t intend
to avoid the question, he merely pointed out the obvious bloodstains and
bruises and possible injuries hidden beneath Altaïr’s clothing.
Altaïr staggered into the main room swatting Malik’s hand away. “Don’t… don’t
touch me!” He stepped back for a little more distance, face shadowed, darkness
of the room comforting his dark mood. “I said, where is my son?” He almost
growled. His fists clenched.
“And I said he was safe.”
Before Malik could dodge, Altaïr sprang upon him clutching his throat and let
the right fist fly. Malik wriggled under him all too aware of the hidden blade
that could snap out at any second and kill him. Altaïr felt Malik relax every
muscle and a flicker in his mind wondered what was about to happen. Other
flickers screamed at Altaïr to let go, that this was crazy, that Malik was not
the enemy. As his fingers loosed a little, Malik moved. Feet locked over
Altaïr’s head and flipped him over and off. Malik was on his feet ready now for
the fight.
Naheem teetered on tired feet, startled awake by the noise of these two men
screaming back and forth at one another. It started out about the baby and
degenerated from there to things Naheem only vaguely knew about. The words back
and forth were harsh, though Malik seemed to be keeping his somewhat guarded,
his tone steady, his eyes watching Altaïr’s every move.
At least it was only a fist fight. Altaïr needed to fight. He always needed to
fight. There was so much tension inside clawing and beating its way to the
surface but never really free to fly. The fists flew though. Altaïr wanted to
see Malik down. Or did he want to see himself down? He was no longer sure.
Maybe he wanted Malik to pin him so he could scream it out. At least then Malik
would hold him and he would feel like he was falling to small pieces. His fists
flew again. Malik blocked with the right, then the left. But there was no left
to block with. Altaïr’s fist connected to bloody Malik’s nose again.
Malik staggered back almost falling on his ass. He dabbed the back of his hand
to his bleeding nose. Charcoal eyes locked on Altaïr waiting for the right
moment.
Altaïr felt like he was fire inside about to burn up. Every muscle ready to
jump. Every movement that of danger, an enemy, about to take everything else
away.
Naheem grabbed Altaïr’s shoulder to prevent him from hitting Malik again.
Altaïr’s hand shot back. It grabbed the tunic at the throat. It pulled. The
wrist blade snapped out. Naheem gasped in surprise at the sudden bite. Malik’s
outcry was lost as Altaïr turned to see who attacked him. The world seemed to
slow. Altaïr grabbed Naheem’s arm afraid to let the teen fall, afraid to
retract the blade.
Oh dear god… no… NOOOO!
Naheem clutched Altaïr’s wrist. “I didn’t yell… I was quiet…” He swallowed as
he felt a warm thick liquid trickle down the inside of his sleeping tunic. His
knees buckled.
Altaïr sank to the ground with Naheem. The fog had not come yet. He whispered
that he was sorry but could not get his voice any louder as he held the teen’s
eyes. They seemed to understand. Altaïr didn’t understand though.
“Retract now, Altaïr!” Malik slapped a folded towel over Naheem’s throat. The
blade snapped back on order. “Get him to my bed.”
Naheem’s eyes rolled back as Altaïr lifted him and carried into the back. Malik
kicked over boxes and dug out medical supplies and stitching necessities. He
dropped them down and ran for a basin of water. Altaïr held the compress in
place.
Then Malik shoved him away from Naheem, “Get out of my way and let me work.
We’ll talk about this after.”
Altaïr stumbled one slow step backwards at a time till he was through the
curtain and creaking open the gate. He turned around the corner into the open
roofed room and pressed his back, cold with sweat, against the wall. He sank to
the floor unable to think or move, just listening to the sounds of Malik
working on Naheem, fixing Naheem, fixing Altaïr’s mistakes yet again.
Chapter End Notes
     Art that inspired this chapter:
     https://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/art/why-158137255
     https://scarletcougar.deviantart.com/art/Altair-and-the-wall-
     181333353
***** Malik Picks Up the Pieces *****
Altaïr sank to the floor unable to think or move, just listening to the sounds
of Malik working on Naheem, fixing Naheem, fixing Altaïr’s mistakes yet again.
Malik tried hard not to let the frantic feelings welling up inside overwhelm
him. He wanted to really hurt Altaïr for this. He wanted to shake Naheem to
death for foolishly getting involved. “Stupid novice!” He continued to grumble
as he cleaned the wound. He sat back and stared at the wound again and
considered giving Naheem a concussion for his trouble. He stitched the neck
gash, bandaged it then firmly smacked the teen to bring him to.
Naheem seemed confused. Naheem was confused. His hand shot to his neck. “Do not
touch it,” ordered Malik. “You pull another Greek tragedy performance on me
like that again and I will give you a real reason for laying in my bed.” Naheem
rubbed his cheek where Malik slapped him.
Malik grumbled about novices always bleeding in HIS Bureau. He pushed Naheem
back down to rest then cleaned his medical supplies while griping about how
this is supposed to be a place of safety and peace, “but oh no! I have to get
my nose punched, twice… and have novices doing stupid things they both know
better than to do…”
Naheem smiled and curled up knowing this was the side of Malik that was
distressing because he was scared to lose someone he cared about. “Thank you,
Master Malik.”
Malik cleaned up his own nose now that he knew Naheem was fine. “Stay there and
rest tonight. And don’t… not ever… get involved in one of my fights. I can
handle myself, especially with Altaïr.” Altaïr is terrible at wrestling. If I
have to, I can hold him down. I have before. I expect I will have to again
sometime. Hopefully not too soon.
Malik accepted the beating he took from Altaïr. He deserved it in a way and
wondered over and over if he did the right thing by bringing the baby here at
all. No, that was the right thing. Altaïr deserved some time with his son. He
just wished he didn’t have to take that baby away again. Altaïr cannot afford
to be a wreck. He has a mission, two in fact. Robert will be here in two
months. Naheem needs training that I cannot give him.
Malik fought down his frustrations and swallowed the many sarcastic and acidic
things he wanted to say to Altaïr. Every time he let his tongue loose,
something came out that opened the chasm between him and Altaïr more. He wanted
to bridge that chasm. He took in a slow breath and gently pushed a book into
place on his shelf instead of slamming it as he wanted to.
Altaïr was like an abused horse, twitchy and skittish and sometimes downright
dangerous.
It was not what Malik saw though as he stood in the doorway looking down at
Altaïr. Occasionally Altaïr would lift his hands from where they hung over his
knees and watch them shake. His hood hid his features from Malik’s angle. Malik
had many things to say to Altaïr about what to do and not to do, but he could
see Altaïr was saying them to himself already, whispering the Creed over and
over.
“Stay your blade… stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent….”
Malik crouched down in front of Altaïr. “And your fists.” He could not help at
least one small snip. He winced the second it left his lips. Altaïr silenced
and swallowed hard enough for Malik to hear it in the dark of night. He hated
Altaïr’s silences. It seemed to be all he got these days. He laid his hand over
one of Altaïr’s.
“I just… wanted to know…”
Malik lifted his hand from Altaïr’s and reached in, cupping Altaïr’s chin.
“Look at me, Altaïr.” He lifted that chin till he could see Altaïr’s face, till
those golden eyes met his. They seemed so hollow. He sat there as close as he
could, facing Altaïr. “Your son is safe, with a wealthy family. They have
wanted a son for over ten years now and lost children trying. Your son is a
godsend for them and they will love him as though he were their own. They know
of the Brotherhood, of us, of you. They know he is your son. They know Templars
may seek him out. They know how to hide in plain sight very, very well. Your
son is safe, Altaïr. I swear it on my life.”
Malik released Altaïr’s chin and laid his hand again over one of Altaïr’s. The
golden eyes did not drop, but remained regarding Malik. Malik continued, “I
have ways of knowing how he is and promise to keep you informed. And I can get
things to him if you want to send anything. But you must not compromise his
secret hiding place or risk anyone figuring it out by your seeking or
questioning. I and the parents are the only ones who know anything about this,
for everyone’s safety.”
Altaïr touched at the bruising starting to form on Malik’s upper lip and nose.
Malik did not flinch. “I know how to take a hit. I’ll bruise, but nothing is
broken. Not like we haven’t broken each other’s noses in the past, anyways.”
Altaïr looked away, dropping his hand from Malik’s face. Malik lifted Altaïr’s
chin again. “Naheem is fine. It was just a scratch, needed only a couple small
stitches.” He wanted to get closer to Altaïr to reassure him, even to hold him,
but Altaïr’s knees remains in the way. “Do you want to sit with him?”
Altaïr nodded, then shook his head. “No… I can’t…” he shimmied up the wall till
he stood, still shaking his head.
“Yes, Altaïr. You can. And you should.” Malik knew that if Altaïr did not face
Naheem now, he would never face the young man and this would add to the soul
wounds that don’t heal.
Altaïr relented and walked haltingly to the curtain where he froze seeing
Naheem on Malik’s bed, neck bandaged with dots of blood on the bandaging.
Malik gently pushed Altaïr through. Then he placed his hand on Altaïr’s hood
and tugged it back to hang loose. “Armor and weapons off.”
Altaïr removed each piece and set them down silently in the corner. Naheem
stirred a little but continued to sleep. Altaïr removed his hood and filthy
robes.
Malik watched with a small frown that caused his bruised nose to ache. There
were new wounds on the assassin’s body. The knuckles cut and bloody which
explained why Malik had sported more blood than his bleeding nose really
offered. Malik retrieved clean clothes for Altaïr and his medical kit for
clearly he was not done healing people. Three small clean cuts on Altaïr’s left
forearm made no sense to him as he salved and bandaged them. “What happened
here?”
“Tried to clean myself up… and… and…” Altaïr shrugged seeking a good lie, “Took
some anger out on some wood.”
“Wood did not cause this,” Malik commented skeptically.
“The glass behind the wood caught me.”
Malik accepted the lie, but knew it was that. He wondered what Altaïr was
hiding this time. He only lied when he came back hurt from some lesson or
punishment from Al Mualim. He wondered if Altaïr found a way to punish himself.
Naheem rolled over and watched them. Altaïr could hardly meet Naheem’s eyes.
“I’m ok, Master Altaïr. We both did something stupid, foolish. I won’t do that
again.”
“Neither will I,” said Altaïr firmly as he finally faced Naheem.
Malik let them talk a little bit while he put things away for a second time. He
hoped the drama of the day was over. He prayed it did not spill into the
morrow. Junayd will arrive at dawn for training and he did not want to have to
explain more than he must already, nor did he want to have to try to keep both
Naheem and Junayd out of the mess between he and Altaïr.
Altaïr lay curled on the spare bed asleep by the time Malik was ready to drop
for the night. He looked from one filled bed to the next. I have gotten soft. I
want a bed and not the cushions or carpets. With a sigh he collected a few and
set them up as he had before, beside Altaïr. Not so long after he was settled
down and almost asleep himself, he felt Altaïr roll to face him and shift
closer till his face buried in between Malik’s shoulder blades.
Altaïr, I am sorry I could not fix things the way we had once dreamed about. I
did the best I could, my friend. I did the best I could.
***** Altair: Not a Stray Cat *****
Not so long after Malik was settled down and almost asleep himself, he felt
Altaïr roll to face him and shift closer till his face buried in between
Malik’s shoulder blades. Here it was warm. Here it was safe. Here things just
barely made sense.
Naheem woke when he shifted and the pillow rubbed his fresh reminder of
stupidity. He adjusted his pillow and opened his eyes. The oil lamp burned very
low, but he could still make out the sleeping forms across the room. He
recalled the other morning where he walked in on Altaïr curled asleep
practically in Malik’s lap. He hardly managed a rough sketch of that. And here
was another opportunity. He licked his lips debating his success or failure of
getting up for his sketchbook without waking Altaïr. He knew he could move
about without waking Malik and had several sketches of the sleeping Dai, but
Altaïr slept VERY lightly.
Naheem sat up. It couldn’t be more than an hour before dawn. Malik slept with
his right hand tucked under his cheek. Altaïr had snuggled close behind him
without yet molding his body to the Dai’s. Naheem craned his neck to confirm
that Altaïr did indeed look like he was smothering himself between Malik’s
shoulder blades. The sight was both of something terribly fragile and
incredibly powerful at the same time. It spoke volumes of situations Naheem did
not understand and of a history Naheem did not yet know.
Slowly, he stood. He employed everything he could of his training to sneak
silently out and return with his sketchbook. His first scratched out marks
seemed so loud on the paper that he actually cringed. When neither assassin nor
Dai stirred, he abandoned his fear and let his hand fly over the page till he
had the image as best as he could. Morning light started to filter into the
room from a high window. He snuck out again and placed his sketchbook among his
other private things then returned to pretend to sleep through the morning.
Altaïr dreamed, tensing sometimes. The familiar scent of Malik pulled him back
to a calm world where things made sense once more. Or did they? A small crash
resounded from the other room, followed by, “Ooops,” whispered with a cringe.
Malik rose to the annoying sound to investigate. The cold of his vacated spot
made Altaïr groan plaintively. He heard the more familiar sounds of Malik
reprimanding a novice, so he hunkered back into his blanket blinking awake and
watching Naheem sleep through it all.
Junayd recited the Creed and other texts in various languages quietly. Malik
corrected him now and then and helped him with pronunciation. They discussed
the recent informant missions that Junayd helped with and the tactics and
techniques of using that information to plan a mission.
Altaïr jumped alert as Naheem suddenly scrambled from bed, apparently not
asleep. “Hey, wait, wait, wait! I want to be part of this talk!” Naheem
declared as he dashed back to wrap the blanket around himself till he could get
dressed.
Altaïr collapsed back into bed and listened to Naheem shamefully explain to
Junayd about his foolish injury. That too became a lesson in social etiquette
and safety when dealing with people in the Brotherhood. Altaïr huddled into his
shoulders wondering exactly who that lesson was for and if Malik knew he was
still awake listening. Probably. He pulled the blanket over his head.
A wooden bowl with breakfast tapped the floor in front of Altaïr. He tried very
hard to ignore it while Malik brought breakfast out to the novices. His stomach
growled audibly and painfully, reminding him he had not eaten yesterday. He
gave in to his bodily need for nourishment. The later quiet told Altaïr that
Junayd headed home or to wherever he was off to. Altaïr didn’t keep track of
that novice. He was in someone else’s care, an informant’s or something of the
sort. But he was being subtly trained as an assassin by Malik. Altaïr thought
Junayd had the quality to be a good assassin one day. Naheem… would need
serious work.
“Altaïr, get your lazy ass out of bed. I am not going to allow you to mope
about the Bureau and sleep and eat my food like a stray cat.” Malik’s sharp
voice rang in the back room.
With a growl, Altaïr rose from the bed. “Fine. I’m leaving.” He gathered his
armor and strapped it on along with his weapons.
“I didn’t say for you to just leave.”
Golden eyes burned. “What the hell, Malik. You want me to leave or stay? Make
up your mind.” He was tired and moody and the past few days ranked among
Altaïr’s worst. He clenched his fists. Altaïr had hoped this morning would
continue to be smooth and comforting. Guess not.
Malik took a few breaths before answering Altaïr’s very validly frustrated
question. “I didn’t mean for you to just leave, but to get up. You have two
whole months before Robert de Sable even arrives. I want you to take Naheem out
and train him.”
Altaïr’s eyes dropped to the floor. How could he dare really face the teen, let
alone train him after he nearly killed him?
Malik’s tone softened, “Altaïr. This is like riding a horse. When you fall off,
you must get right back on. You also promised to share this responsibility and
train him. He needs you. I… I can’t do it.”
As Altaïr lifted his eyes, Naheem stood in the doorway with the curtain pushed
aside. Their eyes met and both looked away from each other in shame.
Malik rolled his eyes and muttered about stupid novices under his breath. He
snatched Naheem’s notebook from the young man’s hand and whacked him in the
head. “Get packed, Novice Naheem. Three days training. Stop loitering.” He
turned in a smooth motion and whacked Altaïr, “and you will take him out to
that ruined church you had him at before and bring him back hopefully in three
days, more if it takes more, till he can do a leap from a building into hay
without breaking anything and defend himself in a fist fight. Don’t bring him
back broken and don’t yourself come back broken. Training. Ignore the Templars.
There are lower ranked assassins here with that duty.”
There was no room for argument. Altaïr could only accept his assigned duty from
his local Dai. He brushed past Naheem carefully. “I will meet you there. Find
your own way, Novice Naheem. You have two hours.” He filled his pouched with
fresh supplies and canteens with fresh water. He even added extra salve,
ointment and bandages. He rolled a blanket tightly and strapped it to his back.
Altaïr overheard Malik telling Naheem to leave the sketchbook, that he was
assassin training not art training now. Altaïr frowned and countered gruffly,
“If he can fit it into his pouch, he can take it.” He pulled himself onto the
roof and rolled his shoulder. Naheem would have to work fast. It took over an
hour to get to the ruined church from here. Altaïr’s eyes scanned the roof tops
and plotted his route. Then he was gone.
Naheem scrambled to pack what he needed, trying not to ask for help till he got
really stuck and asked for a check from Malik. He forced some room into a
pouch, opted to carry some coins wrapped in cloth instead of food. Then he
grabbed a handful of paper and a knife and a leather awl. Swift cuts formed
three inch by four inch pieces of paper. The awl punched a couple holes through
the top and he tied them together with string and stuffed the little pad into a
belt pouch with his leather wrapped charcoal art sticks. He grinned, dimpling,
seconds before the wind was knocked from him as Malik shoved a rolled blanket
at him and a small map.
***** Malik: Snooping *****
Once Naheem was gone, Malik stood still listening to the silence. Yes, this is
what I want. Not that he wanted silence all the time, but the last few days
were hellish. His face still hurt and was purple from the broken nose. He
needed to quietly focus on updating the log book on Templar kills from
assassins who already started to trickle in throughout the day. He cursed
Altaïr for not telling him more than the quiet murmurs in the night that he
killed some Templars. How many? In what locations? His notes in the log stated
embarrassingly that Altaïr killed Templars somewhere in Jerusalem. He smacked
the incense pot off the counter in annoyance.
By the end of the day, he was fidgety. The quiet drove him to distraction. It
was like the first days in this Bureau alone. The quiet, the loneliness, he
found himself ranting out loud or trying to talk out plans just to hear some
sounds. He sipped some willow bark tea to ease the pain of his bruised face and
carefully rubbed a cooling ointment over his nose, the same one Tibah made him
for his arm stump for when it ached bad. Wincing as he dabbed the bridge of his
nose caused more pain just from the wincing. He threw the polished metal
mirror. Many books soon followed.
This time, there was no one but himself to clean up. Not that Naheem ever
helped. Naheem avoided Malik with great dexterity when the books flew. Then he
chose to be a grown up man at the next moment and refuse to clean up after
Malik, “Your fit, your mess, your responsibility. Besides, my mom used to say
that by cleaning up after a fit helped organize the frustrations that caused it
till they made more sense.” Malik adored his novice and wanted to slap him at
the same time. Heaving a sigh, Malik cleaned up.
He found Altaïr’s journal in that, as well as Naheem’s art sketchbook. He sat
down in the back with some coffee and debated which to look through first.
Naheem had not really given him permission to go through his sketchbook, but as
a novice, nothing was technically permitted to be kept secret from the mentor.
Altaïr’s journal held an open invitation. Do I read the anxiety inducing one
and finish with the beautiful art? Or do I start with the art because reading
Altaïr’s will require deciphering his stress and confusion and pathologies?
He chose to deal with the hard stuff first. Altaïr hopefully vented in there.
The writing surprised Malik. It was neater, more coherent. Whole paragraphs
were written and separated by space and punctuation, and in single languages
through the paragraph. Some of the writing sadly showed no improvement. The
Arabic was used more often than not and had neatened considerably, while other
languages required careful reading to decipher the misspellings. At least the
misspellings had a consistent pattern. There were some rough line sketches
scribbled out, too. Maybe Altaïr was trying his hand at drawing since he was
surrounded by artists? Malik stared at the scribbled over sketch thinking that
it was remarkably good. Altaïr had good eyes for some of the more technical
line work rather than anything organic. The image was of a right-handed hidden
wrist blade. Maybe he sees things mirror image? Maybe that is why he write
poorly and has difficulty reading? That was not it; the note in the margin
confirmed the right hand intention.
The raw emotions that poured over the pages after tore Malik to pieces. He was
glad no one was here to witness his tears. He had to put Altaïr’s journal down
several times. There were things in there that showed more pain and confusion
than Malik had expected. But why shouldn’t he have expected it? Nina stabbed
Altaïr deeply with her cruel act. Malik hardly did better by taking the child
away. He wondered if he did the right thing again. What worried him more were
the darker, self-destructive, depressive lines. He squinted and read them again
when he came across them. Hints of suicide attempts, he was sure of it. The
wondering why Altaïr had not died and if it would hurt less if he were. He
recalled the lie about the glass cuts on his forearm and felt suddenly deeply
relieved Naheem was with Altaïr now. Something has to be done and soon. He is
not stable enough to deal with Robert and live. He realized that might be
exactly Altaïr’s intention.
He shoved the journal aside and got up to write a note, but there was one of
his informants waiting in the main room. “Dai, I overheard that some people
will be arriving here tomorrow for some… careful exchange? Something about gold
leaves?”
Malik smiled at the informant. “Thank you for the warning. I need to make
preparations for the exchange. I have a message to send, can you take it for
me?”
Of course the informant could secretly deliver a note to Tibah’s father. It was
a request for a meeting to check on the triplets and to discuss once again
Tibah’s betrothal proposal.
With a lighter heart, he sat again to enjoy the sketches in Naheem's book. It
gave him pause to see the one that had been done this morning of Altaïr
sleeping close behind Malik. Naheem had captured Altaïr’s fears and anxieties
and Malik’s discomfort and concern and their mutual tenderness that was shared
on a more subconscious level. Malik had never seen it from this perspective. It
imprinted on his heart and soul. He hoped the training was going well.
***** Naheem the Bumbling Hero *****
Naheem made it out the roof with much less grace than Altaïr. He ignored the
bruises he earned feeling like a whining child for having even noticed them.
And all I did was climb out of the Bureau! He groaned to himself. Naheem
adjusted the blanket strapped to his back as he bounced a little on the balls
of his left then his right foot. He didn’t have a whole lot of time to warm up.
He Thought about his destination and considered his route. The shorted distance
between two points is a strain line. It was what he learned from his drafting
class.
He turned in the direction of the ruined church. A straight line could give
away where I am going to those who might try to follow. Just as well. He could
not jump the wide gap that was the street in front of the Bureau. He could
climb down the ladder and meander through the crowd. But many already know me
from my errands and might see me and wonder why I was not using the cane. Maybe
he could climb down and dash across then climb the other building across the
street.
He peaked over and swiftly backed up almost tripping on the lattice as he
pressed his back against the wall of the upper level of the Bureau. A Templar!
That suddenly was no longer an option. He inched around the wall till he could
see the wood planks to the other building at the back of the Bureau. But that
is in the total opposite direction. He peaked back to see the Templar heading
down another street. He thought through the possible routes he could take.
DAMMIT!
He realized he was wasting so much time planning and had not even stepped off
the Bureau’s roof yet! He braced himself and did his best to hurry across the
blanks and hop from building to building till he managed to at least get into
the Poor District. He was way off course though. Dodging roof guards grew
harder and harder.
He crouched between two crates. Beyond him were roof guards on too many roofs.
The roof garden was slightly too far away and he could not figure out how to
time things so he could get past them. To go back and around would take him so
long he would not reach the ruined church till hours past when he was told to.
Sometimes he felt like he hated his masters, or that because of their bad week,
he had to suffer for it. Then sometimes he thought maybe he was being tested.
If Junayd could do this at age eleven, then Naheem should be able to do this at
age sixteen. Indeed, today he had moved from being fifteen to being sixteen and
no one would know or care. He felt selfish for wanting someone to considering
how much bad emotions had recently filtered through the Bureau. How would they
even know today was his birthday anyways? Not like he told them. It was his
mother’s little thing to celebrate his birthday. But she was gone now. Gone for
almost a year now. His father showed up a couple days later and took him into
training. Life hadn’t stopped since. Then even he too was gone and he was
whisked away by Altaïr.
Maybe that is what it is like being in the Brotherhood. There is no stopping.
Always be diligent. Everything is a level of danger. There is no respite.
Safety and peace are a fallacy, an illusion they offer each other. No wonder
they live short lives! Sons of assassins become assassins. Or something within
the Brotherhood. Daughters get married off to assassins or informants to birth
more assassins and informants. Or become part of someone’s harem of pleasure.
He felt trapped, and not just by the roof guards. He wondered what Malik might
have wanted to be if he could be something other than what he was. He wondered
what Altaïr might have wanted to be. He wondered what he himself would want to
be if there was peace and no need for this fighting, skulking and killing. A
shriek shook him back to reality. A peasant was being harassed. We are the hand
of God that deals out the dark justice when there is no one else to do so. He
craned to see where the roof guards were, then a little further to see the
scene just below. Two guards picking on a young girl.
He felt for his short blade, then for the five little throwing knives. I am all
she has. Do I be the coward and stay here hiding? Do I be the cold asshole and
run? Or do I do the stupid thing and risk my life for someone I don’t even
know? He thought about what Malik or Altaïr might do. Plan, then execute. But
what if there was no time? He heard her dress rip and knew there was no time.
Never hesitate, or you are dead. He threw one little dagger very wide and far.
It ricocheted off a wall. Two guards on the roofs heard it and changed their
patterns to investigate. He then took a deep breath and let two more fly with
the accuracy he had mastered under Malik’s tutelage.
The harassers dropped clutching where the daggers pierced deep. The girl was
too afraid to run. The men still lived. Never leave them alive. If you strike
them, then you kill them, or they will lead to your death. He hated some
lessons. He hurried down the nearby ladder. As he hit the ground, he tugged his
grey hood low so the girl did not see his face. With his knife, he sloppily
slit their throats and wiped the knife on their tunics before retrieving his
throwing knives. I… did it. I… killed them… The girl touched his arm and he
jumped, knife in hand. She murmured a thank you and ran.
Naheem found himself running before his mind had even registered it. He turned
a corner and vomited. He climbed a ladder and vomited again on the roof.
Rolling into a roof garden, he hid and sipped water to clear the foul taste in
his mouth. Guards walked right by his hiding place and he froze, terrified.
They spoke about the Templars in town, the changes of guard patrols to
accommodate, wondered about if Robert de Sable had the courage actually show up
with assassins in the city. Of course they knew there were assassins. There was
an open sanction to kill them. It told them assassins were there to find dead
bodies. Naheem’s eyes widened. The sanction was blowing the cover, breaking the
third code in the Creed. If they kept it up, then Altaïr would not be able to
get to his target because they would all be ready and waiting for him. Naheem
wondered if Master Malik knew? He must. Malik knows everything. But Altaïr
doesn’t know. He’s been preoccupied.
His kills would haunt him later, he was sure. Right now he needed to get past
everyone and into that ruined church. Just as soon as he figured out where he
was. He was now both late and lost. He muttered curses from three roofs over
after the guards had left. Scanning the map and his surroundings, he finally
managed to plot a route.
Every muscle ached. The way onto the ruined church roof required a jump. He had
run up to the edge for that jump now five times and skidded to a halt. I’ll
never make it. He huffed and back up a sixth time to make another attempt. On
the other roof, he saw Altaïr step out and cross his arms. Naheem didn’t think
he was permitted to chicken out this sixth time. He ran. He lept, eyes
scrunched tightly closed. He landed hard and over and slid on his chest,
scraping elbows and chin.
“I thought I taught you how to roll.” Altaïr walked back inside having had time
to collect his thoughts and emotions and bury them in stone within himself.
Naheem made a fist and pounded the surface where he lay out of humiliation
before peeling himself up and following his master in for further training.
***** Short Glimpses *****
Chapter Summary
     A collection of shorts about OC's.
     And... in comes Maria...
JUNAYD_&_THE_RABBI
“Rabbi Aharon? Why do we not have priests like the Christians?” Junayd was
careful to pretend to be Jewish and self-identify as one. He had been studying
with the Imams in the Mosque and with a priest in a church. However, he studied
Judaism with a rabbi in his home. His question came out of the blue while he
was reciting some texts with difficulty that were in Hebrew.
The Rabbi smiled gently at the boy he already came to know as far too
inquisitive for his own good. The Rabbi thought perhaps that the boy’s
grandfather may not have the boy’s age right. He was smart as a whip and
desperately needed to understand everything, sometimes all at once which would
make the Rabbi laugh. He liked this little boy with the Arabic name. It was
time to talk to him about his family heritage and the steps he might take as a
young Jew. “Junayd? Was you mother Jewish?” He already knew the family to be
Muslim and knew the boy was being raised to see all the religions of this city.
He might grow up to be an advisor.
Junayd had to think, hard. He didn’t know if his mythic father had married a
Jewish woman or not. He wasn’t sure if he should lie, pretend, or dig out the
truth from his memory. He chose honesty. “Before G-d, I don’t rightly know.
What does that have to do with my question?”
The Rabbi chuckled, “Because it helps me understand what you know and why you
might ask. If you were born Jewish, you would know the lineages of Aaron,
Moses, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the Tribe of Levi. You would carry a name
that reflected your own lineage. And you would know that of course there are
priests in Judaism. They are known as kohein or pluralized kohanim, descendants
of Aaron, brother of Moses, and he was the first Kohein Gadol or high priest.
Kohein tend the altar, offer sacrifices, and perform the rites within the
Temple or Synagogue.” He waited and watched as Junayd absorbed what he said and
linked each name to the lessons they recently had.
Junayd would go home full of many more questions for his mentor, the old Dai,
that he now called Grandfather.
 
TIBAH’S_TALE
How long had it been? Weeks? Days? Wasn’t she supposed to be courted? Tibah
searched the crowd of the market for the millionth time this week. Was he
really injured? She had seen him on errands limping with his cane. It was very
convincing. She knew he had been injured, but didn’t really know how badly or
if he had fully recovered. What she did know was that he could move about
without the cane, too. That day she had invaded his training, he didn’t use it.
He seemed to limp still, but managed.
Malik had in a way set the teen up to fail. That annoyed her. She was very
perceptive. Of course she would spot him in the market. His other trainer, the
eagle as she knew him, was so furious. The young man looked so scared and so
ashamed. She was just as devious to give him the task she did. He was a means
to an end. She wanted to train in medicine so very badly.
She closed her eyes and remembered how she touched Naheem’s hand, felt over the
severed finger. Just like her father, just like the eagle. She was sure that if
Malik had a left hand, she would find a severed finger there too. A dangerous
secret order. That much she knew. Spies that risked their lives to try to save
people. Her father had retired from it. Although, sometimes she wondered. He
fought so hard to keep her away and yet would have married her happily to
Malik. Because my father thinks a cripple is safe and not in the middle of the
dangers.
She watched a group of Templars walk by. They lived in the middle of danger.
Jerusalem was the heart of holiness with sacred sites dedicated to three
religions. And they all fought over them.
She scanned the crowd again before serving ointment to an elderly woman. No
Naheem. No eagle. No Malik. Naheem had the cutest dimples and the softest brown
eyes. He seemed so shy and clumsy. It was adorable; she smiled despite herself.
The eagle however was hard, cold, dangerous. And yet, not any of those things.
Hurting. That is what he was. She recalled him in the alley with tears wetting
his cheeks, gulping air as he struggled to gain control of himself. He seemed
so alone, so lonely. He had wounds she could not see and knew she could not
heal. She hoped Malik would be able to. Lonely eagles died alone. And the angel
that guided me said this one was a hero.
She never spoke of seeing angels to anyone except Malik. The fact that she saw
them at all reaffirmed to her that she was on the right path for her life.
Which at the moment was going absolutely nowhere. She humphed as she sat down
on a stool at her family stall, chin in hands, elbows leaning on the stall’s
counter space. The crowd milled around the wealthy market like a blur of people
who had no direction or goal. Oh how she wanted to see those soft brown eyes
and shy dimples again!
 
KADAR_&_ABBY’S_TALE
Abby was healing slow, but well. He started moving around the estate more. He
had meetings with Kadar and Tibah’s father regularly about accounting and
finances. Working with the numbers felt at least familiar and was the only way
he could repay their kindness.
He often wondered how he ought to dress. As a man or as a woman. Being a
hermaphrodite, he felt like a freak all the time. The fact that the older
siblings disapproved of him as Kadar’s lover kept him hiding and out of sight
as much as he could when they visited. Maybe if I dressed as a woman, it would
be less bad to be Kadar’s lover? Maybe if I do it enough, they might let me and
him wed? Who was he kidding? He knew they knew he was more man than woman. It
irked him that he didn’t yet have the strength to stand up for himself.
Guilt ate at him knowing he was so much older than Kadar, by five years. They
never showed their affections in front of anyone, not family and not servants.
They shared connected rooms to dissuade servants from thinking they were
together.
Kadar had been firmly commanded by his father that he was now not just
responsibly for his little sister’s guardianship, but also for the care and
support of his lover. Kadar could not fathom his father’s understanding, but
dared not ire him in case it got retracted. Kadar tried not to rip out his hair
when Tibah strained his patience. He served to protect her and the merchant
stalls on either side of the apothecary stall in the market place. The other
stalls paid him decently. Tibah made him wish that she’d get married off soon
before he strangled her for stressing him. It didn’t mean he did not love her.
There were just too many sisters in his life.
Abby was bent over a desk in their shared common room, scribbling in the day’s
ledger for the estate’s general accounts. It was comfortable to be dressed in
simple tie pants and a long shirt. He combed his short hair neatly, which was a
waste when Kadar entered and made a mess of it with his fingers. He abandoned
the ledger to help Kadar out of his armor. Kadar encouraged Abby back into the
chair and rubbed his shoulders. One still ached a good deal but the bruises
were fading and the stitched wounds nearly fully closed.
“Kadar?” Abby started to ask hesitantly. “Kadar? Would it be better if I were a
woman?”
The massaging paused. Kadar thought about it. “Be whatever you want with me.
But everyone here sees you kind of as a man. To switch in the middle would make
them more … would just be…”
“Weirder,” finished Abby. “Why do they accept me at all?”
There was no hesitation in Kadar’s answer. To him it was fact. It was stable
and sure. “Because I love you.”
 
MARIA’S_MISSION
The Crusade was supposed to be full of honor, glory, and redemption. Those who
went on it were absolved of all shame and sin. Maria was unsure if everyone
agreed with that notion. She stood among several other Templars awaiting the
next round of sparring to hone her skills. She was lighter than most, faster,
and many did not know she was a woman.
Robert de Sable, however, did know and did not care as long as she was suitable
for the task. He stepped forward to spar with her. She, of all those among his
men, showed the most promise. There was something completely exhilarating about
fighting her. To him, it tasted like sex. He claimed her as his personal
steward when he realized she was a woman. Now he… owned her… so to speak.
Maria disapproved of Robert’s personal beliefs about humans and his strange
form of religion that sounded like Christianity yet was not at the same time.
It sounded a little cult-like. She respected him, though, for respecting her
and accepting her. He was formidable and pushed her to be the very best she
could be as a Templar warrior. She respected him enough to do anything he might
ask of her, even die for him. God would know where she truly stood.
Maria was a fine piece of work. Robert could almost be aroused by her ferocity
and determination. She was smart; she was fast; and she could fight better than
most of the other templars. She was perfect. Shame his plans for her were so
terminal. However, it was necessary. A woman did not belong among the Templar
men. He trained her hard to move like he moved, to fight like he fought. She
needed to be as much like him as possible, enough that with a helmet on, no one
would know the difference. She was just what Robert needed right now to deal
with a certain eagle.
Maria was almost ready. Another month or six weeks of training and she could go
on that mission to Jerusalem.
***** Altair's Boot Camp *****
Chapter Summary
     Long chapter… Never said training would be easy…
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Naheem made a fist and pounded the surface where he lay out of humiliation
before peeling himself up off the old church roof and following his master in
for further training.
With scraped elbows and chin stinging freshly, Naheem descended the precarious
and unstable stairs to the more stable second floor of the ruined church where
he and Altaïr had slept and trained before. Altaïr already had his blanket and
supplies and likely stolen food set up in a defensible location. New ropes had
been strung across the beams above with knotted ropes hanging from them. Hay
had been piled in many locations below on the ground floor. Naheem looked over
the broken rail to where church pews would have been to debate if the hay would
break his fall or break him.
Altaïr climbed up the spiralling iron stairs from the ground floor with two
buckets of water that he dumped into a larger basin. His caution reminded
Naheem of the lecture Malik gave him about Altaïr’s phobia. He approached to
help. Altaïr handed him the buckets and backed safely away from the huge
barrel-like basin of fresh water. He watched Naheem fetch water several times
while he removed his armor and remaining weapons. “No armor. No weapons. And
wash the dirt from your scrapes.” They were Altaïr’s commands, but not snapped
out as Naheem would have expected.
Naheem was amazed at how much setting up for training Altaïr had miraculously
managed in the time it took Naheem to reach the ruined church. Those short
commands were the first words Altaïr had spoken all afternoon to him as they
finished setting up and cleaning up. Hauling water was heavy work. If he
spilled any in the next rounds to fill the next large basin, Altaïr sent him
back down the stairs to start again. His shoulders burned and his legs burned
with the repeated efforts. He stumbled, but did not cry out. The buckets
emptied over the iron stairs and splashed water on the ground floor below.
Altaïr took the buckets from him. “Go sit and rub your leg. Massage the strain
out of it. When it starts to hurt, you make adjustments to how to do your task
so you do not incur injury. Lighten your load and make more frequent trips,
seek an easier route (pointing to the other stairs that were wider, less steel
and not spiralling), or take a short break then continue.” Naheem felt like an
idiot. Altaïr’s advice was complete common sense that Naheem had abandoned.
Altaïr offered him some fruit to eat and took over massaging the leg. He felt
carefully for where the deep scar lay and massaged around it knowing that over
it would be too painful till the other muscles eased. He knew this from his own
pains in his right knee.
“Am I really going to be climbing all that?” asked Naheem disbelieving.
“Yes.”
Malik would have explained the why and described techniques and debated safety
and skill first. Altaïr, dreaded Naheem, would just tell him to do it.
“You will do that later. Master beam walking first, wall climbing, and stable
fighting stances. Strengthen your endurance. Then we will climb those and fight
and jump.”
Now it sounded much more exciting!
Naheem finished filling the barrel with buckets of water, though he chose to
use the more difficult stairs anyways to practice balance and explained as much
when Altaïr gave him a disapproving frown. They spent the next several hours
walking low beams, angled beams, climbing latticed walls and craggy bricks, and
then crossing the high supporting beams. It was a good thing Naheem had no fear
of heights or this would be impossible.
After another break, he was instructed to watch. Altaïr climbed a wall, crossed
a ceiling beam, and then walked along the less stable railing of the second
floor to an angled beam and down that. He repeated the process over and over.
Naheem watched very carefully. On the third circuit, he opened his little
sketchbook and drew what he saw to better imprint it in his mind. He wondered
if Altaïr would get bored repeating this circuit. “Master Altaïr? How is it
that you are not breaking through the railing beam? I thought it was broken and
unstable.”
“Not all of it is ruined. When you put your foot down, never put your full
weight if you are unsure of the footing. Test it, then step. Be ready to move
back to sure footing or leap to sure ledges. Never jump to uncertain footing.
That might be an early death or at least many broken bones. That will be an
early death by Malik’s hand.”
Naheem was not sure if Altaïr was making a joke or not.
Altaïr kept Naheem drilling on this task for most of the night, correcting
footing and balance. He then set the task of stable stances for fighting.
Naheem had to hold horse stance for an hour. When he complained, Altaïr cuffed
him and told him to stretch and start again. They ended the night by jogging
the circumference of the interior of the ruined church till Naheem could barely
take three steps without stumbling.
Altaïr envied Naheem’s ability to sleep easily almost anywhere. He watched the
teen for a while before making adjustments to the circuit for tomorrow. He
checked every boarded up window and potential entry into the building, laying
down traps to alert him of intruders. Lastly, he kicked the broken glass under
the stacked pews, hiding the evidence of his earlier outbursts.
The next day faired just as hard with little breaks. It was all about
endurance. Altaïr pushed Naheem to do better, to refine his actions, to be
steady. He never over-pushed. When Naheem started to stumble they paused to
breathe or eat. Today Altaïr worked on fist fighting late in the afternoon.
Naheem did decently with instruction against a padded support beam. He was not
great, but better than Altaïr expected for someone who may never have fought
before in his life. It made Altaïr wonder if maybe Naheem actually knew some
fighting or had been in a few himself.
So he turned Naheem from the padded post. “Hit me.”
Naheem dropped his fists and blinked in confusion. “uh… master?”
Altaïr’s fist shot out and struck Naheem in the shoulder. “I said hit me. You
can’t hurt me, so HIT ME!”
Naheem frowned and raised his fists to block the next blow Altaïr delivered for
his delaying.
“I can’t teach you if you don’t spar. Now… HIT ME!!”
Naheem took Altaïr’s opening and hit him in the chest.
Altaïr didn’t even stagger. He glanced down at the light little wrinkle the
poor strike made in his shirt. He hit Naheem back. The teen sprawled across the
floor and rolled to his feet. Altaïr nodded approval. They went back and forth
like that. Naheem’s half-hearted blows earning him bruises and more sprawling.
Sometimes Altaïr would snap in low growls how the enemy won’t go so easy on
Naheem and that he had better get serious about this. To prove his point he hit
Naheem in the scarred part of his thigh.
Naheem cried out and dropped. Altaïr hauled him to his feet. “That is what they
will do to you over and over. Weight on the good leg. Bad one stays behind a
little. Now hit back like you mean it.” Now Altaïr got a fight out of Naheem.
He knew it was in the teen. They bruised each other well that evening. Naheem
never knew that Altaïr was pulling his punches.
By the end of the third day, Naheem was properly fist fighting like a decent
novice. He had thought he would not get opportunities to actually draw, but he
did. Altaïr may not talk much, but he taught through example, making Naheem sit
and watch and draw before doing. When he made repeated mistakes that short
instructions were not correcting, he sat and watched Altaïr mimic the mistake
so he could see it. He had used up all the pages on both sides of his little
notebook.
When he woke in the morning, there was a fresh blank book beside him. Altaïr
sat against a wall watching him… and drawing in a book of his own. Naheem
blinked totally baffled. “You draw?”
“We are all taught a little of everything so we can blend in when necessary. I
might need to draw a map for someone else, or sketch a target so a team knows
who to corner. Or… design a new weapon.” He turned the book for Naheem to see.
It was the hidden blade schematics matching well the hidden blade on the
blanket beside Altaïr. “I don’t have it right, but I will someday. Then I will
design one for the right hand. Maybe one that won’t cut you when you use it.”
Naheem was very impressed. He was more impressed when he glimpsed the edge of a
drawing of himself asleep. Altaïr was not great at people, but it was
recognizable, even in its roughness. Altaïr lacked the true patience for this
though.
Day three started now that Naheem was awake. Rope climbing. Falling. Tumbling.
Often in that order and gracelessly. Thank God for the hay! Altaïr shook his
head in frustration far more often than not. He changed tactic and started with
tumbling on the ground and over low obstacles. They fought together around the
obstacles and over them forcing Naheem to use the tumbling and the fist
fighting together. In the evening, Altaïr trained him on how to take a blow.
How to move with the attacks, how to dodge and anticipate.
Then he taught him how to fall. It started first from standing and falling on
the floor, fake collapsing, fake being hit and hitting the ground. “Because
your enemy may be too wound up to notice he hadn’t actually connected and his
friends sure won’t know. You will be in control still and then…” He faked being
hit, reeling from it, hitting the wall and ground, then turning and punching in
the gut, “my hidden blade in their gut eviscerating them.”
That night they tried the ropes again. Naheem was worse than earlier in the
day. “I am tired and I hurt, all over!”
“And you whine like a girl. Take a bath and go to bed.” It was disappointment.
Naheem was so mad. He just wasn’t sure who he was really mad at. He tried so
hard. The ropes hurt his hands too much. His hands were important to him. He
needed them for drawing, his one passion. He rubbed salve into them after his
bath. Altaïr was gone. Why would he stay with such a failure? I don’t want to
quit. I don’t want them to dismiss me. I like working with them. I like them.
They… they are all the family I have. He buried his face in his aching hands.
The hours went by with no Altaïr.
Altaïr ran the rooftops, venting his frustration on the roof archers and alley
thugs. He dropped into the Bureau and raided the trunk for supplies. Malik
stepped out. Altaïr froze as the lid dropped with an unexpected bang. They
stared at each other a long while. The silence grew thick. When Malik broke the
stare to glance at the item in Altaïr’s hand, Altaïr explain in a bare whisper.
“He’s… he needs them. He didn’t have any.”
“Is he hurt?” It sounded so accusatory.
“No!” Altaïr could not get out of his head the thought that he nearly killed
Naheem. It must be what Malik was thinking. It was exactly why Altaïr did not
train with weapons. He was too afraid he would lose focus.
“Do you need any other supplies?”
Altaïr dropped his chin, his hood hiding his eyes. “No. He’s doing well,
though. Fist fighting, climbing walls, walking beams. I started him on falling
and ropes.” His hand twitched with the gloves in his fist. “He didn’t have
gloves.” He tucked them into his belt pouch. When he looked up, Malik was in
front of him. He handed Altaïr a wrapped package. Altaïr took it and slipped
out.
He dropped the gloves in front of the moping Naheem. “We do ropes tomorrow. And
falling into hay. If it goes well, we will do leaping beams and leaping into
hay.” He opened Malik’s package. The warm aroma of meat stuffed buns rose to
greet them.
Naheem grinned, dimpling, “Now THAT is love!” He promptly helped himself.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter wasn’t long enough. Three days wasn’t long enough. Naheem
     needs more training.
***** Malik's New Perspective *****
Chapter Summary
     Dreams and belated realizations.
Malik knew that master assassin and novice would be hungry for good food. He
had prepared a bundle each day in case Altaïr stopped by. Last night was most
awkward. He may never trust me after I took the baby away. I have earned that.
Now, I suppose we are even, not that I wanted to do it for that reason. He
distractedly made notes on an old map of the world he had never been to.
The day passed quietly. A third level assassin sat on the carpets cleaning his
weapons and trying not to make too many facial expressions. The fresh stitches
stung terribly. He would be leaving Jerusalem as the gash across his face
marked him for who he was. Under the usual circumstances, Malik would keep him
here to heal. But with Templars roaming about, it was too dangerous.
Already, Malik had a Templar in the Bureau snooping. Before the Templar left,
he asked in French if Malik could draft a letter for him. Malik had pretended
poor French heavily accented with Arabic as a reply. He drafted a letter for
the man as he dictated. The coin left in payment was non-negotiable and Malik
felt insulted. The sweat seeping into the back of his robes dried as the day
wore on with no more Templars in the Bureau. That was too close.
Several exchanges had been made throughout the three days with the Gnostics.
They came as scholars with books to repair in small crates. Malik accepted the
books to repair, and stored the hay that was under the layer of books. They
would return in a few days to pay for their repaired books and remove the small
crates, which would have the vellum instead of hay under the top layer of
books. By the end of the week or so, Malik would be insanely wealthy. None of
this went into the logs.
He didn’t part with all the vellum. In his back room, he kept a box of the
precious stuff. He wished he could keep it all, but for what? Assassins had few
possessions. The Bureau had to be able to be abandoned if necessary. Malik felt
proud that this Bureau didn’t need to get moved in all the time he was here. He
was careful. A safehouse within the city and one outside it served for the
purposes of emergency, should a move ever be necessary. They were manned by
assassins under Malik’s command.
Malik logged the departure of the injured assassin and sent him back to Masyaf
with provisions. In his personal training log, he updated the information
Altaïr had given him about Naheem’s training. Oh how he wished to be there,
watching, helping, and doing. Malik missed the training. It stirred him to
train hard himself in the privacy of the Bureau as best as he could. He even
tried climbing up the fountain one-handed to get to the roof. Landing on his
back for the fifth time on the pillows and carpets without ever making it out
left him sore, both physically and emotionally.
Junayd was a relief to see on the next morning. They started with actual knife
work. How to move and use the short knife. Morning training like this included
a running discussion as they trained. He followed that with training in
tumbling, falling and taking a hit. In this way, Malik could do as Altaïr was
doing, at least in a few hours. Emersion would be so much more satisfying,
however. Malik debated the risks of sneaking to the ruined church to spy on
them and decided the risk was too high. Besides, Altaïr would only think I
distrusted him in training Naheem. At least Altaïr was not shying from facing
the teen.
The days seemed to blur into a series of short, insignificant moments. I miss
them. There! He admitted it. Malik consciously admitted he missed Altaïr and
Naheem. The novice was likely improving, or so he hoped. Altaïr was being a
good teacher, or so he hoped. And he, well Malik was stuck in the Bureau
keeping track of the various informants and assassins and their targets.
The fourth day without his novice rolled around and another two new assassins
came through to help deal with the Templars. Now Malik grew concerned. He was
wondering who was actually ordering them out. He even sent a note to Al Mualim
addressing his worry of flooding Jerusalem. He would have to wait for a reply.
As it looked, with so many assassins, the Templar would be so very ready for
Altaïr that the mission was failing before it could begin.
The informant with the barely four year old daughter and now pregnant wife,
dropped in with terrible news. He witnessed the deaths of three assassins at
the hands of Templars. The Templars had started to learn to defend against the
assassin moves. Malik was sure that he would hear of more deaths over the
weeks. On his watch, Brothers were dying. This ruined his reputation. It ruined
his record. It risked getting him retired to a more isolated task where he
could be out of the way. He dared take matters in his own hands a little and
sent word to Acre that he was sending some lower ranked assassin there for
missions. He asked the old Dai there to please keep them busy. Because they are
dying here. I am trying to keep them alive and this is the only way I know how
to, discreetly.
He made notations in his log book for completed missions and as some assassins
trickled in, he reassigned them to Acre. Am I the traitor? Have I stopped
thinking about my Brothers and am I too tied to that feather-brain? No, no! I
am saving their lives! I have to. Someone has to.Malik needed Altaïr’s mission
over so he could get back to Masyaf and dig out that insane traitor. Al Mualim
must be frantic and busy trying to do so as well, and thus these Brothers are
falling through the cracks. He often disagreed with Al Mualim’s methods,
especially with Altaïr, but he had earned his place as Master of the Order for
a reason and had a plan to keep peace.
Maybe he is sending them here because I am here and know how to manage them
better. He must be getting them out from underfoot and trusting me to give them
assignments till he can sort out the traitor. Malik felt like a fool for not
realizing that sooner. He tore through the logs and maps and prepared missions.
I can decide who gets and does what! And that decision kept him VERY busy. The
Dai was like the Master of the Order on a smaller scale. That realization gave
Malik new understanding of his position and responsibilities, new perspective,
and teased at a dream of his to be second in command of the Order. Like that
will ever happen in my lifetime, with me like… this! He grabbed at his missing
arm then threw a book to hear it slam loudly against a wall.
***** Altair: End of Boot Camp *****
“AGAIN!” roared Altaïr.
Naheem glared at him then back at the two pews that were shoved together with
hay on either side. A precarious plank of wood sat askew on the pressed
together backs of the pews. He had fallen for the maybe eighteenth time. “YOU
DO IT!” he yelled back finally too upset to earn another bruise for what he
thought was impossible.
Altaïr realigned the plank, climbed the rope and dropped cautiously on one end
of the wood. He adjusted for balance then walked in a slow crouch across the
plank easily, pausing now and then to ensure balance again. It looked as easy
as walking the stable planks and beams. “Go slower. Arms out for balance. Look
at the DESTINATION not the plank of wood and NOT down or anywhere else for that
matter.” He hopped off the end and reset the plank as it spun off from his hop.
“Do it again.”
It took another ten or so tries before Naheem could do it with confidence.
Falling in hay proved a worse exercise. You would think the hay was soft. Every
time Altaïr shoved Naheem off the box, Naheem flailed, tense, hit the hay and
hated Altaïr just a little. He sat up again spitting hay and rubbing the new
bruises. He had so much trouble relaxing and letting himself just drop. The
free-fall threw panic through him even though it was only a few feet. Altaïr
showed him again how to let go and trust the hay will be there. “But the hay is
hard and hurts,” Naheem complained.
“Yes, it is. And yes, it does. But it hurts less when you fall right. Fall into
it not onto it.” Altaïr showed him what he meant by holding both of Naheem’s
hands and telling him to lean off the box. This he trusted. Altaïr held him
firm, his body made a slight V shape with his butt sticking back. “Good, now
just let go and fall. I promise it won’t hurt.” There was a scramble and a
desperate attempt to grab Altaïr’s hands again. Naheem landed sideways with an
OOF! Altaïr turned, throwing his hands in the air never realizing, as Naheem
did, that the gesture was one of Malik’s.
Naheem picked himself up and brushed off the hay. Altaïr was gone when he
looked up again. Naheem yelled and kicked the box over. He was supposed to come
back to Malik having learned to fist fight and jump into hay from a roof. Now
his master left him out of frustration. Naheem was more frustrated with
himself.
Altaïr watched from the highest beam in the ruined church to see what Naheem
would do. He crouched silently as Naheem vented. Naheem was a smart young man.
Altaïr knew that Naheem had all the tools and basic skills to do this.
Left to his own devices for more than an hour now, Naheem finally dragged over
one of the moldy mattresses and practiced tumbling onto it. He threw himself
and rolled. He pounces and rolled. He eventually tried backward somersaults to
see if he could. Finally he tried a bit hesitantly just falling back on it. He
knocked the wind out of himself, but didn’t get hurt. Feeling like he could do
that again, he did.
Then he flopped in the hay. He dove into the hay. He rolled around in the hay
laughing.
Altaïr shifted and stretched out on the beam above somewhat amused by Naheem’s
silliness. Do whatever you need to do to trust the hay.
Naheem at last fell back on the hay. OOF! That earned him a few bruises. Altaïr
buried his face in his hand and silenced his groan. Naheem tried again. Now he
was determined, over and over till he managed the right position.
“Yes!” the teen yelled. He fluffed the hay and pushed it back into a good sized
pile. He stepped up onto the box, turned and looked over his shoulder. Like a
mantra he repeated many times, “The hay is soft, the hay is soft…” He closed
his eyes and took a deep breath. He stretched out his arms and fell back.
Fwoomp! It was a soft landing that swallowed him into the hay. He leapt out and
cheered loudly and jumped up and down. “I did it!! I did it! Did you see
that?!” Not that Naheem expected a reply.
Altaïr dropped from the rafters. Naheem yelped in surprise and clamped his
hands over his mouth to smother it halfway. “Yes, Naheem, I saw.” The slow
smile grew on the teen’s face and warmed Altaïr.
Next came learning how to fall and how to dive from higher places, like off a
stacked set of crates or the stairs. Then doing so off the second floor. By
then Naheem was complaining about where the straw managed to reach him.
“Dammit! I thought our uniforms keep the hay OUT of my precious parts!” the
statement caught Altaïr so off guard that he burst out in laughter, for he had
complained of such things exactly when he had been a novice. The laughter never
stayed, though, and the silence soon fell again. Naheem regarded the momentary
break in Altaïr’s stoicism as a victory on his part like asking questions that
made Altaïr explain something at length.
They slept hard from exhaustion, or at least Naheem did. Altaïr carefully tore
out all the pictures he had drawn of Naheem and the right hand hidden blade. He
cut them carefully with one of his knives till they were in many small pieces.
In the morning, he added them to the tiny morning fire for breakfast gruel.
Morning training and warming up led at last to a leap of faith, a real Leap of
Faith, off a building roof. The first attempt was not a total failure, but
Naheem would be purple on the back of a shoulder. He had to climb the wall as
he had learned and do it again. He did the leap so many times he no longer even
thought about the process.
“Good, Naheem. Now we can go back to the Bureau for lunch.”
Naheem thought he could eat a horse for lunch and wondered what horses might
actually taste like. Malik greeted them with plates of spiced rice with shaved
meat. Neither assassin nor novice could identify the dark meat, nor did they
care. Oranges rounded out the late lunch. “Master Malik? You are amazing!”
Naheem stated with a broad grin as he helped clean up.
I am never amazing anymore. Altaïr slipped out while Malik and Naheem were busy
catching up and reporting on the training experience.
***** Malik: So Close *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter art and Fanart
     - roughs of everyone: https://rastapickney-juls.deviantart.com/art/I-
     feel-like-a-novice-artist-285658331
     - Tibah: https://jpeeper.deviantart.com/art/Tibah-for-ScarletCougar-
     186255617
     - Tibah as an Informant: https://snow-kitten-88.deviantart.com/art/
     Female-Informant-205510280
     - The Rose Naheem was drawing for Tibah: https://
     evenstar13.deviantart.com/art/The-Rose-63072967
     - Tibah and Naheem in love: https://www.deviantart.com/art/Novice-in-
     Love-205773413
Malik seemed greatly impressed with Naheem’s report. The teen excitedly
explained everything they did in the training. As Malik recorded this in the
little private log of Naheem and Junayd’s training, he watched Naheem
demonstrate some of what he learned. He was about to ask Altaïr to report next
anything that was missed, but the assassin was nowhere in the Bureau. Malik
shook his fist at the roof opening.
“Why does he do that?” Naheem asked.
Malik sighed. “It’s… complicated. Go soak in a hot bath so you don’t stiffen.
In the morning, I want you practicing the moves you learned.” It was a
diversion from having to explain Altaïr’s growing sociopathic behaviour. He
started to wonder at what point Altaïr would actually break. Then he concluded
that Altaïr had already broken. He started out broken. And just as he began to
stand his ground he was broken again. I didn’t exactly help matters. Tomorrow,
when I get back from Tibah’s family home with the betrothal contract, I will
have to deal with Altaïr.
He now had a stronger hold on the ins and outs of assassins and missions in
Jerusalem. He created some smaller missions better suited to those arriving
than trying to suicidally take out Templars. Most he had diverted to Acre who
could use the extra protective support. The Templars had pulled out of Acre for
some reason, according to the Dai there, and King Richard had docked. Many of
Richard’s men and the king himself had left Acre, a massive army collecting in
other locations. Saladin, Salah ad-Din, and his Arabic army had also been
gathering in various locations. If Malik could surmise the politics, Acre
belonged to King Richard and Damascus belonged to Saladin. Jerusalem is MINE.
But Malik knew better. Jerusalem had been disputed land for generations. Two
previous Crusades sought to conquer it. Now this third stood a good chance of
doing so. The coming funeral was a brilliant idea to force dialogue and shared
respect for all. The new Regent was genius. It served as a good potential plan
to keep the peace. Even if an assassin ruins the occasion, they will be united
against a common foe. Though, Malik was not so comfortable with the notion of
his Brotherhood as the common enemy to King Richard and Saladin.
However, they were protecting something far worse than either army. This
Treasure. This Piece of Eden. They protected it from the abusive use of either
faction. Malik had already started to puzzle out what it could do based on
Altaïr’s journal and chaotic memories of conversations that made sense and not
at the same time. It is like the Apple of Temptation.
He shook his fist again at the opening and heard Naheem snicker at him in the
background. “Get to work Novice!” Malik snapped in a more playful tone.
Mockingly and equally playfully, Naheem bowed, “Yesh, Mashter… rights awayz,
mashter.”
Malik rolled his eyes thinking that somehow Altaïr’s teenage mischief got
learned by Naheem on those five days away. “And since you are so well trained
and so obedient, you can take your flower picture to Tibah in the market and
come back with plantain extract. And yes, you can sketch her, too, while you
are there.”
Naheem cheered loudly and hurried through cleaning up after his bath.
Naheem tried ever so hard to be stealthy as he lightly limped on his cane. In
truth, he was relieved to have it. The limp was not feigned. He hurt like hell
after his training with bruises in too many places. He turned to look in the
eye the thugs who came close. Looking them in the eye deterred them for
thinking he was a target. Just because I have a cane, does not mean I am too
crippled not to hit you with it… lots.
He slunk between two stalls and leaned in a shadow against a wall, invisible to
all in his grey novice uniform. There he took out his sketchbook and doodled
various scenes for an hour, maybe two. Some of those scenes were of Tibah in
her stall across the way in the distance. His eyes searched the area for a
ladder. When he found one, he climbed and sat on a roof to sketch more.
A roof guard approached and poked him with his bow, “You don’t belong here.”
“Oh sorry, sir. I just thought it was a good place to practice sketching
buildings for my drafting master. He assigned me the task of drawing the market
from the perspective of a higher position. May I please stay? It was hard
enough getting up the ladder with my cane.” Naheem half smiled with one dimple,
his soft brown eyes almost pleading. He proffered the picture so the guard
could see the line drawing he had of the buildings from the market.
The guard relented, but stayed watching over his shoulder to make sure it was
all he was doing.
Not wanting to overstay the permission, Naheem struggled back down the ladder
and sat on the bench near the fountain to try to draw people up close, like
Tibah. In truth, he was trying to work up the courage to approach her and give
her the picture of the rose. He added some final lines to his drawing of the
apothecary shelf of his zillionth little doodle. As he looked up, Tibah and her
father were packing the stall for the night as the sun started setting. Kadar
standing guard, hand on sword hilt, watching and protecting the day’s money.
“Kharra,” Naheem muttered his mild Arabic curse. “I forgot the plantain.” He
slammed his sketchbook shut and stuffed it haphazardly into his satchel as he
dodged people.
He tripped in his rush and face planted in front of Tibah’s father, his cane
skittering out and stopping at the older man’s feet. If there was ever a moment
Naheem wanted the ground to swallow him whole, it was right now. Tibah’s father
pulled him to his feet and handed the cane back to him. Naheem muttered a thank
you full of more embarrassment than he had ever felt in his life. He could not
lift his eyes to meet Tibah’s father’s. “I’m sorry, sir. My uncle, Malik sent
me to get some plantain extract.”
“Then perhaps that should have been the first thing you did before sitting for
hours in various places in the market drawing. Tibah, get this young scrap some
plantain extract while I finish packing.”
Naheem winced internally. He stood with his eyes glued to his own toes. He
quietly exchanged some coin for the extract without looking at Tibah. She
dabbed something on his freshly rescraped chin. “Hi,” he finally managed heavy
with shyness. She smiled back at him and he blushed. He turned from her and
pulled out the drawing he intended to give her. “I promised a rose.” He handed
the paper to her then bolted.
She opened her mouth to say something, but he was away, limping and all but
still fast to vanish in the crowed. She tracked his path as she rocked up onto
her toes. A small gasp escaped her as she looked at the final drawing he did of
the rose for her. She had no idea he could draw, not to mention this well.
While Malik cooked some stew in his tiny kitchen in back, Altaïr thudded
lightly in and curled up on the carpets to doze in the late afternoon sun.
Malik almost called him a stray cat out loud when he found Altaïr asleep. He
approached with caution; unafraid to touch Altaïr despite the repeated warning
he gave Naheem about potentially startling an assassin. He reached down to
stroke through Altaïr’s hair.
Golden eyes snapped open as the assassin sat up so fast, it almost overbalanced
Malik onto his ass. Altaïr caught him. His hood had fallen back in the startled
moment. Color rose in both their cheeks. The moment stretched, both frozen in
place. Their eyes locked unwillingly. Malik could see the pulse on Altaïr’s
neck beat faster. He swallowed and licked his lips trying to find a quick
snarky remark to break this, but did he want to? Altaïr’s eyes flicked to
Malik’s lips watching the tongue dart to moisten them then back to his eyes
again as if lost in the charcoal depths. The sun heated up Malik in his black
robes, or that was his mental excuse.
“Altaïr, let go.”
Altaïr tore his eyes from Malik as he released him. Shame and desire burning
him from head to toe for the man who never punished nor rewarded him in ways he
understood.
“I have to get the stew so it doesn’t burn.” Malik tried to explain as he stood
to do just that.
Altaïr rolled over and curled in a tight ball, pulling up his hood to hide. “I
don’t want any.”
Malik had the sudden urge to hit Altaïr. “Fine!” he snapped. “Sit in that
corner and cry if you have to!” he stormed away.
***** Altair: Blind Lust *****
Chapter Summary
     WARNING! NSFW! Serious YAOI... Probably the last Altair x Naheem you
     will see in this fic.
Malik had the sudden urge to hit Altaïr. “Fine!” he snapped. “Sit in that
corner and cry if you have to!” He stormed away.
Today, Malik’s venom felt especially poisonous. And to think Altaïr had been
entertaining the notion of apologizing for being an ass. He was not trying to
be anything but… but what? Sulking? That he had done plenty of while he roamed
the city that morning. He wasn’t even sulking about the heated with desire
moment that ended in rejection yet again. It just confused him and the
confusion embarrassed him. I am not sulking. I am … I am embarrassed and want
to just be left alone.
But he didn’t really want to be alone.
He wanted, desperately wanted, that moment again. Looking into charcoal eyes
and reddening cheeks. Watching that tongue dart to wet nervous lips. Altaïr
wanted to kiss those lips. Altaïr wanted Malik to do something, anything, to
him. Kiss him, hit him, fuck him. Something other than abandon him. It was as
confusing as when the Master sent him on his way without rewards or
punishments.
He listened almost jealously as Malik reassured Naheem. The novice had returned
and muttered through the humiliating experience he had with Tibah and her
father. The boy was confident in all things until he stood before a pretty
girl. Altaïr felt much the same, however, whenever he stood before Malik. Life
taunted him and tempted him, then taunted him again. Life gave him bliss, and
then tore it away to leave him bleeding inside.
His own thoughts twisted and poisoned him, so he lost track of time. The sky
was dark when he realized he may actually have been crying in that corner,
though rather silently. What jostled him from his inner darkness was a bowl of
hot stew set quietly in front of his nose and a gentle hand that rested briefly
on his shoulder before Malik stepped away to instruct Naheem on how to store
the extra stew in the crockery for the next day.
Altaïr sat up and ate the stew despite his knotted stomach.
Naheem remained in the back room with Malik learning how to mix plantain
extract with hot tallow to create good bruise ointment. It turned into a simple
lesson about first aid and self-care. He learned how to make cleansing washes
and some basic healing salves. He was informed of the dangers of alcohol not
just as a sin by some religious standards, not just as a foolish source of
drunkenness with its consequences, but also of the potentially deadly thinning
of the blood it causes. While it may dull the mind and pain screeching nerves,
it could thin the blood and thus cause a bleeding man to bleed out and die.
This led to a short lesson about pain killers.
Altaïr drifted off to the familiar drone of Malik’s instructor’s voice that
seemed deceptively familiar. It was the same tone and perhaps even the very
same lesson that Malik had given Kadar years ago. Kadar was now dead. The fact
of that hit Altaïr like a knife in the gut. Odd how a year ago, Altaïr would
have said how that day ruined his life. Yet now, he could only admit how it
ruined Malik’s.
He dreamed of holding a baby, his baby, in his arms. How small and soft he was.
Sufyan. Stephan. Himself. Altaïr woke from the dream in the darkness of a
silent Bureau. It was just a dream. Maybe it had never happened after all. That
was easier to believe. Nothing is True…
But Altaïr, some things are true…
He shook Malik’s voice from his head and tried to return to the oblivion of
sleep that would never be long enough or oblivious enough.
The clack of the roof lattice shutting and locking startled Altaïr awake. It
was barely dawn. Altaïr reached for his weapon’s belt only to be hushed by
Malik, “Back to sleep, Altaïr. It is nothing.” But he knew it had to be
something. The vague shout of Templars on a roof alerted him. Malik simply
pulled a blanket over Altaïr and hushed him again. With some pillowed dropped
over the weapons belt, they vanished from sight. “Safety and Peace, Altaïr. All
is well.” Malik returned to the back to wake and speak with Naheem. Altaïr
accepted Malik’s words and drifted off again.
He didn’t hear the conversation in the back.
“Naheem, stay here while I run my errand.” Malik whispered.
Naheem scrubbed sleep from an eye. “Where will you be going?”
“I promised to make some arrangements and try to fix the blunder of yesterday.”
Naheem blushed with humiliation at Malik’s words. “I am sure it will be fine. I
will also look in on the child.”
That perked up the novice who expressed concern for Altaïr. Malik instructed,
“Stay with him. Don’t let him follow me. Keep busy, do… whatever, training,
whatever. Don’t let him leave. I’ll be back later.”
Altaïr stirred to the sound of Malik leaving and locking the door after
changing the banners. He was slightly surprised by Naheem’s presentation of
breakfast. The smells of frying cakes and fruit caused his stomach to growl
demandingly. Naheem teased him by passing the sumptuous plate under his nose,
forcing him to rouse to sitting to snatch it from the rotten novice. “Cruel
boy.” Naheem laughed at his master’s grump. The joke was further punctuated by
Altaïr liking what he ate despite the presence of bananas fried in the flat
cake batter with other random fruit that were not going to survive the heat of
another day.
Naheem recorded his lessons from last night while Altaïr cleaned weaponry.
Together they moved items from the attic and from the crates on the high ledges
so they were more accessible for Malik and so the main supply trunk was
restocked. “Master Malik says you go through more uniforms than any other
assassin. Is that true and why?” Naheem still had that knack of asking
annoyingly complicated questions that required lengthy answers out of Altaïr.
Altaïr pressed his lips together and let his hood hide his face as he stuffed
the folded uniforms into the trunk while Naheem handed them to him. “First of
all, nothing is true… and everything is permitted.”
Naheem crossed his arms, “What kind of a convoluted circular and confusing
answer is that?”
With a great sigh, Altaïr sat on the trunk and Naheem immediately sat on the
floor to hear the lengthy answer that was now obliged. “I do not use up more
uniforms than any other assassin. And even if I did, I am allowed to. Nothing
is true. Everything is permitted. It means free will. It means that laws arise
and fall and rise again, but are not from any divinity. There is no one Truth,
no one true way. Nothing is True. Everything is permitted because we have the
free will to do whatever we choose to do. The point is to make our choices
wise. That is where codes and creeds and ethics come in, to help guide us to
understand what the wise choices are.” He stopped there unsure if he remotely
made any sense.
Naheem sat riveted to the explanation. It was the most philosophical he had
ever heard Altaïr be. It rivalled all of Malik’s philosophical-nesses.
Altaïr sighed, “Never mind if you don’t understand right now. It took me a long
time to understand. And I still make mistakes…” It was his desperate way of
trying to get the shiny look out of Naheem’s eyes. He huffed away onto the
sunny carpets and stared at the lattice roof, Master Al Mualim on his mind. The
Masters last dealings with Altaïr had been so ambivalent. He had no idea where
he stood in the Order anymore. He did not get any praise. He did not get any
reward. He did not get any punishment, even when he dared to challenge his
Master to almost purposely earn one. He felt the same now regarding Malik. The
mixed messages were so confusing and frustrating.
He started to strip down and work out in just his pants. Naheem followed suit.
They matched each other move for move. Altaïr stuck to what Naheem knew for the
first hour, then showed him a new sequence of punches and blocks that they
practiced side by side. The motions were neither fast nor slow, just aimed to
work things out a bit and warm up the body. Then Altaïr slowed the moves down
to a painfully slow crawl. It was something he learned on his China trip. “Slow
them to learn precision. Train each muscle.”
Naheem soon groaned from the terrible pain that throbbed in his leg.
They stopped and Altaïr pulled out the bath and started to fill it with hot
water. Naheem finished that job and soaked in it with a blissful little smile
while Altaïr washed the sweat from himself out of a basin of heated water. His
thoughts wandered again to the interchanges with Al Mualim and Malik and the
inner turmoil and frustrations. His own hand never seemed to be satisfying
enough, never produced the right feel. That his eyes scanned the room for a
suitable replacement tool only goaded and taunted him and humiliated him. Am I
that desperate to feel? God! I am… I just want to feel… something… need
something to fill the emptiness inside. He looked over at Naheem weighing the
needs and promises. Thinking about how well of the novice might be, certainly
how well off Malik would be without him.
He rubbed the heel of his hand into his head as if it ached. Naheem watched the
fidgetiness of his master, the way he washed and dried himself and the way his
eyes lingered on his normal escape route. Training was a distraction. I know
another distraction. Naheem stood, still damp from the bath, the ache in his
thigh gone from the hot soak. He emptied both bath and basin before approaching
Altaïr, who turned to face him in the sunny space on the carpets. Naheem held a
small jar of salve and a cloth.
Relief filled Altaïr’s eyes. Oh yes, he wanted this, from whoever would give it
to him at this point. Better this than some… thing…. “Are you?”
“I promised you I would fill your need when you had one too great to bear. I
don’t mind. I want to.” Naheem’s honesty and frankness washed through Altaïr
like warm trust.
Altaïr stepped closer. “Close your eyes.” Naheem complied sensing that Altaïr
had knelt and placed his hands on Naheem’s hips. Naheem could feel the light
press of nine fingers. His jaw dropped as he gasped when Altaïr swallowed
around his stiffening shaft. Naheem dropped both the cloth and the jar so as to
place his hands on Altaïr’s shoulders for steadiness. His education was too
short. Altaïr pulled away too soon. Naheem groaned plaintively. The novice
knelt no longer able to be steady on his feet. Altaïr wrapped a red sash about
his eyes as a blindfold. “Never hesitate with any thrust of any blade. Please…
no hesitation.” Then he salved the novice neatly and slickly.
Naheem reached out to determine where Altaïr now positioned himself. A hand
brushes hot flesh. A back, a hip. His second hand groped to be sure. Altaïr had
assumed a submissive position on all fours. He would have used a table but they
were here and he was also not hesitating. He wanted too badly. Naheem pressed
against him poorly, but the feel of flesh against flesh still raced through
their veins. A few awkward blind adjustments and Naheem felt his point of
entry.
In one steady push, Naheem sheathed himself into his master. It was searing and
surprising for Altaïr who gasped this time then moaned, “Again.” Naheem pulled
out and thrust back in with an UNHF! Yes, this is exactly what Altaïr deeply
wanted, over and over, blindingly and painfully if it must be. He demanded
again and again. Naheem eagerly met the requests. Each thrust hard and deep.
Flesh slapped on impact. Altaïr no longer needed to command Naheem. They huffed
and they grunted at whatever pace Naheem chose for impaling Altaïr repeatedly.
Naheem pushed Altaïr’s shoulders downward. The angle changed for them both as
did the sensations. Naheem hunkers over his master, and arm tight around his
middle, the other on the floor for support as his thrusts became jerky and
shorter and thus faster. Altaïr remained usually quiet, but his breathing gave
him away. The fit around Naheem’s blade of flesh contracted tightly. He rose up
on his knees, gripping Altaïr’s hips with his hands as he lengthened the
thrusts once again to feel the exquisite grip around him as he push hard into
that heat again. He was close to release… so close…
***** Malik Walks In *****
Chapter Summary
     You know from the title... this cannot possibly end well. YAOI... and
     Malik's jealousy... and Malik's protectiveness of their novices...
     Ya... this really will not go well.
“I promised to make some arrangements and try to fix the blunder of yesterday.”
Naheem blushed with humiliation at Malik’s words. “I am sure it will be fine. I
will also look in on the child.”
Malik had cast one last small glance in Altaïr’s direction. After changing the
banners outside the Bureau, he locked the door. The sun was just starting to
peak out over the city walls. He walked with purpose, though avoided any groups
of guards and definitely avoided Templars. There really were too many in the
city.
Last night, Malik had hardly slept. He did everything he could to not think
about how close he was to fiercely claiming a kiss from Altaïr. Maybe not
fiercely. But claiming one just the same. Those golden eyes were so pleading
and desperate. I will not be your drug. I will be anything else for you, but
not your drug. Ok, maybe if you apologized for being… no, not even that
anymore. If you asked, just asked me, I would give in I think. That was the
bottom line. He wanted Altaïr to be conscious of what he was doing and
consciously ask for what he wanted. But Altaïr only kept silent.
Malik knew how hurt Altaïr felt over many things. He himself had felt so when
he finally came to Jerusalem. Alone, isolated, in physical and emotional agony.
The things he understood and loved had been torn away from him forever. The
pang still came and overwhelmed him sometimes. He wanted to grab hold of Altaïr
and weep for his losses in his once close friend’s shoulder. He stopped walking
and leaned against the wall in a dark shadow, arm over his eyes till he regain
control over the wave of grief.
In many ways, Malik was still so alone. Altaïr never really stayed and even
when he was there, he was hard to reach, hard to break through the stoic
exterior. They didn’t really have a friendship. Naheem and Junayd, well, they
were novices. He no longer had family. His friends were more working
acquaintances. He pushed his own feelings aside. Naheem had also lost
everything, mother, then father, and any life he had known before as a normal
commoner’s family. Malik wanted to make sure that at least Naheem still
retained a sense of love in his life with a wife and perhaps children.
Then, before he could leave the shadow, the twinge of jealousy hit. Naheem and
Altaïr. They had grown close, closer than mentor and novice. There was trust
there that Altaïr had not opened to anyone else in a long while despite Malik’s
efforts. Why can’t he trust ME!? He knew why. There was hate and betrayal and
anger and blood between them that did not exist with Naheem. Truth, though,
Malik had this same growing relationship with Naheem. He became the brother he
had lost in a way. The nephew he never got to have. My novice, my nephew. He
admitted that there was a kind of love there for Naheem.
Family. That was the bottom line. We fight more fiercely for the things we love
and the freedom to have them than for anything else. That is what Saladin and
Richard and the Templars did not see in their third Crusade war. They did not
see the families they destroyed in the process, the lives they had torn apart,
the innocents they had killed. He nodded to the informant with the family as he
passed him. Family.
The informants knew not to tell Altaïr should the assassin come asking where
Malik went or if they know the location of the child. It was to protect an
innocent life, the only real family Altaïr had left.
Speaking of family, Malik knocked upon the door of the estate. To his surprise,
Abby answered the door. He was dressed well, like a fine accountant. He had
been working in the solarium. He smiled shyly and invited Malik within, the man
who had saved his very life. Abby owed Malik everything. “You look well Abdel.
I trust everything is healing. Has someone helped remove the stitches?” Abby
nodded and guided Malik within, mentioning how Tibah had acted as his nurse and
removed the stitches, but he still had pains in his side and stomach if he
moved around too much. Malik agreed to check on him after attending to the
business he came for.
Tibah’s father greeted him warmly and already babbled excitedly about the
triplets. Malik could not get a word in edgewise as he was steered to the upper
private room where the mother and three little babies resided. The two girls
were small and complaining for a feeding. Malik checked them carefully and
declared that they were exceptionally healthy for premature babies. They were
still small for three month olds, but he felt confident that they would catch
up soon enough to their new older brother of four months of age. The boy
watched everything with wide eyes. Malik wished he could bring Altaïr. Maybe
one day when it was safe. Tibah’s father and mother already loved this baby
like he was their own, a son, their second in the midst of so many girls.
Tibah’s mother declared she was going to overdose on tansy tea after breast
feeding to ensure she never had any more. She was done birthing babies.
A stray thought skipped through Malik’s head. What if Altaïr might find a woman
he liked well enough to marry and have children with? He firmly and jealously
banished the thought, however. No, Malik wanted Altaïr to himself after this
last mission, just for a little while. He wanted to try to heal the rifts
between them, fill the holes and gaps in both their lives. He wanted to renew
their friendship, maybe more, for a little while. Maybe it was totally selfish,
but Malik didn’t care. So much had been taken from him. He had lost so much. He
felt he deserved to earn something good in return, earn a moment of respite. He
was too afraid to lose Altaïr. And yet he felt he was, little by little, every
day. They had gotten closer and yet not.
The small boy in his arms wailed boldly and the mother took him from Malik to
feed him.
Malik sat in the den with Tibah’s father as lunch was brought in so they may
discuss Tibah’s betrothal to Naheem, the dowry sums, and hopefully salvage the
bungling Naheem managed yesterday. It was relaxed. They discussed politics,
business, Naheem. In truth, Tibah’s father thought Naheem to be completely
sweet and adorable and worried that Tibah would rule him. Malik chuckled, “I
think that is exactly what he would like.” They both laughed.
It meandered into a good afternoon where they made arrangements for dowry
payments. It would be enough for Tibah and Naheem to buy their own small home.
Malik would have offered part of the building that is unused by the bureau, but
Malik did not own it himself and would need permission from the Master of the
Order. He tried not to think about how suddenly complicated he might be making
Naheem’s life and hoped it would all work out somehow.
There was a certain little four-whole-years-old little informant girl Malik
also wanted to stop in to see on his way home. She was a total joy and had
grown on him greatly. She took him by the hand when he visited and lead him up
the stairs so she could show him the baby birds and the little mean hawklings
as she called them. She named them all to him twice just so he would not
forget. OH! And she had to tell him about the baby in her mummy’s tummy that
would come soon and that she had lots of name ideas too, which of course she
told Malik over and over all the way down the stairs. He slipped the family a
small sum of coin from the sale of his velum as a gift to help with the new
addition to the family on its way.
On his way back to the Bureau, he could not stop thinking about how he could
try to spend some of the next agonizing weeks of wait for Robert. Altaïr was
surely going to go stir crazy with nothing to do but wait. He always was poor
at that part of being an assassin. Malik could sit and wait for hours and hours
for the right moment. Altaïr would always lose patience. So Malik decided he
would try to make this quality time with Altaïr.
Yes, yes, this could work. It might help build trust, too. They could sit and
go over the journals together instead of Malik doing so alone while Altaïr was
out. They could debate the nuances of Al Mualim’s cryptic messages. Naheem
surely would have input to help. Fresh young minds often had fresh new
perspectives. He could challenge him to chess or sit on the roof with him. They
could plan together how to deal with the plethora of Templars here after Robert
was snuffed from existence.
Maybe, just maybe, Malik could go off with Altaïr to that ruined church and
train himself with Altaïr. It would give him an idea how much he really had
lost in skills and how much he could truly gain back.
Then maybe, just maybe, Altaïr would see he could be trusted. He was there to
be his friend, not just one of the few who was willing to heal him and work out
the issues Altaïr struggled with. What I am doing is MORE than just my job. My
job is just to heal and assign and track and log assassin activity. What I do
for you, I do out of friendship. You hurt me, but others had hurt me more. They
also had hurt you. And so did I. I will make amends as soon as I step inside.
Malik unlocked the door and changed the flags. His mind busy with hopeful ideas
of spending time with Altaïr. He staggered to a halt in the main room, staring
to where the sun dappled the fountain room.
The fit around Naheem’s blade of flesh contracted tightly. He rose up on his
knees, gripping Altaïr’s hips with his hands as he lengthened the thrusts to
feel the exquisite grip around him as he push hard into that heat again. He was
close to release… so close…
Malik blinked in shock. His novice, blindfolded, sexually engaged with Altaïr.
He wasn’t sure who angered him more. Naheem could hardly know what he was
getting involved in. Altaïr should not be doing this… not with THEIR young
novice.
A hand gripped Naheem’s shoulder hard enough to bruise as Malik pulled the
novice off of Altaïr almost with a furious yell, “How! DARE! You!”
Naheem tumbled blindly back, pulling off his blindfold in terror. He stammered
to try to explain, but clearly Malik was in no mood to listen. So Naheem
scrambled to clean himself a little and dress at least in pants and shirt for
modesty, his cheeks afire with humiliation.
Malik grabbed a fistful of Altaïr’s hair close to his ear and hauled him up
then out, then through the gate into the back room roaring incoherent fury.
“That is my Novice, Altaïr! NOVICE!” He shoved Altaïr into the bookcase. The
green monster of jealousy and the red one of anger both had total control over
Malik now. And his weapon of choice… was his words. He knew too much about
Altaïr and wielded his choice weapon as deadly as he wielded a sword, deadlier,
for you could stitch the wounds cut by steel, but not the ones cut by words.
***** Altair Chose to Dig *****
Chapter Summary
     When knocked from a cliff, there is only one direction… down… to hit
     rock bottom. When you hit, then there is only one direction, to climb
     back up from the chasm. Some just choose to dig instead.
Naheem slipped into the back room desperately wanting to try to explain that it
was not as Malik thought. Malik’s anger pinned him to the wall. “STAY OUT OF
THIS! I will deal with you later!” So Naheem shrank back against a wall, sank
down and hugged his knees to wait his turn at whatever tongue lashing he knew
was due him. He knew there was something between Altaïr and Malik. He wished he
had never done this with Altaïr. Malik only got this angry when he was hurt.
Naheem scrunched his eyes shut.
Malik had every right to be shocked. He had every right to be upset, even
angry. Altaïr flinched and backed away till the book shelf passed and his back
pressed against the door frame of the tiny kitchen and waste room.
He still struggled to collect all his wits. He had been just on the edge of
wonder and brief bliss. He felt filled inside. The hands upon him seemed to
care. Even his vision showed the blue light washing around him. Then suddenly
it was gone. It stopped. The sting on his scalp forced his attention to the
side to see the old furious look on Malik’s face, no different than the hate
Malik showed when he became Dai and encountered Altaïr for the first missions.
Altaïr was naked, naked not just physically. He wished he had at least his hood
to hide in, to shield him from Malik. Every snap and yell cut him to the core.
Malik paced the small back room ranting. This wasn’t how things were supposed
to be. Maybe it was. Maybe things were never supposed to ever become good
between them. What was the point then in the entire struggle for this supposed
redemption?
Malik kept tearing at Altaïr verbally. Malik dredged up every jealous, envious,
spiteful, hateful thing he could from as early as when Altaïr became an
arrogant solo assassin. So much was said before, in between, and after. Even
about the loss of his arm and of Kadar, and even unjustly the loss of Faruq
that Malik knew was not really Altaïr’s fault. Not that much of it was. “You
could not wait?! No! You had to fuck with the novice! Has Al Mualim twisted you
THAT much! Does he even know what he was getting into?! Or are you no better
than the Master!? Is this how you will be with other novices? Is this how you
will be with your own son?! Dammit Altaïr!! If you needed it so bad…”
Naheem covered his ear with his hands. There was more there than he could
understand, more than he thought was true. Altaïr would never have killed
Malik’s brothers. Altaïr would never have done anything to hurt Malik. Altaïr
respected, even loved, Malik too much. Naheem knew this. Why didn’t Malik?
The rest of the ranting was lost on Altaïr. He wasn’t sure what he had done
wrong. But then, he never seemed to do anything right in Malik’s eyes. I am
just wrong. A twisted fuck. That is why he took my son away. I can’t be trusted
with him. I am nothing… He had managed to back into the tiny table of the
kitchen workspace. His hand landed on it to brace himself from the verbal
onslaught. His vision wavered. He wished for oblivion, wished it to swallow him
into its dark depths of nothingness where he belonged. Something sharp nipped
his fingers.
In a split second, the kitchen knife was firm in his grip. The bite down the
inside length of his forearm brought welcome sharpness and awareness. It slid
through the soft flesh past the wrist, the tip tinged off the metal waste grill
then the stone wall. Red splashed the grill. The pounding and rush of it filled
his ears as the red fluid soaked his hand and dripped through his fingers. That
wasn’t so hard. It would be over soon. It would be quiet soon.
The scene tore both mentors off the pedestal Naheem had believed them on. It
humanized them and showed them for who they were. Men, capable of doing the
same horrible and hurtful things as the next man. It stripped them to the core
so that both Malik and Altaïr bled their unspoken miseries and insecurities.
Malik did so with words. Altaïr was always a man of action.
Then there was blood. Real blood tanging the air with its iron flavour.
“Altaïr!! By ALLAH! What have you done!?!” exclaimed Malik.
The world seemed bent on prolonging his insanity and agony. Altaïr was dragged
kicking and screaming from the kitchen. He howled from the depths of his soul
over and over. He fought and struggled. Ankles tangled. He fell face down on
the stones of the back room. Desperation held the knife in a white knuckled
grip bent on cutting himself more in an attempt to speed him to oblivion. When
he found he could not move to do so he roared, screamed, wailed, howled. Tears
mixing with the blood smeared and pooling on the floor. He was held firm. His
vision, like heat waves off hot stones, blurred everything.
***** Malik: Reality Check *****
“Altaïr!! By ALLAH! What have you done!!” Malik shrieked in shock. He dragged
Altaïr kicking and screaming from the kitchen. By Allah, what have I done? He
knew he had said things he had not really meant. Things that were not really
true, but at the time he could not stop their rushing from his mouth to drown
Altaïr.
Altaïr howled from the depths of his soul over and over. They fought and
struggled, but Malik was always better at wrestling and knew how to pin and
hold him. He hooked his ankle in and tangled it with Altaïr’s, forcing him face
down on the stones of the back room. Desperation held the knife in Altaïr’s
white knuckled grip bent on cutting himself more in an attempt to speed him to
oblivion.
Panic filled Malik’s heart. He did all he could to stop Altaïr from cutting
himself more. The words that so closely skirted attempts of suicide in Altaïr
journal flared into Malik’s mind only now able to claw through the fury and
shake loose the logic that should have been in control. Malik knew he had done
to Altaïr the one thing he never wanted to.
When he found he could not move to do so Altaïr roared, screamed, wailed,
howled. Tears mixing with the blood smeared and pooling on the floor. Malik
held him, but could neither firmly reclaim the knife, nor stop the bleeding.
His heart pounded in his ears. “NAHEEM!” The teen jerked, but did not look
over. “Naheem! Help me! I have only one hand! Get the knife from him!”
Naheem darted forward and pried the knife from Altaïr’s fingers, throwing it
into the blood smeared kitchen before scuttling back out of the way.
“NOOOOoooOOoooo!” howled Altaïr. Naheem could not believe that the great Eagle
of Masyaf, his hero, would ever do something like this, would be so miserable
inside to try to take his own life. How could he not have noticed Altaïr’s
desperation? Yet he knew he noticed, he just didn’t think it would turn like
this. He wanted to yell at Malik and blame him.
“Get a cord, NOW! Tie it… Naheem! NOW… he’s going to bleed to death!”
Malik’s words cut through and again he tossed a few things on the shelves till
he found something to suffice. His feet slipped a little in the slick blood,
warm between his toes. He knelt into that blood and again fought with Altaïr
for an arm. The flesh slid in his hands as he tied the tourniquet tight. Then
he backed away again, mortified to have so much of his master’s blood upon him,
soaking the knees of his pants, all under his bare feet, on his sleeves and
chest of his shirt, and all over his hands. He scuttled back again to the wall
and hugged his knees to watch.
Altaïr seemed to just stare at him. Slowly the struggling ended. Altaïr grew so
still and just stared. “Master Malik,” Naheem’s voice shook. “Master Malik,
he’s not moving…” Altaïr’s eyes stared blankly.
The body below his was still, the muscles relaxing. Malik panted heavily and
did not let up his hold just yet, in case this was just a ploy. There was so
much blood. It took Naheem’s words to make him realize just how still Altaïr
was. He eased off, but Altaïr did not move, not even a twitch. Malik’s heart
jumped through a few erratic beats of further panic that this was his fault.
That this was the ultimate loss and it was all his fault. He placed a shaking
hand onto Altaïr’s back and whispered his name in the growing silence.
No response.
Malik gulped and checked Altaïr’s pulse, expecting none, feeling accusing eyes
glaring and pleading from Naheem.
The faintest slow erratic rhythm spoke of life, though fading, under his
fingertip. Silently Malik thanked every divinity he could think of, even
demonic ones in case mythologies were as wrong about them as he was about
Altaïr just this moment.
He pulled Altaïr over to cradle him a little in his lap. Altaïr’s eyes rolled.
Uncontrolled shivering started to wrack his body. “He’s going into shock.
Naheem… blankets… lots of them. Water, my medical supplies.” He was relieved
Naheem obeyed so instantly.
“You had better save him. We did nothing wrong and nothing I wasn’t fully aware
of or willing to do.” Naheem finally managed to slap Malik with his own words.
“Hell, I only did what YOU should have.” He helped wrap Altaïr’s shivering
body, holding him while Malik washed and stitched.
Malik accepted that verbal slap. “What you did was still wrong. You just don’t
understand how wrong or why. And … it hurt me. You should have told me.”
They took turns holding Altaïr on a clean bed bundled in blankets, offering
their body heat for a man who didn’t have enough blood in him to produce his
own. The other would clean and scrub and disinfect sections of the Bureau,
eliminating the evidence of the horror that had just occurred there. Malik
hugged Altaïr to him wishing he could take back everything he had said. He
wished he had thought logically about what he witnessed and not just reacted.
Of course Altaïr would seek to fill whatever he could not get from Al Mualim.
Of course Altaïr, hurting, would immediately turn to the next best source of
comfort and affection. And of course I was not giving it to him. Maybe I was
wrong. Maybe he really did need me to fill the void.
Please… don’t leave me now, Altaïr. Hang in there for me. Please. I am here for
you. I have always been here.
These were his prayers every time Altaïr was wounded and torn by guards,
Templars, or his targets. Malik just never thought, never believed that he
would drive Altaïr to this. Somehow, even though he knew how fragile Altaïr was
becoming, he missed how fragile Altaïr actually was. You really had no
intention of living through this last mission, did you?
Naheem came and sat beside Malik. He looked over at the sleeping Altaïr, pale
and shallowly breathing. “Master Malik? I knew what I was doing. But you’re
right. I don’t understand why it was so wrong. Why did he? What happened?”
“I am sorry, Naheem. I am so sorry. Things have been done to him, since he was
very young. It twists a man’s perspective, makes them need, like a drug. Altaïr
was hurt and confused and turned to you. You became the crutch I didn’t want to
become.” He had never told anyone these things. They were hard secrets.
The trials and tribulations of two friends who have grown together and been
driven apart in duty and tragedy. Does time heal all wounds and reveal all
truths? What secrets are sealed in silence and bound by trust? When you see the
great eagle soaring, can you see how broken the wings of its soul are?
Assassins endure in the shadows and fly the moment they are seen. The eagle
mates for life and soars solo and lonely when its mate is lost till its body
and soul dies.
“I wanted him to heal more. Inside. I wanted to help him understand what had
happened to him and the things happening now. I wanted to help him. But I
missed the part where I should have told him directly that I was here for him,
just… not ready yet. I should have given him… something. Confessed my
friendship maybe.” Malik almost forgot Naheem’s quiet presence. “Should have
told him how I feel while he was pouring out how he felt onto chaotic pages of
a journal.”
Naheem watched the tenderness of Malik absently stroking through Altaïr’s hair
while he held him close against his chest as if the action was so common and no
one knew before because it happened while everyone else slept. Had he known how
much Malik felt for Altaïr, he would never have risked causing Malik so much
pain.
“We were close once, long ago,” Malik continued figuring since he was
confessing something, he might as well confess it all. “I suspected he was
being hurt, violated, but wasn’t sure and was always told whatever happened to
him was part of his training. We were partners, worked and trained, and lived
together. We grew to be more. Then we were separated. It was so sudden. He
became a star, outshone me faster than I could hope to keep up. He was the
youngest to earn the rank of master assassin. He pushed me away and treated me
like camel spit. I didn’t know he had done that to keep me safe from the kind
of less than moral training and missions he was doing.
“Then there was our last mission together, with my little brother who was only
a little older than you, barely. Solomon’s Temple. A year and a few months ago.
He was such a cocky arrogant ass there. Kadar was so fond of him; I was
jealous. I was losing my baby brother to Altaïr and Altaïr to my baby brother.
In the end, I lost them both and my arm. Altaïr acted. I reacted when I should
have hid. He was thrown through a wall and lost to us. I blew the cover for me
and my brother. Kadar lost his life. I lost an arm. But I retrieved the
treasure we were sent to get. On my return, I left a blood trail all the way to
Masyaf for the Templars to follow. Apparently Altaïr was again the hero there.
I was angry, in pain and blamed him. He took the fall for me though. He took
the blame for leading the Templars there. He spared me shame and he paid the
price for it.”
Saying it all out loud made it all more real. “They stripped him of rank and
forced him to relearn the Creed and work as a solo novice again on beginner
missions. He had nine kills to do to earn back each of his nine ranks. I spent
a good part of that time holding him responsible for all my misery. I never
knew he cared for me when I had my arm removed, nor that perhaps I was not so
wounded and maybe didn’t need it removed. And he didn’t kill my elder brother
Faruq. Well, he did, but he was under a powerful coercion drug. He didn’t even
remember the deed till it was dragged out of him a few months ago.”
Naheem gave Malik this… look. Malik read it correctly and frowned painfully to
himself. “No, he did not deserve most of what I said. Naheem, our master still
violates him, to keep him in his control. I know it is wrong. It broke Altaïr
in ways you and I will never really understand.”
As far as Naheem was concerned, what had happened for the last while broke both
Altaïr and Malik. “He loves you. It’s in everything he does. Everything you
just told me. He loves you so much that all he seems to have done is for you.
He’s so busy trying to be something for you that he isn’t anything on his own
or for himself. If I lived like that, I wouldn’t know who I am. I’d believe I
was nothing… and maybe do something like… like he did.” Naheem spoke as he
fetched the coffee he had brewed while he finished cleaning the kitchen. “And
you won’t be losing him to me or me to him. You are BOTH my mentors. I love you
both. Though… I really… REALLY want to marry Tibah and uh…” he blushed deeply.
“Is it wrong how badly I want to do things with her and to have her like it and
me to not be an idiot in bed with her?”
Malik chuckled softly not sure if he did so because of the silliness of the
teen before him or out of relief that Naheem still liked girls and that he
wasn’t wasting his time arranging that marriage.
He sipped the coffee and later that evening changed the bandages. He lay down
to sleep with Altaïr, holding him close to keep him warm. Into Altaïr’s ear he
whispered, “I am sorry, my friend, sorrier than I can hope to convey. Please,
don’t die on me. You are all I have. I need you.”
Naheem came in well past midnight to turn out the lamps. Malik was asleep. He
checked Altaïr’s pulse as Malik had shown him. By a low candle, he sketched the
sleeping men. To himself, he decided it was time to step up to a new level of
responsibility, one not unlike when his mother was in the last stages of her
illness. They need time together, both of them, to heal from a long time of
hurts. I can’t help them heal, but I can give them the time to by taking care
of everything else. I may be a novice, but I am also a man. They were on a time
limit though with Robert de Sable on his way to Jerusalem.
***** Altair: Lost in the Fog *****
Chapter Summary
     Ask and ye shall receive.
     Oh... but be careful what you ask for.
     Because yes... you will receive.
He screamed himself nearly hoarse till he grew too tired to do so. He struggled
so hard till every muscle ached till he was too tired to do so. The oblivion
was not happening as he hoped. They would not let him. He was sorry Naheem sat
terrified watching. He stopped struggling as the darkness came in dizzy waves.
Then came the fog to swallow him, as an icy chill seemed to permeate his naked
body. Altaïr relaxed and let it take him. Fog was supposed to lead to death and
nothingness.
Yet there he stood in the fog like a man waiting. He stood naked as he had
entered it. Barely audible whispers snuck in through the fog but could not be
made clear. Altaïr waited a long time before he started to walk. He wasn’t sure
what to do. He always thought this was the place between, the moment before the
soul left to wherever death claimed it. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was the
nothingness of death. It was quiet and cold and peaceful in its way. He walked
on, or maybe floated. He was not sure which.
                                 ------------
Naheem had relieved Malik only briefly here and there. Malik appreciated the
peace to stay with Altaïr. The assassin remained unmoving, ghastly in his
laxness. His skin looked paler than usual, drained and almost ashen. For two
whole days Malik clung to the man whispering to him, praying, watching. There
was nothing anyone could do but that. Sometimes Naheem witnessed Malik’s tears,
begging Altaïr not to leave him. Altaïr had been injured, and near death many
times, but never teetering so long. Other times, Malik could fight or stitch or
do something. Naheem could see that the helplessly holding Altaïr was like
holding a drowning man in the sea with no hope of a life raft to save either of
you.
Naheem did his best to be like the Dai in the Bureau when people came by. He
logged their missions and results. He collected their feathers. He found
Malik’s list of targets and hesitantly assigned ranked assassins to them. The
arrival of a young first rank assassin no older than Naheem himself baffled
him. He didn’t know what to do with this one. He loathed the notion of having
to step into the hidden back and ask Malik for advice. Then he remembered that
Altaïr had been stripped of rank to novice and had to start missions all over
from scratch. He flipped through the log book for those early missions and
sought an idea. “Here we go, Novice. As I await information on a suitable
target, I will assign you a task to help you become familiar with Jerusalem.”
The notion formed more and more clear in his mind and he was excited and proud
of the new idea. “I have a map of Jerusalem. I assume you can do a leap of
Faith from a height?”
“Oh yes, Rafiq! I am quite good,” replied the young assassin.
“Then you will find each of the eagle points of the city. Do one district at a
time and return here to mark them on this map. Novice, I mean, assassin. Be
careful of the Templars. Don’t engage them. Stay hidden. There are others on
those missions and I would not want you injured by friendly steel.”
“Of course, Rafiq.” Replied the eager young assassin.
While being called rafiq felt really good, Naheem also felt guilty of the
undeserved title and corrected the young assassin, “One more thing. I am not a
rafiq, just a novice training under the Dai, Malik A-Sayf.”
The young assassin chuckled. “He must be a hard mentor! Novice, the fact that
you have been deemed scholarly enough and with the skills adequate for
management to train and assist a Dai means you are a rafiq.”
Naheem smiled back. “Off with you!” he shooed the assassin in his best Malik
impersonation. “And safety and peace, Brother.”
“Safety and peace! I’ll be back for my next assignment soon!”
Naheem hoped he would be back. It was dangerous out there. But hiding, sneaking
and jumping from eagle points was supposed to be basic for getting to know a
city. He knew he was not a rafiq, but a novice assassin, training in secret. He
sat on the stool and rubbed the soreness out of his leg from his morning
workout.
When Junayd arrived on the third morning, Naheem again diverted attention away
from the back to give Malik peace. They prayed together, adding Altaïr to their
prayers. Then they practiced and sparred. Naheem asked Malik for the training
journal when he shared lunch with him and quietly talked about what he had been
doing out front. Malik approved of Naheem’s various autonomous decisions and
allowed Naheem to log his own and Junayd’s progress in the training journal.
Three days and there hardly seemed to be any change in Altaïr. They shared care
and cleaning. Naheem insisted on rolling Altaïr onto one side or another every
six to eight hours. “So he doesn’t bruise.” Malik hadn’t understood why till
Naheem explained how long term illnesses and long term bed rest did that and so
to avoid it, rolling the patient over was important. He had learned this while
caring for his mother. It felt strange teaching his teacher this.
Altaïr’s pulse had grown stronger and his breathing steadied over the days.
Near the end of the third day, the breathing became erratic, like he was
dreaming or having night terrors. His body sweated in waves over the hours of
the night. Malik had no clue why and could neither ease Altaïr, nor wake him.
                                  ----------
The fog thickened. An eagle screamed out. The hard flutter of wingbeats caused
the fog to roll. Altaïr turned around at each sound. Whispers, a man’s and a
woman’s, grew louder, sounded so familiar. He’s lost. He’s drowned. He dug
instead of climbed…. He was supposed to fly, soar like a great eagle. Altaïr
gasped as recognition flew to the surface. “Father?! Papa!?” The memory rose;
he was a small boy learning his father’s ways of stealth and agility, tumbling
acrobatics. His father lifted him high over his head. “My son, my gifted
Stephan. Your grace is my joy. You will soar, my son, fly, like the great
eagle!” And then he would hold the boy high over his head as if he were flying.
This was a good memory. Altaïr loved the feeling of flying. Leaps of faith were
instinct by the time he was eight. “Father?!”
A flutter of wings again and Altaïr turned suddenly. “Pigeons? Why are pigeons
in the fog with me?” but he saw nothing.
Hidden in the mists a man stretched out on white wing and inspected it
critically, then his black wing and gave it equal scrutiny. “Pigeon? I sound
like a pigeon?!” The feathers fluffed with indignation before he snapped his
wings shut behind him.
Altaïr wandered more in the silence. Calling out sometimes, feeling the
emptiness and loneliness of this place. “I thought this was the place for the
dead! Am I dead?! Who is out there? Aren’t souls supposed to speak their truths
here before they die? Here’s my truth!!! I love him! He hates me! Take me away!
Make it make sense! Is that not the truth?”
The winged man sighed heavily before letting his voice carry through the fog,
“Only truth lingers here.”
“Nothing is true!!” Altaïr yelled back into the fog.
“Truth lingers here, all the answers. You need only ask and the truth will be
revealed. You have done this time and again, asking the truth of the souls you
have ended. They speak the truth that they know. Truth has many sides and
perspectives.”
“What if I want to know the truth about me?!”
“Ask and ye shall receive.”
“What is MY truth?! If Malik is right and some things are true, what am I? Who
am I? Where do I come from? What happened to me? Why am I still here?!”
The ground vanished beneath Altaïr and his stomach jumped into his throat. He
was falling. The fog swirled dizzyingly around him making him nauseous. Scenes
pricked his eyes and forced their way through the fog of his mind. The truth of
all the things of his life surfaced undeniably. His early life with his German
family. His father an assassin trying to escape back to Germany because the
woman he loved asked him to take her home. Training with his father and
pretending to be an acrobatic entertainer for nobles as they spied and made
their way to Acre for a boat to take them home. Being met at the docks by other
assassins, Al Mualim. Drowning. Executed for their betrayal.
All the good and bad of his life dragged itself to his conscious mind. He
screamed and tried not to see, tried to deny. But this was the truth. The
beatings, the comforts, the rape, the manipulations. All the things he refused
to believe happened to him shown even behind his squeezed shut eyelids. The
nightmares relived themselves upon him. They were not dreams. It seemed like
endless torment and awareness.
Maybe days passed, Altaïr could not know. Time had no place in this fog.
“Now you know the truth, Great Eagle. You come descended of those who came
before. You are gifted. With great power comes great responsibility. I pray you
learn from this and know, you are not alone.”
But then Altaïr was alone in the now quiet of the fog, soaked in his own sweat,
chilled by the icy air, naked as he had entered. He crumpled under the weight
of the knowledge. He reached out. “Malik…” he called weakly. “Malik…”
                                  ----------
Naheem was drawing by candle light on the spare bedroll across from Malik and
Altaïr. Altaïr’s breathing had changed again and his body again soaked in
sweat. As it had been all day, his eyes danced frantically behind his eyelids.
“Malik…” came a rasp from Altaïr’s throat. Naheem dropped his sketch stick.
“Malik!” Naheem called sharply to wake his mentor.
Malik jerked awake afraid maybe Altaïr died while he dozed. He checked for a
pulse, his head dropping onto Altaïr’s shoulder in sudden relief. Then he
checked for fever against the sweat. When Altaïr rasped out Malik’s name again,
he wrapped himself around Altaïr, hugging him tightly, “I’m here… I’m here, my
friend.” But still Altaïr did not wake.
                                  ----------
Somewhere in the fog, Altaïr heard Malik’s reply. “Where are you? MALIK!
Malik!” Nothing had made him feel afraid till now. “Malik! Help me!!” He felt
like he was drowning. The fog closed in on him like water. He gasped. The room
came in and out of focus through the fog. A wave of dizziness crashed him back
under the foggy water. He was so cold. It was so cold under the water. The
memories of all that had had happened to Altaïr dragged him down. He gasped and
coughed. He cried out. There was darkness, cold darkness. Sounds rushed at him.
He cringed away. Warmth held him. He turned into it. He sank into it. He clung
to it like a drowning man. He was drowning, drowning in the sobs that rose and
would not relent.
***** Hard Decisions *****
Both Naheem and Malik were wide awake now. Naheem yawned away the remainder of
his grogginess as he sat up and sparked a lamp aglow. He didn’t know what to
do, so he just sat cross legged with his blanket wrapped around him, listening
to the tragedy of a weak and broken man.
Malik held Altaïr. What else could he do? Altaïr was awake, alive. Altaïr
remembered. That was both good and bad. Between the sobs were questions,
realization, and the need for confirmation. Malik hated to do it, but he did.
The yesses to the horrible things continued through the night. Altaïr did not
have the strength to do anything but plead for answer after answer, to spill
forth everything he remembered, to beg that it not be true. Malik hated to
admit that these things were true, that they did actually happen.
Naheem could stand to hear no more of this lifelong string of manipulations,
rapes and abuse. It explained more than anything he could have wanted to know.
It also ran against his own moral codes so strongly that he threw off the
blanket and ran out of the room. Naheem stood in the chilly dark of the main
room taking deep breaths against the heart wrenching feelings inside. He hated
that such terribly things could happen to a great man in order to control him
for some higher mysterious purpose. A great man like Altaïr would have done it
without all that. Naheem clenched his hands into fists then over his ears to
try to shut out the voices from the back room.
The sobbing and questioning became more broken up with exhaustion till the
dizziness dragged Altaïr back into restless sleep. With stump and one arm,
Malik cradled his broken friend. He threaded his fingers through Altaïr hair,
easing him a little. Malik expected there would be more of this to come before
anything between them could be discussed. He wondered where Naheem went to, but
didn’t want to call out.
Naheem did his duties out front as always, though locked up and went off to his
drafting class. He needed a new space with new things to think a little more
clearly. When he returned, it was only to more of the same truths as last
night, though these ones were the nightmarish lingerings of souls whose lives
Altaïr took, that each kill haunted him, broke him a little here and there.
This was the life of an assassin, to live forever with the ghosts of your dead
staining you mind like the blood on your hands. You might be able to wash it
away, but you will always know it is there. And for Altaïr, who was different,
gifted, his visions from each kill afterwards would also haunt him. The harder
things to hear were the uncertainty to targets Altaïr thought might actually
have been innocent.
Naheem silently helped Malik clean up Altaïr and feed him a little. He was so
weak, his eyes rolled as he slipped in and out of dizzy consciousness and dark
oblivion. Altaïr struggled to stay awake, could not bear to close his eyes only
to see and know more. But he had not the strength even for that.
Malik tried not to fuss over Altaïr, but inside he was frantic for this man in
his bed, in his arms. This tore Malik inside as much as witnessing his own
brother’s death at Robert’s hands. And even though I hated him and blamed him,
he stayed with me and cared for me when they cut off my arm, then he took the
whole blame for my shames and was stripped of everything. Malik understood now
how much he had taken from Altaïr and how arrogant he himself had been all this
time. His fingers carded through Altaïr’s hair over and over as his eyes lifted
to see Naheem watching them pensively.
“Speak, Novice. I can see in you the need to do so.” Malik expected another
proper toss of sharp words from the novice and knew that he would deserve them.
Naheem almost said Master Malik before he took a second breath and actually
spoke, dropping the title entirely. “Malik… I don’t want to be an assassin.”
….
 
It was the last thing he expected out of Naheem; both the drop of his title
either of Master or Dai and all that followed his name. He raised a brow.
“There is no leaving the Order, Naheem.”
Naheem took out his sketch book and started to draw to keep his hands busy
while he expressed his difficult feelings. “I know. I know too much to free me
of the Brotherhood. It would mean that I become someone’s target as his father
was. Maybe that is what my father tried to save me from. Now there is no
escape. I get that. I accept that. What I mean is … I don’t want to become an
assassin, a killer, like both of you. I don’t want to be the one taking lives.”
He sketched the unconscious tenderness Malik expressed toward Altaïr in case he
needed to prove to Altaïr how much Malik cared. He expected he might need to
later.
In a pause between sketch strokes, Naheem continued, “See what it has done to
you and to him. You are both tortured, haunted by the kills. Questioning what
you have done. Plagued by various nightmares. Both broken by the duty you
committed yourselves to. You can’t really support and heal others when you are
so broken yourself. I never want to be like this. I never want to be in your
place, torn apart like this. I never want to be in his place, with his soul
ripped up as it is by what he has done…. And what has been done to him. If that
is what the training is, I don’t want it. I refuse to accept being trained as
he was. No one… no one should be treated as he has… and since he was a child.
This… Al Mualim… I hate him so much and I have never met him. I’d kill him
myself if I could for what he has done. He is the kind of person we assign to
be hunted. He is the kind of person we protect innocents from. Who protected
Altaïr? He was innocent back then. Now look what this man has done. Ruined not
just one life but many. And this is your leader? My leader?”
The novice slapped his book shut and snapped the charcoal stick. “How can you
follow such a corrupt man? And don’t even try to justify anything to me. Wrong
is wrong. And this… this that has been done to Altaïr, to you, is wrong. I
refuse to be part of it. I love you both and would follow you both to my
deathbed. But if it comes from that man? That old man in the mountain fort of
Masyaf, this Al Mualim… No! I will not do it. Never! I don’t want to be one of
his assassins, one of his puppets.” He hadn’t even noticed he was standing and
practically yelling with so much deep conviction. He stormed back out to the
main room to cool off when he saw Altaïr had tensed into a tight ball, cringing
and shaking.
Malik let out several slow breaths. So much he might have been able to prevent
if only he had acted long ago. “Easy, Altaïr. It is alright. Shhhh…” Naheem is
right about many things. We are both broken men. And I took it out on them
both. Now Naheem is also a bit broken. Allah, what do I do? He bit his lip hard
against the verbal curses he wanted to spit out and carefully moved away from
Altaïr. He tucked the blankets about Altaïr and even pulled the edge up like a
hood over his head before following Naheem out to the main room.
He found the teen sitting on a stool, face buried in his arms over the
unfinished map of Arsuf. He rubbed his hand on the teen’s back. “I am sorry we
have burdened you so much. Sorry that you were not given the free choices all
men should have. I will not force you to be an assassin. I will not ask or
assign you to kill. I value your cheery innocence too much to taint it with the
blood of dying souls. I ask only that you learn to defend yourself in case you
must. That you learn the ways of an assassin, so you understand those who will
come through here. You will be an assassin novice no more. You will be rafiq,
apprentice to the Dai in truth. And one day, maybe you can replace me here when
I retire.”
Naheem sat up and hugged Malik. Malik hugged him back.
“Naheem, thank you for being and doing, so that I can stay with him. I thought
only he had to atone. But you are so right, we both do. I have… much of my own
atoning to do. Wrongs I have done to him. I never realized how often I burned
the very bridges I was trying to build till now.” He lifted the teens face to
look him clearly in the eyes. Then pressed his lips to the teen’s brow as he
had often done for his own younger brother. “Never change, Naheem.” He stepped
quietly into the back room to rejoin Altaïr for the night.
Naheem stayed up a long while more working on that map.
***** A Hero's Tale *****
Naheem stayed up a long while more working on that map. Hour by hour the relief
of his decision washed through him and refreshed him. It had been on his mind
often, but he wanted so badly to have his two mentors and saviours be proud of
him. He didn’t have to feel like he was pressured to get caught up. He could
progress at his own pace. He could focus on being as one young assassin had
called him, a rafiq. It eased his inner turmoil about dividing himself between
the dual training of a rafiq and an assassin. He was not a boy after all but a
man now. And as a man he had knowledge he too could share.
Naheem woke the next morning from sleeping on the mostly finished map. Junayd
was staring at him from across the counter, trying to see how long he could
stare till it unnerved the teen and woke him. “Junayd, go do your prayers and
exercises.” Naheem’s scrunched frown suddenly changed at the sound of Malik’s
voice behind him and he snapped up so fast he nearly toppled from the stool.
“You are wearing the fort district of Arsuf, Naheem. Go wash.” Confusion
wrinkled across Naheem’s face till he saw the smudged ink on the map where his
face had been while he slept. With a groan he left to try to scrub the ink from
his face.
After collecting a basin, heating water for it and finding wash cloths and
towels, the sounds of Malik and Junayd practicing with blades could be heard
with small clashes. The first few clashes startled Altaïr, though he failed to
be able to sit himself up. Seeing Altaïr awake, Naheem plopped himself down
beside him with the basin of water and washing supplies. He scrubbed the ink
from his face as he engaged Altaïr’s attention. “Junayd’s here. I think the
world can hear him. Do you know that little bugger stared at me all morning
till it felt like torturous little ants were crawling all over my skin? Hey,
Altaïr. Did I get all the ink off?”
Golden eyes seemed more alert if not really ready to be truly engaging. They
tracked over Naheem’s face confused as to why the teen was covered in map lines
on one side. “Hmm... I see.” Naheem grumbled and scrubbed more. “Now?” Altaïr
made a small gesture with his hand on his own chin. Naheem scrubbed the ink
line from his chin. “Now?” Altaïr gave the slightest nod. “That brat,”
complained Naheem as if the ink on his face was caused by Junayd’s staring. It
coaxed a small huff from Altaïr that Naheem took for a tiny weak chuckle.
Naheem wrinkled his nose at the slow realization of the odour in the room and
fetched a clean blanket and some more cloths and towels. “Let’s get you out of
those sweat soaked and soiled blankets and stuff.” He peeled the damp blankets
from Altaïr with practiced hands. At the brief shock and splash of faint blush
on Altaïr’s face at the discovery that he was in giant nappies, Naheem
explained, “Easy there. I thought it would be far less humiliating to be in
those when you soiled them than to find that you soiled Malik’s bed. As one who
was injured and who did soil a bed, I wish someone had done this to me. This is
less messy.” Altaïr just groaned, unsure if he felt as Naheem did. He was too
weak really to argue about it. And truthfully, Naheem handled this so smoothly
that Altaïr didn’t feel quite so offended.
Naheem helped lift and shift Altaïr off the damp blanket that was under him and
replace it with a dry one. Nappies were changed swiftly with a quick washing.
“You’ll be up on your feet again very soon, and then you can use the waste
grill. I am guessing later today even. But I’ll put another nappy on you just
in case.” Naheem kept up a light running commentary about things he had been
doing over the last few days, including his hard decision to be a rafiq and not
an assassin, “… but I still want you to teach me stuff!”
“Why?” rasped Altaïr finally.
Naheem smiled then tried to smother a yawn. He was still tired from his late
night and rude awakening this morning. Things had quieted outside to soft
talking, so Naheem figured the lesson out there became instructions. Malik
needed to interact with someone other than Altaïr right now. Junayd, as much as
he was a brat as far as Naheem was concerned, was excellent company and an
excellent change of pace for the Dai. Naheem gingerly climbed over Altaïr to
flop on Malik’s side of the bed, squeezed between Altaïr and the wall. “Let me
tell you a story, and then may I grab a little nap here with you?” Altaïr
nodded, reassured by Naheem’s lack of fussing over him. It was a nice feeling
to not have someone angry at him, blame him for something, or hate him. Not
that Malik had done those things lately, but Malik broke any trust Altaïr might
have had in him. Altaïr didn’t know how to be around Malik all over again.
Naheem shifted Altaïr over onto his side facing out. “You are heavy and take up
too much room.” Then he snuggled close, molding himself to Altaïr’s back. “Let
me tell you a story about a mysterious man who became a great hero. Once upon a
time, there was a dark knight of the shadows who did dark things all in the
name of the Greater Good. It was a hard and lonely life, especially when he had
to secretly push away those dearest to him in order to try to save their lives.
Fate dealt him a cruel blow, a challenge, and he thought he had lost
everything. In one moment he shone as the great hero for saving a whole village
from tyranny. In the next its leaders betrayed him and named him a traitor. But
even in his darkest days, his heart remained noble and true, an honourable
eagle swooping down from high towers to save the lives of innocent peasants
wherever he went.”
Naheem stretched a moment to get more comfortable then continued his tale.
Outside the back room, just on the other side of the curtain, Junayd opened his
mouth to ask who Naheem was talking about. Malik clamped his hand over the
boy’s mouth. They would listen till the story ended before getting breakfast.
“This great man changed his ways, determined to show he was not a traitor. He
let his heart shine so bright that his dark clothes changed into shining white
ones by magic. When he lept from towers to defend the weak, you could swear the
eagle cried out and the flutter of wings beat loudly before the flash of steel
freed those in danger. But he remained a lonely eagle with no mate. Trying to
rekindle his lost friendship with another great man, he flew in the night on an
errand, a mission, to save a small boy. Another act of his heroism done in the
quiet where he thought it was unknown. The boy remembers though and tells all
who will listen… sometimes so often I want to strangle the little brat to shut
him up.” Naheem chuckled. Altaïr softly chuckled, too.
“Then one day, out on the long dusty roads, he traveled between cities. He
didn’t have to stop. A small army busily fought to eliminate two men. Two men
against twenty. He didn’t need to stop. He was out matched and outnumbered. It
was not his fight. But he stopped anyways. He stepped in. And although he could
not save both men, he managed to save one. Forever will he be this man’s hero.
Altaïr, forever will you be my hero… and my family.” Altaïr turned his face
into the pillow a moment. He grabbed Naheem’s hand and hugged that arm to him.
Naheem hugged him back. “Nap with me, great hero.” Naheem nuzzled the back of
Altaïr’s neck and closed his eyes.
Malik fiercely whispered to Junayd that he should go home. The boy almost
protested till he saw the shimmering wetness in Malik’s eyes. Junayd gave Malik
a quick hug and whispered, “I’ll be back again in a few days. You are both my
heroes, Master Malik.” Then he flitted off and out the roof opening. Malik
turned his attention to trying to salvage the slightly smeared map of Arsuf as
a means to settle the wobbliness in the pit of his stomach and the lump in his
throat. He decided he would stay out here and let Naheem spend the day with
Altaïr.
***** Naheem's Support *****
Chapter Summary
     Sat in a hospital and was inspired. I totally stole the techniques of
     an orderly for how Naheem is handling Altaïr.
Malik turned his attention to trying to salvage the slightly smeared map of
Arsuf as a means to settle the wobbliness in the pit of his stomach and the
lump in his throat. He decided he would stay out here and let Naheem spend the
day with Altaïr. He didn’t want to be far and wished he could be present for
this first really lucid moment of Altaïr’s, but the more lucid Altaïr became
the more he shrank away from Malik. Peaking in on Naheem asleep with Altaïr, he
felt that jealousy burn a little inside, but suppressed it. Naheem was not in
love with Altaïr nor the other way around. It was friendship, brotherly
friendship.
He explored the log books to see what Naheem had been up to these past five
days and what the rest of the world had been up to as well. The logging was
decent, though Malik wanted more detail to the reporting. Naheem didn’t yet
know the questions to ask. The assignment to the newest arrival in Jerusalem
was smart, and mostly safe. Malik was proud of Naheem’s efforts. The map,
however, was unsalvageable. Arsuf would need to be remapped. He thought about
redoing it himself, but that would not teach anything.
Malik had to grudgingly admit some of Naheem’s care ideas were truly brilliant,
if humiliating a little. Nappies, on grown men. At least Malik’s bed was no
longer being soiled. He made note to get more suitable fabric for that very
purpose, as well as more bandaging linens. He debated taking the errand himself
but could not bring himself to leave the Bureau, nor could he will himself to
ask Naheem to do so. By tomorrow, though, one of them will have to.
Altaïr would sleep lots as he healed. That was as per usual. At least it was
sleep and not the stupor and unconsciousness of blood loss. Altaïr was starting
to regain some color. Naheem woke with a growling stomach from his little nap.
He sat up and made to leave the bed when Altaïr’s hand gripped his tightly and
would not let him go. “I am hungry and you need to let me get food. I am sure
you are hungry too. I’ll bring breakfast back for us.” Reluctantly, Altaïr
released him. Naheem stretched and stood and stepped over Altaïr.
He stopped, standing straddled over the prone assassin. “Can you sit up?”
Altaïr rolled onto his back but could not manage more. Naheem crouched; taking
Altaïr left (wounded) hand. “Grip my tunic, like that. Other arm, around my
shoulders. Ok, hold tight.” Naheem wrapped his arms expertly around Altaïr and
lifted him to sitting, then shoved some pillows behind so Altaïr could lean
against them. “Back soon. And I promise not to sneak bananas into breakfast
this time, though… you seemed to like them in my flat cakes. Don’t tell Malik I
cook so well. He’ll make me cook all the time.” Naheem had already wandered to
the little kitchen and started food while he was talking.
Malik smirked while making some adjustments to the main log and writing notes
for message birds to Master Al Mualim. At the volume Naheem was speaking, the
teen must know that Malik heard him. It was still amusing. He had been noticing
that Naheem was not so bad at cooking after all and wondered why he pretended
to be. But maybe it was just that, he didn’t want to be the only one cooking.
He lit his incense and changed position to read so he could peak through a
crack he made in the curtain. Was it wrong to spy thus?
Naheem set a slightly steaming bowl in Altaïr’s lap, and then took one out to
Malik, silently setting it on the counter next to the log book before returning
in back. Altaïr had crossed his legs and held the bowl debating his
coordination. Naheem read the expression as he sat cross legged in front of
Altaïr. “If you think you’re going to spill it, I’ll do it this time. We just
got cleaned up. I don’t want to change things again so soon.” Altaïr relented
to Naheem’s ministrations.
Malik listened to the ease of Naheem’s conversation.
“So, since I was thinking about how bratty Junayd can be sometime with the
things he likes to do for fun, it got me wondering.” Naheem spooned hot cereal
into Altaïr as he talked. “What did you do for fun as a kid? And don’t tell me
training.”
A soft chuckle escaped Altaïr between spoonfuls. He had to think though. Malik
did too, wondering what Altaïr considered fun and wondering why Naheem was
asking. After deep pondering, Altaïr’s deep baritone voice answered in a rough
whisper, an improvement to the rasps. “Crow’s tag.” Malik slapped his hand in
his face, forgetting he had an ink brush in it.
“Crow’s tag?” asked Naheem, spooning more into Altaïr.
Altaïr nodded. “Crow’s tag. Running tag along the cliff side parapets of the
fort. A misstep meant you fell and became food for the crows.”
“That is INSANE!” Naheem burst out.
“That was fun,” replied Altaïr quietly with a slight smile. “And… tipping
Malik’s incense pot while he was studying.”
This time Naheem laughed. They both did. The chatter was light like that for an
hour while Naheem asked all sorts of things about Altaïr’s early life.
Then it dawned on Malik what Naheem was doing. This novice was raising their
patient’s morale, making him dig through the bad memories for the good ones and
bringing them to the surface so they can act like a natural salve to heal the
wounds of trauma. Malik wondered where Naheem had learned this and thanked
Allah yet again for the blessing of this novice in their lives. He peaked
through the crack to secretly relish that rare smile and soft deep chuckle. He
wanted to be part of this conversation, but felt he should not invade the
moment. Maybe next time.
“Oh crap,” complained Naheem, “Here we are nattering like hens and you ate the
whole bowl. We were supposed to share it. Oops.” Naheem sighed. Malik wondered
if the whole thing was honest or a ploy. Naheem retrieved a second bowl and
inhaled it while he let Altaïr look through some of the drawings he had done
over the last five days. “Thass frm ma draffin class,” he mumbled with a mouth
full of cooling cereal. At the baffled look in the golden eyes, he repeated
after swallowing, “From my drafting class. I think you’re better at the
technical drawings. Where did you put that one of the right hand hidden blade?
It was really good.”
“It was flawed. I’ll keep working on it,” muttered Altaïr. Malik felt glued to
the roughened voice.
“Why design one? We already have a left hand one.” Naheem commented.
“Not everyone can use it well or at all. Some need one for the right hand.”
Malik felt like he heard a secret from Altaïr that he should not have. Malik
wondered if Altaïr was trying to design it for him, but then shook the
possibility from his mind. It was a selfish thought.
Naheem washed up everything and claimed even Malik’s bowl. He gave Malik a
quick grin and slipped back to the back room. Malik was sure it was full of
some kind of mischief, but Naheem was not really the mischievous type. Maybe it
was some kind of secret or surprise. As it was, everything Malik was witnessing
was a surprise, a pleasant surprise.
Naheem then stood straddling over Altaïr, “Feel like trying to stand? Maybe get
you to the waste grill and then into real clothes?” He again had Altaïr hold
him as before and hugged him around the chest. With a deep breath and a hard
grunt, Naheem stood. “Fuck! You are heavy!” It burned in his leg scar. Altaïr
soon steadied and could stand, though not without support. His cheeks burned to
see himself with the nappies. Naheem adjusted his hold and they slowly walked
to the little kitchen. With remarkably deft fingers, Naheem removed the nappy
and braced himself till Altaïr was sitting over the waste grill.
Now, since Malik could not see them, he stepped into the back to tidy the room
a little and lay out a new uniform on the bed for Altaïr. He silently removed
himself again before discovery. He stood behind the curtain in the main room to
listen.
Naheem paused when he saw the tidied room and the uniform. He smiled to himself
knowing Malik had done this. He brought in the uniform. “Sometimes the two of
you are so frustrating.” He picked up the habit of rolling his eyes from Malik.
As he helped Altaïr to dress, they talked about apologies and words. “Some
words just need to be said. Words like… I love you, you are great or did a
great job, and I am sorry. I know they are sometimes hard to say… even for
those who rely on words and say lots. But these are important words and hearing
them out loud helps them be more real.”
“But what will my ‘I’m sorry’ accomplish?” asked Altaïr as he pressed his hands
to the walls to keep from falling over as Naheem dressed him.
“Expressing that it is how you feel. I bet he is, too… and just as scared to
say it.” Naheem crossed his arms at the scowl he received from Altaïr for his
implication that either Malik or Altaïr were afraid. “People just need to know
that they did something right, are cared for or thought of as important enough
for you to express yourself to. It is really hard going for months and never
hearing these things or never really knowing for sure.” Then Naheem’s eyes
widened and he made a wild grab for Altaïr who was losing balance. “I try to
tell people they have done well or that they are amazing sometimes. It feels
good to hear it. You’re the only one other than my mother who said I did well.
You don’t dole it out often, but you do occasionally for me. It let me know I
am on the right track, so I don’t feel like I am totally floundering.”
Malik winced to himself. He never really tells people they have done well,
least of all Altaïr. He maybe told the assassin he did well only a couple times
and it was soon followed by caveats or something negative. And he didn’t think
he had ever told Naheem that the teen was great in all the time he had been
here. Malik made some grudging mental notes that he needed to change that.
The room suddenly became suffocatingly hot then icy cold and then full of black
spots. Altaïr flailed with the distant thought that he was swooning, about to
faint, and how humiliating it was and how totally helpless he was to do
anything about it. Naheem caught him and sat him down again. “Deep breaths,
slow. You’re doing great.” As they managed to slowly make their way back to the
bed, Altaïr felt better. Lying down didn’t give him the light headed,
embarrassing fainting feeling.
Naheem left Altaïr to rest while he wandered out to see what Malik was doing.
He had barely gotten past the curtain when Malik confronted him. “Where … how…
where did you learn to be how you were in there, with Altaïr?”
It was a very loaded query. Naheem expected them though. He blushed to his
ears. “I guess I did something right?”
“Yes,” Malik conceded gently, “You did a great many things right. But how?”
“I told you my mother was very ill. She was ill for a long while. I learned to
care for her. My father had sent a doctor for her, a man named Faruq. He showed
me. It helped my mom’s spirits to be up and to feel less like an invalid. Why
treat someone like they are sick and dying? It only reinforces the feeling and
might worsen them. So, you do things to help them feel as normal as possible.
Sending Faruq. It was the first act from my father, beyond ensuring my
education, that told me he cared about us.” Naheem scuffed a toe on the floor.
He missed his mother deeply, and in a way his father/mentor, too. “Thanks,
though. I hope it all helps him. You are both my family, now. I don’t want to
see it get any smaller.”
“It won’t, as best as we can manage.” Malik stepped past Naheem now too eager
to see Altaïr alert, only to find him once again in the sleep of a man healing.
He sighed and took up a book to read while sitting with Altaïr.
***** Altair's Templar Dream *****
Chapter Summary
     Habits are so very hard to break.
Sleeping, healing, dreaming. Altaïr didn’t mind the first two, although he
always felt guilty by them. They meant he was being useless, a lump, wasting
time and space usually in a place he was unwanted in, like Malik’s bed. The
dreaming… he wished would not happen. He never really just dreamed. Normal
people dreamed. Normal people had fantastical visions that were fun, silly,
happy, arousing. Altaïr’s never were any of those things… not for long anyways.
Everything ached. Altaïr shook the disorientation from his head and wondered
how long he had been out. Hours likely. It was quiet. The rubble blocked his
way back to Malik and Kadar. Had Robert killed them? He was sure he had heard
the death cries of Kadar and Malik’s anguished yell for his little brother
before the darkness from his concussion swallowed his consciousness.
Drugs can control a man’s thoughts and actions, but look upon this apple, this
treasure. The one who possesses it may do the same to those who then look upon
it. So what, if it is just a ball of metal, Altaïr. The power it has must not
remain in Robert’s hands.
The treasure!
Altaïr pounded and pounded his fists on the stone and wood rubble till they
bled. He tried moving them, but they were too heavy. “MALIK!” No one answered.
He waited a count of one hundred and resigned himself to seeking another way
out, hoping there was one and that he was not sealed in till the air ran out.
Screaming and fighting would only use up precious air. He rushed forward to a
hint of light. After a couple bruising failed attempts to desperately climb
dilapidated scaffolding, he finally made it through the opening. Fresh air was
good. Sunlight was great. The loss of Kadar and Malik darkened any possibility
of relief.
He would have to either wind his way back around this mountainous section to
try to find his horse, or make his way on foot outward till he could acquire a
new horse. The mission was a failure. How could it have succeeded anyways?
Kadar was a novice, not even ready for solo missions, let alone be on one this
important or dangerous. Malik, forgot to trust him long ago and his anger stung
like a scorpion. But, Altaïr still loved him, still cared, still hoped. He had
done so much to keep Malik safe and out of this questionable mission work.
In the distance, Altaïr could see the Templars riding out, in the direction of
Masyaf. NO! He burst into a run.
A Templar stepped stealthily out from some brush, a lithe figure of dark hair,
tanned skin and charcoal eyes. An assassin’s hidden blade snapped out through
the missing left finger and back. The chainmail made small chink noises. Altaïr
skidded to a halt, dust rising around his feet. “Malik?”
“I hunt for Robert, now.”
“What?! Malik!” Altaïr could say no more. He had to defend himself from a man
he knew could take him down. He didn’t want to hurt Malik, didn’t want to kill
him. He blocked a roundhouse kick with his forearm. Fists flew. Altaïr dodged.
A blow rocked his balance. A sweep took out his footing. He rolled and kicked
back. “Malik stop!” Templar Malik kept going. This could not be true, but the
treasure… Robert must have used it on him. “No! Malik!” He rolled out of the
way again, punching back. “Don’t!” Malik drew his sword.
Malik doubled from the punch to the gut he took while trying to shake Altaïr
from this nightmare, whatever it was. Altaïr yelled and rolled away, scrambled
back and over the second bedroll.
Altaïr kicked and flailed in his defense.
Altaïr kicked and flailed defensively. Malik easily deflected the weakened
blows, though the first had caught him unawares. Naheem jumped into the room
and held the doorway’s curtain in a white-knuckled fist. He knew better now
than to get in the middle.
“No! Don’t! Don’t touch me! NO!” Altaïr yelled hoarsely. He backed into the
wall with a thud. The room came into focus too slowly. Stabbing pain pricked
his forearm, the blood from pulled stitched dotted the bandaging. His chest
heaved. He glared warily at Malik. Comprehension not yet caught up with
reality. Malik knelt before him. Where was his Templar chainmail? Where was his
left arm? Naheem took a careful step closer and froze as the golden eyes
snapped to him. Naheem? Wait… The Bureau. He looked back to Malik. He’s the Dai
now, and the loss was my fault. No… not my fault. But I should have stopped
them. He raised his right hand toward Malik’s left stump of an arm, wanting to
touch it to affirm reality and banish the dream of a Templar Malik trying to
kill him.
In a gesture of trust, Malik closed his eyes and dipped his head. He would not
move, allowing Altaïr to touch him, to touch the stump.
Altaïr’s hand fisted and pulled back. “How dare you.” How dare you offer trust
now. How can you trust me? He wanted to say it out loud but the words caught in
his throat. “How can I tr… How? You never wanted me to.” He clenched both fists
and hissed at the sudden pain through the left forearm.
Malik ground his teeth, charcoal eyes burning through Altaïr. He gestured to
Altaïr’s sliced and bandaged arm, gestured to the blood seeping through from
torn stitches, and lost his temper. “How dare?! You impulsive… arrogant…
foolish…”
“Malik,” Naheem’s called cautiously warning.
Malik swallowed the remaining words, rose and shoved Naheem out of the room,
holding the teen’s tunic in a shaking fist. Naheem dared whisper back, “Great…
after all this morning… ‘you… impulsive, arrogant, foolish.’ How is that going
to go over?” The hurt and realization flashed clearly now in Malik’s face. He
let go of the tunic and covered his eyes. Naheem straightened his tunic.
“Malik,” he tried to find reassuring words. A strange sound, like a door
banging shut cut off his thoughts. Malik threw himself into the back room.
Altaïr was gone.
***** Malik Holds On *****
Malik threw himself into the back room. Altaïr was gone.
Malik felt like he swallowed a chunk of mountain ice covered in razor blades.
He was so used to chastising, snapping out venomous caustic words, that he let
his temper slide back into that habit when he needed above all else to not. The
notion of begging for forgiveness though irked him too much. Maybe Naheem was
right. He was just as impulsive, arrogant and foolish as he had called Altaïr.
He took a couple deep breaths and knew Altaïr had left through the attic door
for the roof. He was too weak; he could not have gotten far. Malik turned to
Naheem’s scowling distressed face, “I’ll fix this,” he promised. He climbed the
stairs wondering what the hell Altaïr had dreamed to cause that sudden
outburst. It must have been terrible. Or it was a memory of what Malik had
recently done. He winced at the top of the stairs. Fighting was so much easier
than this.
The door was poorly closed. Malik wanted to pull out his hair, and yet prayed
Altaïr was there. This inner battle had been his since he became Dai. While he
was no longer blaming Altaïr, he was still angered by so many things, and
feeling alone in all that. He opened the door fully, but saw no Altaïr. The sun
shone brightly overhead as it was near noon or a little after. He stepped onto
the hot stones of the roof.
In the narrow slice of shade sat Altaïr.
Malik stood stock still, not wanting to spook the wounded eagle into flight.
Altaïr just sat. His left arm lying in his lap as the finger of his right hand
lightly poked or picked at the blood dotted bandages. Naheem had inch-wormed
his way up the stairs to spy.
Malik knelt, then sat, in the hot sun in front of Altaïr. He didn’t mind the
sun. It warmed his back. Altaïr looked so pale, especially when Malik reached
forward with a tanned hand. Altaïr flinched. So did Malik. In a leap of faith,
Malik took Altaïr’s left hand. He wished he had two hands to push back the
hood, though he could feel those golden eyes on him. “I… I’m sorry for my harsh
words.” The exertion of will to say that had drawn sweat onto Malik’s back. He
decided to blame the hot sun for that. Altaïr’s fingers closed around Malik’s
hand. Malik’s heart and stomach both flipped over inside him. They sat like
that in silence together.
“Altaïr, let’s go inside. I would like to fix that wound.”
Altaïr shook his head.
“No? Altaïr…”
Altaïr shook his head again, “No, I can’t.” His fingers tightened on Malik’s
hand, though the grip could hardly be called a grip for how weak it was.
“Why not?”
“I’ll fall.” The words tumbled tiredly from him. “I don’t want to fall.”
Malik then realized Altaïr had spent want little energy he had to get there and
thus could not physically manage getting down on his own. Something came to
Malik’s mind. A memory. At the time he had been so annoyed but later in life he
had laughed about it, sometimes at Altaïr’s expense. Taking a page from
Naheem’s lessons book on patient care, that memory could help now. “Altaïr? Do
you remember when we ran through the lower part of the fort and you bolted
around a corner and fell in the water reservoir?”
Altaïr shuddered. He remembered. He was so scared he would drown.
“I held you. I held you a long, long time till someone came to help. I didn’t
let go or let you fall.” He leaned a little to try to see into the shadow of
Altaïr’s hood. “Altaïr, I won’t let you fall.”
Altaïr lifted his head. Malik begged for a little trust, begged with his own
charcoal eyes. “I wanted some fresh air and sun,” Altaïr whispered. “My dream…
it was not real… but it…” He couldn’t voice it, brows furrowing.
“We can sit under the lattice and get some sun there. I can rebandage your arm…
and we could talk about your dream.” Malik almost sighed out loud with relief
at Altaïr’s final nod.
Naheem quietly yipped and wriggled down the stairs as fast as he could.
It was awkward, and difficult. Malik had managed moving Altaïr down these
stairs before when the assassin dropped from injuries on the roof. He totally
felt it was easier to drag an unconscious assassin than to manhandle a
conscious one who had little coordination. Naheem neatly stepped in on Altaïr’s
other side at the bottom of the stairs. Altaïr grumped about the help, cheeks
reddening. However, once on the carpet among the cushions with Malik, Naheem
beat a hasty retreat to make lunch for them, and give them time.
Malik brought over his medical kit and the basin in a few short trips. He
unbandaged and cleaned the long red stitched line from the inside of Altaïr’s
left elbow straight down to the inside of his left wrist. There were several
torn and popped stitches where tensed muscles or a flailing had opened them. To
distract, Malik asked about the dream that drove Altaïr into such a panic.
“I dreamed you were a Templar.”
***** Altair's Brief Touch *****
“I dreamed you were a Templar.” The needle could have hit the floor and been
heard a block away with the silence that dropped after Altair’s words.
Malik sputtered, “Templar? What? Me?! A Templar?!”
Altair’s hood bobbed.
“Altair, I would never, you hear me, never ever turn coat and become a
Templar.” Malik finished the last stitch and salved the wound. He set aside the
needle and salve jar, taking up a fresh roll of bandaging gauze.
Altair’s deep voice tried to explain, “I don’t think you did so by choice. I
dreamed we were back in Solomon’s Temple trying to get the Apple of Eden, that
ball Master called the Treasure.”
Malik visible winced away from Altair at the memory and the loss of his brother
Kadar rose to freshly ache in his chest. His fist clenched around a strip of
the bandaging as he wrestled his emotions back into place. He heard movement
from Altair, but was not ready to open his eyes. A hesitant hand rested lightly
on his knee. He opened his eyes, about to swat the hand aside.
Altair’s hand remained on Malik’s knee. The hood had been pushed back enough to
expose his face. Concern filled the golden eyes that now searched Malik’s face.
As Malik’s eyes met Altair’s, the hand retracted expecting to be swatted. Malik
continued to gaze back, surprised by all of Altair’s gestures.
Naheem grinned to himself overly proud of the victory he felt had much to do
with himself. The two mentors were talking. They were not yelling. They were
not fighting. There would be no blood, beyond the little involved in the
stitching. They were talking, with each other. Naheem added some spices to the
soup he was making. Yesterday’s butternut squash mashed with over-boiled
carrots and cream with spices would make a good soup for lunch, and excellent
for supper with sliced meat sandwiches. He guessed after this, his secret that
he was actually good at cooking would be revealed, but he felt that a true
reward for the day was in order.
Altair shied from Malik’s unshaking gaze. Malik reached up and pushed the hood
the rest of the way off Altair’s head. Altair flinched slightly, but did not
pull it back up. Malik began to bandage Altair’s arm. “Tell me. In your dream,
what happened?” Malik was ready to hear, even if it was a detailed recounting
of Kadar’s death.
Altair cleared his throat. “I was trapped behind the rubble. I had heard the
fighting and blacked out. I must have had a concussion. When I came to, there
was silence. I banged on the stones and wood. I tried to push and pull them,
but they would not move. I sought another way out. When I climbed out, I saw
Robert and his men riding off toward Masyaf. Then you stepped out, dressed all
in chainmail. A Templar tabard on. You still had both… both your arms. Your
sword at your hip. Your hidden blade ready to take me. Coiled around your left
hand was a chain with a cross hanging from it. You told me that you now hunted
for Robert. He had stolen your will and coerced you to do his bidding.”
“And that meant I was ordered to kill you,” Malik finished for Altair seeing
now how Altair had panicked. “I don’t understand how he could possibly have
coerced me like that.”
“He used the treasure.”
Malik gave Altair an odd confused look.
“Remember my mission in Acre, with the Hospitalier?” Malik nodded and Altair
continued. “He had brainwashed men and women into being guards and soldiers. He
tested drugs of coercion on the maddened, poor, and desperate. He was doing
this because they had lost the Treasure to us. This is why we guard it from
them. When they speak of God’s Flock, they mean mindless sheep, coerced by
whatever means with no free will. He used drugs. But according to the Master,
the treasure can do so, only better. In the wrong hands, someone can use it to
strip away the free will of another. The other need only look upon it and be
commanded by the one holding it. Better hidden in our fortress than in the
hands of Templars.”
Malik had to agree. “You looked upon it!” He remembered one of Altair’s journal
entries.
“I did. I angered the Master by challenging him and doubting this metal ball’s
sorcery. He tried to use it on me. But it doesn’t work on me for some strange
reason. Maybe it is broken. Or doesn’t do as Master thinks, though he was so
sure.” Altair shrugged.
Malik instantly deduced that of course Altair would be so stupid and foolish as
to challenge the Grand Master Al Mualim, and of course Al Mualim would try to
control Altair. And of course that sorcery would not work on Altair. Altair was
not like other humans. Malik considered him to be a little like Hercules or
Perseus, heroes with a hint of maybe some sort of divine blood. Though, Altair
was maybe more like Perseus, a reluctant hero, or anti-hero. Both Perseus and
Altair simply wanted to be considered normal humans and have normal human
lives.
Malik tied off the bandage with the help of his teeth. Doing this was so common
now that Malik had not considered how ridiculous it might have looked, nor how
compromising.
A shudder ran down Altair’s spine at Malik’s breath and lips at his wrist.
Color rose to Altair’s cheeks. He turned his hand slightly and his fingers
brushed the edge of Malik’s chin hair. Color flashed up Malik’s ears. The two
almost sprang apart like water-doused cats. Altair pulled his hood up ashamed
that he had dared touch Malik. He knew Malik didn’t want that kind of touch
from him. Malik had told him so a while ago.
Malik gathered his wits and composure then came close to Altair again. He
narrowed his eyes annoyed at the hiding in the hood and pushed the hood off.
Altair looked suitably stunned. “You are scruffy and unkept. I think you are
steady enough to shave yourself, Altair.”
Altair gaped, but could say nothing to Malik’s now retreating back.
***** Malik's Chaotic Thoughts *****
Altair gaped but could say nothing to Malik’s now retreating back.
A million thoughts must have flown through Altair’s mind at Malik’s gesture and
last comment before the Dai walked away. An equal amount flew through Malik’s
mind in the several steps he took from Altair to the counter’s gate. He could
hardly keep up with the barrage as he maintained control over his composure and
hid behind his own hood with his mildly aggressive words.
What the hell was I thinking!? Tying that knot at his wrist with my bloody
teeth! I should have asked for his assistance.
He touched me! Allah, help me. I wanted it. I didn’t expect it. He caught me
completely off guard. GHARRK! Get the feeling out of my head! I need to be
focused!
What were we talking about?
Templar treasure, right the Apple of Eden. It can control men’s minds better
than the coercion drugs from the Hospitalier? Did Al Mualim actually try to use
it on Altair? What if he tries it on others? No… he would never do that. He is
protecting it from the abuse of the Templars.
Altair touched me. Can we build trust between us again? Is that even possible?
Or will I become just the new crutch?
Am I insane?! I just told him he’ll have to shave himself. Give him a straight
razor?! Am I mad? After what he did to himself? Can I trust him with a blade?
Any blade?
He stopped his steps before the curtain when he suddenly realized it looked
different. It no longer showed the illusion of a fake wall, but was a heavy
decorative woven fabric. He pushed it aside and stepped in back completely
confused. Naheem smiled at him as he crumpled the old curtain and dropped it in
the basket of other things to wash.
“It is blood stained and dusty and smells bad like… well it smells bad. I’m
going to wash it. Besides, too many have already seen the going back and forth
through it. There really is no point anymore for the deception.” Naheem watched
Malik frown. “Are you really going to let him shave himself? He was so shaky
getting down the stairs…”
Malik shook the confusion from his head. “Ask me before you change my Bureau
next time. And yes, I am going to let him shave himself. I’ll be there
watching, just in case.” In case he tries to slit his own throat on purpose.
“It was good to see you two just talking.” Naheem filled a spoon from a pot on
the little wood stove. He made a disgusted face. “I need to get some milk to
add to this and some more spices. May I go to the market? Will you be alright
while I am out?”
Malik regarded the concoction on a slow bubble in the large pot with great
scepticism. He made a gesture of permission with his hand. Naheem grinned and
moved the pot from the stove so it would not scald on the bottom. He gathered
his own robes and a little bit of coin, oh and his sketchbook! “Naheem! Don’t
be gone past sunset.” Malik knew Naheem would sit in the market to draw all
day. “And don’t forget what you went out for!” Naheem was already out the door.
Malik would be alone with Altair now for the afternoon. He made some sandwiches
for lunch and brought out the basin and razor and cloth for shaving. By the
time he had brought everything out to the main room, he saw Altair had curled
up among the pillows fast asleep.
We expect so much from each other. Maybe we expect too much? How will I help
him? How can I help unravel the chaos of the things he knows and has seen to
find the kernel of truth and puzzle out who the traitor is among us? How could
Naheem ever understand the challenges a Grand Master must face leading the
Order of the Assassins. Naheem sketches Al Mualim as the traitor. He just
doesn’t understand. If only I were in Masyaf, I could figure it out. I could
see for myself. But I am here. I am alone in this mystery with only one source
of information from a man who knows little of being an informant.
He watched the remarkably peaceful slumber of the assassin as he thought to
himself. Then it hit him. He smacked his hand to his brow.
I am not alone in this. He is not my only source of information!
Malik drafted a letter to both the Dai of Acre and of Damascus. While he did
not like the Dai of Damascus, and was determined to take issue with him later,
he needed information now. He changed the flags and called for informants.
Later in the afternoon, a few showed and he bade them be quite. “I am charging
you with these important missions. Take these letters and deliver them by hand.
Return swiftly with news. I need to know everything possible about Altair’s
missions. They hold the clues and keys to the success of the coming mission.”
Malik already had some documents from the Dai of Acre, but he needed the more
recent ones. “I trust you with this and you alone. Be careful, my friends.”
“Safety and peace, Malik. We will fly like eagles.”
He later poked at the odd soupy concoction of Naheem’s. He tasted it and
wrinkled his face. Malik felt this was a waste of the perfectly good carrots
and squash. Naheem had better know what he was doing. He sat with Altair and
woke him gently. “Altair, Altair. Here, you need to eat something. You can
shave after.”
Golden eyes blinked open and took in the room as warily as any uncertain wild
eagle. Seeing only Malik and food, Altair sat up and silently accepted the
proffered food.
***** Altair: Malik's Apology *****
Golden eyes blinked open and took in the room as warily as any uncertain wild
eagle. Seeing only Malik and food, Altair sat up and silently accepted the
proffered food.
He ate very slowly mentally growling about the extra attention and exertion of
energy to hold the food in his hand without dropping it. It unnerved him how
Malik simply sat and watched. He could not hold the plate in his left hand and
the frustration played on his features clearly. He could hold the sandwich in
his right though.
Malik did not help.
Altair felt relief in that he figured Malik knew that by helping it only
affirmed the inability to function, a state Altair had inflicted upon himself.
Once he had finished eating he glared at his left hand. “Malik? Will I heal?”
He had intended it to mean just his arm and hand, but the intonation filling
the question loaded it with more. I am wrong. I am fractured in so many hurting
pieces. Malik? Will I ever heal?
Malik must have had similar questions after Solomon’s Temple. He answered both
the spoken and the unspoken question, “You will never forget. And sometimes it
will still hurt. But time does heal all wounds.”
Altair mulled that answer over a while as Malik took away the plate and filled
the basin with heated water for shaving. Altair held the straight razor in his
hand and stared at it. His hand started to shake. He dropped it in the water.
He could not hold it, could not bear to bring his hand, filled with a blade to
his own skin. Shame painted his body’s language.
Malik picked the blade out of the water and put it purposefully back into
Altair’s hand. “You are just shaving. You can do this.”
He didn’t want to, nor did he want Malik to do it for him. “I can’t see what I
am doing…” It was a lame excuse. How many times had he shaved before with
nothing but his hidden blade and feeling fingers in the dark?
Malik knew. “Don’t give me that crap. Just shave.” His caustic tone snapped the
words out.
In a way, Altair felt more comfortable with that. He didn’t know how to behave
around a Malik who didn’t hate him.
Altair earned several nicks in this process. His hand was still shaky. His left
too uncertain and too unsteady to be very helpful. Malik worked on his log book
and watched from a discreet distance. He brought over an ointment and dabbed it
gently on each small nick. That burned and Altair hissed through his teeth.
“You take swords to the gut, arrows in the shoulders, get gashed and battered
in a million ways, bearing it in stoic silence. But little nicks and antiseptic
makes you hiss and whine like a baby?” Malik was rewarded with a fierce scowl
from Altair.
Malik’s hand rested along Altair jaw as the thumb dabbed the ointment on the
corner of his mouth. Malik’s thumb traced the scar over Altair’s mouth. The
gentle intimate touch confused Altair. Malik’s hand retracted too soon, before
Altair could lean into it. He wanted to trust Malik. He wanted to be trusted.
Malik seemed to be trying to say something with his eyes. Pride held the words
behind his teeth. Altair was no different really. His own eyes begged
forgiveness, tried to apologize, but pride kept them likewise locked behind his
teeth. Altair looked away from those charcoal eyes.I have no more pride. I cast
it away, what little I had left after the Master stripped me of the first
layers. How true were Malik’s words?
Malik’s harsh words replayed in his mind.
A hand pressed against Altair’s chest snapping his attention back to Malik.
“Altair. Those… things I said… before. I did not mean them.”
Altair’s jaw clenched as did his fists. “Yes, you did.”
“No, Altair. No… I did not. I was wrong for saying them. I… was surprised and
hurt and said the only things I knew that would hurt you in turn. But they were
not true. I did not mean them.”
Altair could believe that Malik meant what he said, that he did not mean to say
them. But it did not mean that the words were not true. He had worried over and
over that he might become like the Master, that he might force another to his
will or his bed, that as a father figure he might violate his own son. Is that
not what happens? History repeats itself down a family line?
“Now come. You still have a mission and you need to be ready for it. Lounging
like an invalid gets you no closer to that goal.”
Altair grumbled and stood and followed Malik from the comfortable place among
the cushions into the back room, expecting now some form of physical torture to
awaken his body and mind, if not his spirit.
***** Malik: I Trust You *****
Malik indeed complied with Altair’s expectations. He already retreated behind
his prickly shield as he removed books and papers and bottles from a narrow
desk against the back wall between the two bedrolls. It would have to serve for
a raised medical table for examination.
He waited patiently for Altair to make his way into the back. His sharp eyes
analysed Altair’s every step. Just that morning, he could hardly make his way
about, and definitely not down the stairs safely. The food and the sleep over
the day did him a world of good, but Malik could see it was far from enough. He
patted the now bare desk. “Get up on here.”
Altair leaned a hand on a shelf for balance, regarding the narrow desk
skeptically, “Malik? I won’t fit on that.”
Malik rolled his eyes, “You are not going to lie on it, you novice. Get up and
SIT on it.”
Malik got scowled at as Altair passed him and hopped a little to get sitting up
on the desk. His hands suddenly flung out for balance, color washing from his
face.
One hand caught the other’s. Malik held Altair’s hand till he steadied. “I
won’t let you fall.” He held Altair’s nervous eyes till the nervousness abated.
This already told Malik much about Altair’s state of health. He helped him
remove his hood and tunic. From there he listened to his heart. This was much
easier than leaning over a prone man. He shoved Altair’s knees apart so he
could get in close and press his ear to Altair’s chest
“M-Malik,” stammered Altair.
“Shhh…”
“M-m-Malik.”
Malik raised himself to glare at Altair for his disobedience. The tenting in
Altair’s pants surprised him. “Well if you have enough blood in you for that,
then you must have enough for your heart to beat well.” Altair flushed. Malik
turned away to hide his own slight coloring. He left his place to make up two
pouches filled with sand and tie them together.
Keeping his silence when normally he would describe his every step was a
technique Malik used against Altair that always worked. Curiosity bade Altair
to pay more attention than he normally would. Malik turned back to see Altair
trying to pretend that he was not craning. Malik set the sand-filled pouches on
the desk beside Altair. The erection had also faded much to both their relief.
“Think you can control yourself while I stand between those knees again?”
“If you were a woman, I’d say no and that you got what you asked for.”
“You ass.” Malik turned sideways standing between Altair’s knees. I think he
just made a joke… at my expense. Malik wondered if a hint of the old Altair was
trying to surface. Not the old Altair that he had hated, but the funny and
charming teen he had loved.
“Leg lifts till you sweat. Don’t kick, just lift and touch.” Malik held out his
hand. Altair lifted his leg till his ankle touched Malik’s palm. After twenty
lifts, Malik turned and they repeated on the other leg. His right leg lifts
showed a small hitch and Malik recalled that Altair had some problems with it.
After three sets, a sheen of light sweat coated Altair’s body. The simple
exercise was tiring. Malik let Altair rest and breathe a few minutes, then
cupped his hand over the right knee. “Three lifts with this leg.” Altair
performed. Under Malik’s fingers, he could feel the slight grind and crunch. He
added a little pressure and asked Altair to do it again. After the first lift,
Altair tore Malik’s hand from his knee. Clearly the pain was sharp and
unexpected. “You are lifting with your knee and need to lift with your leg.”
Altair frowned not understanding. Malik placed his hand over the knee again.
Altair tensed. “Feel where my hand is. I know you can control your every muscle
when you want to and the pain. So don’t use the knee to lift.” He moved his
hand to Altair’s thigh just above the knee. “Use this muscle.” He moved his
hand to Altair’s shin. “And this muscle.” He then watched as Altair worked out
the logistic in his head then put it into practice. “There. That will
strengthen around the knee and thus give it more support, allow you to do more.
(I wish I had remembered this back when you first told me about your knee.”
The torture actually came when Malik placed the double pouches of sand over
Altair’s foot and they started a new set. After a few rounds, Altair was
panting so much he was growing dizzy and light-headed. Malik again let him rest
and breathe. The next torture involved raising his arm to a height outstretched
with his fists pointing down. Then repeating the sets with the palms up. These
were like martial moves for unarmed combat. Malik watched the movements of
muscles critically. He then placed the little sand bags in one of Altair’s
palms. The torture continued.
However, Altair could not lift the sand bags in his left hand. He could not
hold them even, not without dropping them from his grip. Malik changed his
tactic and had Altair simply grip and ungrip his hand, testing the movements
and strength. “You’ll get there,” Malik promised.
Altair held Malik’s hand as tightly as he could. Malik searched Altair’s face
for the reason. “Can I trust you, Altair?” Hurt filled the assassin’s eyes as
he looked away from Malik.
“Can I trust you?” Altair whispered back, and he released Malik’s hand.
Malik reached up and snaked his fingers behind Altair’s neck. He drew the
assassin forward just a little till their brows touched. “Yes, Altair. You can
trust me.”
Altair’s hand hovered over Malik’s shoulder. Malik whispered into the space
between them, “Yes, I trust you.” Altair’s hand curled gently around the
shoulder of Malik’s stump. Eyes closed. They shared breath in this silent
gesture of trust.
Naheem snuck stealthily the few paces to the little kitchen, not wanting to
disturb this moment.
***** Informant Experiences *****
Chapter Summary
     Malik's Informants were sent to Damascus and to Acre.
Naheem snuck stealthily the few paces to the little kitchen, not wanting to
disturb this moment.
Altaïr noticed him. He tensed as he sensed the teen pass into the room and out
to the tiny kitchen. The clink of a couple jugs gave him away to Malik. Malik
stepped away from Altaïr and handed him a towel to wipe the sweat off. Altaïr
didn’t want that moment to end, but it did. I trust you. Malik’s whispered
words repeated in his mind like a good massage. With some help, he dressed
again in his tunic and hood.
He had not realized just how much energy he had spent doing those small,
simple, yet torturous exercises till he hopped off the table. The room tilted
and spun. His legs gave out under him. His vision tunnelled with black
spotting. The air thinned and grew hot then very cold.
Malik caught him and eased him down to his bedroll. “Today was a lot, Altaïr.
Relax. Dinner will be… uh… soon.”
Naheem piped up, “Dinner will be in an hour. Light a candle to mark the time,
please.”
Malik rolled his eyes and turned an hourglass on his shelf over, then handed it
to Naheem.
Altaïr had drifted swiftly into a healing sleep again.
As it turned out, the “orange soup,” as Naheem called it because of the color,
turned out to be sensational. Naheem beamed proudly. “That does not mean I end
up the woman around here doing all the cooking, okay? Please?”
“I thought you could not cook anything more than rice?” Malik asked.
Naheem shrugged. “I lied? My mom taught me to cook since she was too ill or
weak to actually do it, she instructed.”
Altaïr secretly enjoyed the light banter between Dai and novice. It reminded
him of Malik with Kadar. That brought a pang. He closed his eyes and wondered
to himself if and when he ought to divulge a secret he swore to keep for Kadar.
No, like his child in safety, he’d leave Kadar’s a secret as well, for now.
Then again, maybe later, it would be good for Malik to know that he does indeed
have blood family in this world. How old would she be now? Four? Just about?
The following days seemed to progress as this one, minus the major explosions
of anger. They were filled with sleep, often nightmare ridden, though sometimes
peaceful. They were filled with interesting cooking experiences from Naheem to
celebrate the little strides the teen had made in talking to Tibah a few
moments each time he went to the market. They days were filled with the now
hated exercises.
                                ~~ 00 oooo 00 ~~
The informant had abandoned his stolen horse not far from Damascus and entered
the city by assisting a merchant with a wagon full of sacs of grain. With some
struggle and manhandling, the uncooperative wagon entered the city. The
informant was offered some coin for his aid.
He wove through the town only somewhat familiar with the Middle District. At
his cousin’s home, he was greeted by a surprised wife and four children. He
spent the afternoon with them till his cousin came home and could direct him to
the Bureau.
At the Bureau, the Dai of Damascus was as helpful as Malik had warned. “Malik…
again? I had already told him that what happens in my city is not of his
concern, just as what happens in his is none of my concern.” He shook his head
and laughed lightly. “Maybe Altaïr dropped some of that hashish into Malik’s
incense pot? I know he is still somewhat new to the position of being a Dai,
unlike the rest of us, but after a year… I thought he would understand this by
now.” He lit some candles for the late hour. “It is his responsibility to
figure out how to help the Great Eagle complete his mission. Tell him to ask
the Grand Master for the reports if he needs them. Now go… sleep on the
carpets. It is late. Then, go home.” His usually jovial demeanor was unmasked
by lateness and the insult of sending someone to collect something from him in
person.
The informant knew better than to retort, though he deeply wanted to defend
Malik. The passive aggressive light tone yet litany of insults made it hard to
really know if the man was joking or not. He chose caution and silence. It
would be too easy for a city Dai to declare him a traitor and have him marked
for assassination before he ever left the city.
By dawn, the informant had gone. He sat in his cousin’s home transcribing in a
code Malik had taught him months ago all he had memorized from the log book he
read in the middle of the night. By dinner, he was sneaking out of the city,
papers wrapped in leather and tied to his chest under his clothing.
                                ~~ 00 oo 00 ~~
The other informant had taken a shortcut to get to Acre. That was a mistake. He
found himself running for his life, chased by soldiers almost back to
Jerusalem. He hiked over the mountains instead, using goat trails. Acre boasted
an army of King Richard’s men newly landed. They looked like great swarms from
the ledge he sat upon. He pulled off most of his clothing and hid it in between
some rock for later. Now he looked a poor monk starved and worn and praying for
shelter with his brethren.
The ruse worked amazingly as some monks outside guided him within. Finding the
Bureau turned out to be tricky. It had recently moved. He offered blessings to
a man on the docks who gave him some alms and bread and direction.
The Dai of Acre gave him a copied set of what was needed, having expected he
would have to at some point. He also provided the informant with news of the
state of things here with the army and King Richard’s men. “With King Richard
here, there have been some improvements. The soldier’s abuse on the people has
ended and order is coming to both the soldiers and the city. The Templars have
departed from Acre, though I know not to where. They are talking of war. Be
careful getting home.” He was provided with supplies for a journey back and a
mule with merchant goods to help his new guise. “Take the supplies to the army
camp outside the city. Then leave with the mule to our safehouse on the road.
There should be one of our Brothers there and some horses. Stop for no one and
nothing after that.” This also gave this informant an opportunity to eyeball
the state of the army more clearly.
                               ~~ 00 oooo 00 ~~
Feeling more normal, or as normal physically as Altaïr could, he quietly asked
to read through all his journals. Out of various hiding places, Malik collected
several books and set them on the small desk for him. Then he added a few
others. Altaïr gave him a quizzical look but got no explanation.
Altaïr retreated to the attic for isolation while he subjected himself to these
journals of things he revealed under a coercion drug, and to the notes Malik
made about those sessions. For almost an hour he just sat there staring at the
covers. He set aside the soft leather one that was a gift from Malik. He knew
what those pages held. With great trepidation, Altaïr opened the first of the
drug session notebooks and began to read.
Naheem looked up the stairs after about six hours. Malik forbade the teen from
going there. “Leave him be. He needs to do this for himself.”
Candles burned at different heights around Altaïr. He read each notebook
slowly, reading was that kind of slow process. One by one, he faced them,
demons and all. Reading this was minimally easier than dreaming about it.
Dreaming it was like reliving it. Reading it, helped dull the feelings, helped
settle it as things that happened in the past. So I can never forget them, so I
can move past them. Redemption would not be in these pages, less so in the
pages of the unfamiliar journals that Altaïr discovered were Malik’s private
journals. He didn’t feel ready just yet to know Malik’s thoughts and feelings.
He wasn’t sure why he had them. Maybe it was a mistake. I’ll give them back.
Sometime after dinner, after almost eleven hours in the attic, Altaïr quietly
made his way down with Malik’s journals. “Malik? You… I think you gave these to
me by mistake.”
***** Malik: Moving Right Along *****
Sometime after dinner, after almost eleven hours in the attic, Altaïr quietly
made his way down with Malik’s journals. “Malik? You… I think you gave these to
me by mistake.”
Malik looked over his shoulder from the little desk where he was pouring over
notes from informants about Templar activity. Seeing his journals in Altaïr’s
hands, he shook his head and turned back to his notes. “No. I made no such
mistake. Did you finish with your other ones?”
“There is… so… much. No.”
There was a strained tone that Malik picked up from Altaïr’s voice. He turned
on his stool to face the assassin. “Why don’t you take those back up? I’ll send
Naheem up there with some food and water for you.” He watched Altaïr turn and
pause and turn and turn back. “What is it, Altaïr?”
The assassin shook his head. “Nothing, Malik.” Altaïr trudged tiredly back up
to the attic.
Malik wondered what Altaïr was about to say, what he wanted to say. He
considered pressing the man for those unspoken words and decided he had really
pushed enough this year. Altaïr would open up on his own or not at all. Malik
sighed with the weight of his world’s stress upon him.
“Malik,” Naheem’s voice was the slightest warning before the novice, rafiq now,
placed hands upon the Dai’s shoulders and massaged.
Malik moaned his appreciation. It evoked a chuckle from Naheem. “You are a
godsend from Allah himself!”
“And here I was thinking all I was good for was cleaning and running errands
and cooking.”
“Speaking of,” began Malik only to hear a whining moan from his novice. “Please
bring some water and dinner up to Altaïr.” The massaging of his shoulders sadly
ended as Naheem did his duty.
The sound of a new arrival in the main room drew Malik out. His informant from
Damascus arrived, dust covered and severely saddle-sore by the way he walked.
Malik lifted a jar from his shelves. “Safety and peace, Brother. You were
successful?”
The man undid the scarves and layers of shirt to pull free the sheaves of coded
notes. “Safety and peace. Yes, though I had to apply deception to do so. That
Dai has a very backhanded manner of seeming friendly while insulting you
severely with his joking manner. I dislike him greatly and hope I am never
assigned to Damascus.” He handed over the papers to Malik.
“Here, for the sores I can tell you have. Go home, rest. I’ll see you in a few
days.” Malik exchanged papers for jar. The informant gladly took his leave for
a much needed rest. Decoding these would take Malik days, but every scrap of
insight would be worth it. Somewhere was the key that would reveal a traitor in
Masyaf. Malik was certain Al Mualim was employing the same detailed and
determined combing. After discovering that the second in command had been a
traitor almost two years ago, has it been that long already?, this new traitor
must be exceptionally good at avoiding detection. Malik felt sure he could
figure it out. Altaïr must know who it is, must have crossed his path many
times. It was a matter of putting together all the puzzle pieces and drawing
out the right memories.
He had not been aware how deeply he had immersed himself already in these notes
till Naheem tisked and changed the candles, added oil to the snuffed lamp and
relit it, and shoved food under Malik’s nose. Naheem informed Malik that Altaïr
had fallen asleep among the journals. Malik abandoned his food to bring up a
blanket to cover Altaïr.
In the attic all the candles had burned out save for one that was starting to
gutter. Altaïr was taking notes in his soft journal from various things in his
notebooks. Malik had to smile at the efforts. They were both trying to figure
things out. For Altaïr though, facing these books was like facing one’s demons
at the same time. He knelt and tucked the blanket around the sleeping man. He
pushed the hood back a little to move his fingers through Altaïr’s hair. Golden
eyes snapped open. “Shhh, it is only I, Malik. I brought you a blanket. It’s
cold up here.” Altaïr closed his eyes again and Malik knew that the assassin
had not really woken.
Malik stayed up late, worry gnawing at him. The informant that traveled to Acre
should have made it back before the one who went to Damascus. That worry ate
into the next day.
Naheem had diligently attended his drafting lessons after the master builder
threw him out for intermittent attendance. It was a small sacrifice, but he
could always catch up on lessons with Malik at other times. Junayd was a sponge
for anything that he could learn and a challenge. He was excited and wanted to
be doing more. He had a zillion stories to tell of the things he has seen out
and about. It inspired Malik to make a new note in his wishful training
notebook. Youths are trusted or ignored more easily and less suspected of being
assassins or informants. It made him wonder what exactly went into the training
for informants. That realization irritated Malik a great deal, that he did not
know something so basic as how a dimension of the Brotherhood was trained.
Altaïr remained sequestered in the attic with his journals and Malik’s, too. He
said nothing. He cleaned up privately when everyone was busy. He ate whatever
was given him for meals. He stayed quiet and contemplative. It almost drove
Malik mad.
With no informant back from Acre, still and Altaïr hidden in the attic, Malik’s
nerves ran high. He slept poorly and grouched at everyone and everything.
Finally he even lost his patience with an empty bottle of his medical kit. He
exploded in his back room. Naheem backed out of the way, unsure how to deal
with that. Altaïr came down to see what the hell was happening, a knife in his
hand, in case they were under some kind of attack. He dodged Malik’s random
senseless fury and stood with Naheem in the main room till it was over. Naheem
took his cue from Altaïr who remained calm through it all like this was normal.
When it was over, Malik stormed out for a walk. To clear his head and replenish
his empty or now broken supplies.
Naheem vowed that he was not cleaning up a grown man’s temper tantrum.
Altaïr followed Malik like a silent and secret shadow. With so many Templars
and Malik in a mood, Altaïr didn’t want to risk losing him to some mishap. The
trip was uneventful. It was almost as if the world knew Malik was foul-tempered
and dangerous today. Once back in the Bureau, he cleaned up his own mess, set
things right and categorised all the books and bottles. Feeling helpless was
Malik’s worst bane.
At night Malik could not sleep. He had gotten used to Altaïr in his bed and
found that he missed the presence. He rolled over, reaching out to touch…
nothing. Then he would wake. Naheem was drawing by candle light. “Master Malik?
Why don’t you just either go upstairs and spend a night there with him, or ask
him to come down here to sleep? Or… better yet, why don’t you two go out to
that old ruined church and work out some? You keep saying he needs to get back
into the flow of things. I’ll watch for your informant. If he comes, I’ll fetch
you immediately. I know where you’ll be after all.” Naheem’s advice was like an
epiphany.  Malik didn’t want to disturb Altaïr upstairs, but he rolled onto his
back and fell asleep to mentally planning that outing.
That morning, Malik intended to do just that. However, the informant from Acre
arrived, bleeding profusely all over the floor.
***** Altair: Trouble Outside Jerusalem *****
That morning, Malik planned to do just that. However, the informant from Acre
arrived. He looked far rougher for ware than remotely expected. Naheem hurried
over to get him a stool to sit upon as Malik rushed back for his medical kit.
“Safety and peace,” he coughed dryly. Naheem offered him a cup of water. Malik
dropped the medical bag on the table.
The informant produced the documents. “There will be war. Richard’s army masses
outside Acre. All the Templars have departed the city for some other, yet
unknown location.” Malik gestured and Naheem flipped open the log book and
started swiftly scribbling the report. “Richard has stabilized Acre. It’s safer
now.”
“Then by what route to hell did you take to end up like this?” demanded Malik
as he treated small and medium wounds.
“I stumbled into some Templars on their way here. Robert de Sable will be here
in maybe ten days. I crossed the mountains to escape them. I don’t,” he coughed
again, “don’t advise that route to hell. The goat trails are not as stable as
they used to be.” The informant gave a lopsided smile, despite his pain. “Maybe
I missed the trail a little.”
“A little? Did you take a leap of faith off a cliff?”
“Maybe…”
Naheem asked if he should write that. Both men said no. Malik treated the
wounds and bound the broken ribs. Altaïr stood leaning in the doorway
listening. Ten days was not much time. He needed to see the layout of the
target location again. He needed to refresh his mind and remap it. He needed to
work his body back into being ready. Robert was a challenge, even for Altaïr
and he knew it. Especially if the Templars (and thus Robert as well) learned
how to fight and defend against assassins.
The curtain ruffled as Altaïr turned to the back room and rummaged for his
armor and weapons. So, it begins then. I am an assassin. I have a mission. And
no one can do it. The Master assigned it to me. The ninth kill to redeem
myself.He stared at the bandaging on his left arm and cursed.
After treating the informant and sending him home and upon hearing the rustling
in the back, Malik came to see what was going on. Altaïr grunted and thrust his
left arm at Malik. “Oh no… not yet.” Malik declined the unspoken request.
“Yes, Malik. Now. I must see for myself,” insisted Altaïr. He gritted his teeth
at Malik’s less than gentle removal of the bandages and most, though not all of
the stitches. He rebandaged the arm over those stitches to reduce chafing.
Altaïr immediately pulled on the armor and hidden blade, tying the straps
firmly with practices fingers.
Malik started to fit blades upon his body and fill his pouches.
“Malik, what the hell are you doing?” asked Altaïr.
“You are my responsibility. I am going with you.” He tucked in some throwing
knives. “Besides, you’ll need help mapping this.”
“You are responsible for me HERE, not out there. I can’t afford to be
responsible for you out there.” Grumbled Altaïr.
“How dare you!” snapped Malik.
“I’ll go,” offered Naheem in an attempt to diffuse the fight he could see about
to happen.
“NO!” both men yelled back at him. “It’s too dangerous.”
Naheem threw his hands up in the air and left the back room. Malik followed,
“Naheem. I’ll be fine. I have trained for this.”
“And you haven’t done this in over a year,” countered the youth.
Altaïr headed for the fountains and filled his canteens. “I won’t wait for you,
Malik. And I won’t allow you to slow me down.”
Malik replied venomously, “You won’t need to. I can keep up just fine, you
wounded novice.”
In truth, Altaïr was more than glad to have Malik along. He had been down and
out for so long, he was uncertain of his own skills. Also, this would feel a
little like old times when they went on missions together. He needed out
anyways. The attic, the notebooks, the messy scribbling on so many pages, the
content… he needed an escape, just for a little while. He needed to fly outside
and breathe the fresh air. They could scout together, even if he did intend to
be responsible for Malik, if necessary. And yes, he would wait, maybe.
Altaïr climbed up the fountain and out the opening in the roof and into the
warm morning sun. He knew Malik could do no such climb one-handed. He heard
Malik cursing behind him.
***** Malik: Team Scouting *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altaïr climbed up the fountain and out the opening in the roof and into the
warm morning sun. He knew Malik could do no such climb one-handed. He heard
Malik cursing behind him.
Malik turned and ran through the Bureau yelling at Naheem to lock up after him
as he took the stairs to the roof three at a time. Altaïr did wait, though
pretended not to. Malik burst through the door of the attic on the roof.
Naheem rolled his eyes and trudged up the stairs, locking the door at the top
after Malik. He wondered how long they would be out scouting. Altaïr tended to
take a few days. It was strange to see Malik impulsive like this. But then,
maybe Malik didn’t want to let Altaïr out of his sight, just in case.
Malik grumbled a variety of colourful curses that would surely send him to hell
as he followed Altaïr across the wooden planks. He was not out of shape from
this aspect of training. He had kept up with the basics of spying and pick-
pocketing. He had scouted the nearby roofs to know the area from this
perspective. He patted the paper and charcoal sticks in his pouches to be sure
he had not forgotten them. Keeping up with Altaïr was like chasing the wind.
When they lept across to another roof, Malik could feel his own blood singing
with the flight. A flicker of a grin from Altaïr made the risk worth it. For a
second, he lost sight of Altaïr. Then hands grabbed his black robes and yanked
him sideways between groups of crates. Altaïr whispered about archers. His
vision was always better than Malik’s. A glance to the side over the edge of
the building revealed two Templar knights. Malik could see the calculating
flying through Altaïr’s mind. He reminded the assassin that they were just
scouting, though he deeply wanted to test his skills. His hand sought his
sword, which he did not have. Damn.
Altaïr drew two throwing knives and pointed, then pointed to a third archer.
Malik nodded and drew a throwing knife. Malik pointed to a strategic meeting
point for them both and Altaïr nodded in turn. The third floor roof five houses
over offered a good vantage point for some observation. Their eyes locked for a
second then they both bolted in different direction to remove their respective
targets.
The two archers that Altaïr aimed for were directly in the path to their
meeting point. He ran headlong for them. Malik knew Altaïr trusted him to make
sure the third did not get him in the back as he ran. Malik ran hard across the
roof; he leapt to a hanging platform that swung wildly. Another leap tumbled
him across the next roof. The archer already took aim at the running white
target, not yet noticing the shadowed black one. Malik lost two throwing knives
from his initial throws from the platform. Cursing, he leaned in a still shadow
behind the archer, whose first shot thankfully missed Altaïr. Malik’s next
throw did not miss the archer. The knife pierced the back of the man’s neck
with the point protruding out the front through his Adam’s apple. Malik ran to
catch him before he fell into the crowd below.
He looked up to see that Altaïr had successfully eliminated his two targets and
was already running for the third floor vantage point. Malik would need to get
there soon before anyone noticed. His mind calculated the route, the run, the
jumps and climbs like he had never left this aspect of life, like the past year
or so had never happened. The run was smooth, the jumps perfect, the landings
earned him bruises. The wall to climb might as well have been a sheer surface
of five stories. He hit it at a run, scrambled and fell. Malik spat fiery
curses at the wall, at the loss of his arm he had forgotten about for a
critical moment. He stamped each step as he trudged back many feet across the
second floor roof to the farthest edge. Muttering another curse he returned to
push the only small crate into a place he could jump from to gain more
leverage, then trudged again back to the distant mark.
Malik tensed each muscle, ready to spring into action like a cat. He ran. Dust
kicked up from each landing of a foot. Up, he ran onto the small box. Off he
lept for the wall. He would make it. Or not. He clung to the top ledge with his
arm and his stump, grumbling how this was a lot harder than he thought. A dark
boot appeared in front of him. Arrgh… not you…
“Looks like you could use a hand,” spoke Altaïr as he began to kneel.
Malik snarled, offended, “Sh-shut it, Altaïr!” Belatedly, Malik realized Altaïr
was not trying to be joking nor insulting.
Altaïr held out his hand to Malik, offering assistance with no malice. “I’ll
help you up. Just take my hand.” He left the choice to accept help up to Malik.
Both humiliation and humility brought color to Malik’s face. He reached and
clasped wrists with Altaïr. “Is that a blush?” asked Altaïr with the tiniest
hint of amusement.
“Shut up, novice!” spat Malik as Altaïr pulled him to the roof top.
They crouched on the roof side by side as Malik caught his breath.  They tried
to keep to a slowly moving shadow cast by a nearby tower. Malik pulled out a
folded map and a blank sheaf of paper. He sketched an enlarged image of this
area. Altaïr made small comments about distant guards and Templars that he
could see, along with hiding places. Malik noted them all. The day waned like
this till it got too dark to see. They would have to return here tomorrow to
repeat and see if the patterns of movement were the same. Malik loathed having
to do that climb again. He loathed more having to seek assistance for what
should have been completely simple, had he both hands.
Dropping down to the second floor roof was easy. They made their way to the
tower that had offered them shade. Malik growled that he could not climb that.
He hated to admit it but it was true. He did not however voice that to Altaïr.
He studied their destination. Altaïr tugged his sleeve. He followed Altaïr a
little ways farther and discovered a veil covered roof garden. “It will be
warmer in there,” muttered Altaïr.
There they slept huddled close together for the night. Malik was quiet in his
thoughts of the various failures in the day. Little did he know Altaïr thought
the same thing. “Malik. This … this should not have tired me as much as it did.
I missed the climb of that wall to the third floor. When we are done, I think I
need to rework on my skills. So much bed rest made me … soft.” If Altaïr felt
soft, Malik thought that by comparison, he must be as soft as a liquid pool.
“Malik? Will you come train with me in the ruined church when we are done
here?”
Malik had to wonder if Naheem had a similar talk with Altaïr about this very
notion. Regardless, it was still a good idea. “I will have to first check with
Naheem and look over the logs. Maybe take the journals with us in case the
Bureau gets inspected or spied upon while he sleeps.”
Ten days. Ten days were not enough days to get caught up. It took three to map
the routes and plot the Templars and guards. Another to organize Naheem and the
Bureau. Malik decided he would make sure Altaïr was physically ready, if not
mentally for the task ahead. Altaïr had changed so much since a year ago, Malik
would not have recognized him if this Altaïr had walked into the Bureau. Maybe
this Altaïr had and he had simply been blind.
Six days. Altaïr had six days to be ready to take Robert de Sable’s life. Would
six days be enough?
Chapter End Notes
     Art that inspired this chapter:
     https://kaztielkrafts.deviantart.com/art/AC-Flee-172894474
***** Altair: Church Training with Malik *****
Six days. Altaïr had six days to be ready to take Robert de Sable’s life. Would
six days be enough?
Naheem had been instruction on what to do as people came in, to which he
repeatedly replied that he knew, especially after the fourth time Malik went
over it. “Master Malik. I KNOW! You will only be gone a few days. I just
handled the Bureau for the last almost ten days. I will be fine for another few
days.” The advice then shifted to what to work on with Junayd. There, Naheem
took notes.
Altaïr spent most of the previous night cleaning and sharpening various blades
and leather armor. Malik packed food and water and blankets that Naheem had to
dig out of storage, along with a uniform change for them both. He also packed
his medical bag and some journals and notebooks.
Altaïr addressed Naheem, “Come with us. Help carry some of… all of this.” He
thought this was ridiculous but could not talk Malik out of it. “Then check in
on us in four days. We might be five, but check. We’ll need help carrying this
back.”
Naheem tried hard not to snicker as he informed Malik about bedding and
blankets and supplies that were already in hiding places in the ruined church
for them. Red-faced with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance, Malik lessened
the load. Naheem still came to help if necessary. They took Naheem’s easy to
travel route as Naheem was less daring than Altaïr and wasn’t willing to take
any leaps of faith into strange dark alleys.
On the roof of the building beside the ruined church, Malik recognized the
mapping. This was the location where the hangings were to happen when Altaïr
targeted the Regent. The Poor District. Filthy, smelly, full of drunks and
rabble. The church was still a ruination of broken roof tiles, cut up pews,
dust and mold, and rats. “What is with all the rats?” He asked as he ducked low
in order to get through the opening and watched another rat scurry off.
“Hunting,” commented Altaïr curtly as he knew the rats were fast and hard to
hit so they made excellent target practice.
Naheem smirked, “Two on a spit makes a great meal.” At the mortified and
disgusted look that flashed over Malik’s face, Naheem burst into laughter.
Malik dropped the bag he carried and cuffed the teen in the back of the head,
“Novice,” he snarled.
It didn’t stop Naheem’s snickering, “Me? You are the one who believed me.”
“Naheem, check the grain pells.” Altaïr picked up Malik’s dropped pack and
climbed a spiralling iron staircase to the area where he hid and stored
supplies. He walked around the second floor landing as he watched Malik explore
the ruined church, now training grounds. To the average eye, it looked like a
mess of ropes, overturned pews, construction materials and piles of hay. To an
assassin, it was an excellent modification of local materials for the task at
hand, that being training. He watched Naheem take down a large grain sac that
hung by a rope and restitch it closed. There was this weird deja vue feeling he
had standing here observing the preparations for training. A shiver ran down
his spine and he turned his attention to helping. I am no true master of these
men.
Naheem helped Altaïr fill the many basins with water from a fountain outside.
Malik found the place where they would sleep and cook their meager meals. There
he set up the blankets and checked the bedding for bugs. Naheem dropped down
beside him and dug into a pack for some bread to nibble. “Want to see me jump
the ledge into the hay?” Malik nodded and stood to watch.
Altaïr set down the last bucket of clean water and also watched. “He had so
much trouble with this. Then while I fetched something, he figured it out on
his own with the determination of a hunting dog.” He was proud of Naheem. That
pride filled his voice and warmed a place in his chest.
“You did well with him, Altaïr.” Malik’s approval and praise warmed Altaïr even
more.
Naheem left for the Bureau wishing so badly that he could stay to train with
them. However, someone had to be at the Bureau now. Robert would be here soon.
They needed to know any last minute changes should they manifest.
Altaïr walked through his make-shift training space. He made some adjustments.
He checked the strength of knots, the stability or instability of beams of
wood, crates, and pews and the obstacles and pells he had created over the
previous training times in here. He glanced up often feeling Malik’s eyes upon
him. He wondered if he was being judged. Malik removed his black robe, leaving
it over the railing, and came down the stairs to meet Altaïr. Not knowing what
Malik was planning, he instinctually took a step or two back, at least until
Malik turned to stand beside him and took a martial stance.
Altaïr relaxed into the familiarity of the stances and moves they worked
through. Offensive moves, defensive moves, unarmed combat then imagined armed
combat. They performed each move slowly and in tendem, aiming at perfecting the
move, repeating them, then speeding them up till they moved like blurs. They
knew these moves without needing to think about them, muscle memory as Malik
would call it. Altaïr never really understood the description. How does a
muscle remember something? Thinking happens in the head not in the muscles.
Hours and hours, they warmed up like this. After several hours, they realized
how swiftly they grew tired.
Sweating and panting, they took a break. Malik brought over some water and food
while they rested. Altaïr frowned as he pulled off his hood and tugged at all
the straps of the armor with irritation till he got it all off and wore only
his shirt and pants. He dumped the first cup of water down the back of his neck
to cool off. Malik did likewise. Altaïr tried not to look over at the bare
stump too much while they sat, though he wondered deeply if it hurt. Some of
what he read from Malik’s private journals had been about the terrible physical
pain he felt in his arm.
He tore his eyes away from Malik to return to working out. Altaïr pushed
himself hard. Malik did his best to keep up. Though Malik paced himself better.
He stopped and forced Altaïr to stop. “I need to be ready, Malik.”
“Yes, and I intend to make sure you are, but if you over do it, you will ruin
yourself and not be able to do your mission.” Malik took Altaïr’s wrist and
turned over to expose the long deep scar with a few lingering stitches. “Let me
clean this up and remove the last stitches.”
Altaïr felt the warmth in that hand around his wrist. He heard a softer tone in
the voice. It reminded him of the Malik of his youth who stepped in just before
he would do something that would strain him. It reminded him of the privately
warm Malik who cared as deeply for him as he did for his own family. It dug a
knife of guilt into Altaïr who followed obediently, for what else could he do?
He had harmed Malik so much that he dared not disobey. Altaïr wondered when he
would be tortured as he was before with the other exercises, which he had to
grudgingly admit actually helped him.
They sat quietly. They ate quietly. Malik removed the last few stitches in
silence. Altaïr contemplated. Several times he opened his mouth to say
something. He wanted to say that he was sorry for all that had happened. But
just thinking about the words, he never felt like they would be enough. So
Altaïr kept his thoughts to himself.
The next several days worked their muscles, their balance, and their skills. It
pushed both their endurance. The evenings were filled with reviewing some of
the journals, sometimes discussing strategy for how to face the growing number
of Templars. The night chill kept the two huddled close for warmth.
On the third night Altaïr finally asked, “Why are you awake so early? You don’t
need to be and you don’t need to train as I do.”
“I need to know I can, in case I must.”
“Malik? Why did you give me your private journals?”
Malik pushed with his shoulder a little, since Altaïr had been snuggled between
his shoulder blades again. When Altaïr moved back a bit, Malik rolled over to
face him. “You deserve to know what I went through, how I felt, and what my
life has been like. It is only fair that I let you see the naked and… and…
vulnerable part of me. I have seen yours.”
Again that apology rose in Altaïr, but he again could not willingly voice it.
Malik tucked his stump under his cheek, as he often did to pillow his head even
when he had the full arm. He pulled the blankets into a better position to
cover them both. Then, without hesitation, Malik stroked Altaïr’s hair. Not
really understanding the intention, Altaïr flinched. He tensed with
uncertainty. Malik made no other motions. Warily, Altaïr relaxed. Then he
inched closer. Malik tugged him in a little closer till Altaïr was nestled
under Malik’s chin. Altaïr melted into him, sleep beckoning with the warmth
that was more from this small comfort, more than the blankets.
***** Malik: Hope *****
Malik tugged him in a little closer till Altaïr was nestled under Malik’s chin.
Altaïr melted into him, sleep beckoning with the warmth that was more from this
small comfort than the blankets.
Malik could not sleep though. All the training they engaged in for the past few
days focused on strength building. Three more days and Altaïr had to be ready
to fight, not just fight, but take out one of the most dangerous men. Robert de
Sable had a reputation of being the best warrior among King Richard’s Templars.
He was a brilliant tactician. According to the information from that informant,
Robert de Sable was now head of the Templars here in the Middle East. In the
past year or so, he had only gotten better, more skilled, more dangerous, more
powerful. This man trained as hard if not harder than those of Malik’s own
Brotherhood.
What kept Malik awake was his worry that Altaïr may not be as skilled. All
Malik could think about was how swiftly and brutally Robert de Sable dealt with
Kadar. Had Malik not shared part of Altaïr’s fate of being thrown through
collapsing tunnel structure (luckily with the Treasure in hand that Kadar threw
to him before being cut down), Malik was sure he would not have survived
Robert’s cold fury. Could Altaïr fight and kill Robert de Sable? They might be
evenly matched with skill, but Altaïr lacked the heavy armour of the Templars
and would have to get through that to kill Robert.
Thinking through those realities helped Malik think up some strategies for
training. Altaïr needed to be faster than the heavy slower Templars. He must
excel at evasion. Dodging blows would be his only survival. Training must
refocus on dexterity, flexibility, agility, and acrobatics. Altaïr’s needed to
be precise. He needed to know where the gaps in the armour were and how to hit
them. He needed to know their weaknesses.
A dangerous, insane plot hatched in his tired mind. Malik would think on it
more in the morning.
Malik had wanted to challenge himself in this training. That was before they
realized there were so few days till Robert de Sable would arrive. He suspended
his own desire to test is skills with the acrobatics, and focused on watching,
guiding, and assisting Altaïr. He honestly was not sure if Altaïr would have
enough hand strength in the left hand after he had cut himself.
Altaïr fell from his ropes several times as evidence of the damage done from
that injury. Malik stepped back as Altaïr shook with frustration and anger till
the fury exploded and he pounded and roared at one of the wooden doors. Malik
leaned casually against the wall and waited. Once Altaïr had exhausted the rage
at his own failing, Malik retrieved the medical kit and treated the bleeding
knuckles. That one outburst reminded Malik of the rumour of demons in this
church and understood how it came to be.
They argued harshly after that as Altaïr wanted to get back to the ropes and
try again. Malik tried to encourage him to do a different task and come back to
the ropes after. The argument degenerated to pushing and shoving, then fists,
then wrestling. Then Malik pinned Altaïr and whispered in his ear ferociously.
“I always win. You know why? Because you get so mad and self-absorbed that you
lose sight of the goal and the fight. I watch for the mistake I know you will
eventually make. A calm fighter will always win. Because the calm fighter is in
control. Stop losing control.”
He let Altaïr up. Altaïr was red-faced with anger and embarrassment, but
averted his eyes. “Yes, Malik.”
“Come, let’s eat something.” Malik stood and offered his hand to help Altaïr
up. He didn’t think Altaïr would accept it. Altaïr still dodged most of his
attempts to reach out to him. He almost withdrew his hand, but then a calloused
and scarred hand gripped his as Altaïr stood. Malik nodded approval. “Tonight,
I’ll rub you down, since I can’t get you to soak in a hot tub.”
The later part of the afternoon and evening progressed much better and with
more focus. Altaïr remained stoic and silent since his outburst. When evening
came and they had been well fed, Malik brought out the muscle rub. He sat upon
his folded black robe and waited for Altaïr. Altaïr was nibbling the last of
his bread while reading through a journal. “You are reading faster than I
remember.” Altaïr’s eyes flicked briefly to Malik then back to the book. Malik
continued speaking, “Do they help your understanding? Answer any … questions?”
Altaïr simply nodded. His silence was maddening. Malik took a deep breath
reminding himself that Altaïr needed to absorb before expressing, demanding his
thoughts would never gain them.
Altaïr finally set down the journal, now that he was finished his bread. He
licked the flavour of the herb bread from each finger. Malik looked away
suddenly, banishing the strange desirous thoughts that crept into his mind
sinfully. Altaïr stripped himself down and shivered in the chill night air. He
sat upon a bedroll with his back to Malik, close enough for Malik to rub the
salve into him. “Turn around, Altaïr.” Confused, Altaïr turned. The quirked
eyebrow, now visible with no hood to hide the expression, almost made Malik
laugh. He smothered his smirk.
He opened the large jar and watched Altaïr’s nose wrinkle at the slight burning
menthol scent. The odor rose strongly of cinnamon, ginger, pepper, eucalyptus
and other things in the complicated recipe. Altaïr closed his eyes. Malik
waited a moment or three. Then he tucked his hand behind Altaïr’s neck and drew
him forward a little so their brows touched. This very act seemed to melt away
much of Altaïr’s tension. Only after sharing a moment of this kind of cautious
trust did Malik straighten up and begin to massage the muscle rub into Altaïr’s
flesh, over his chest muscles, pectorals, and down each arm. He directed Altaïr
to lay back and he massaged the warming salve into the abdominals, hips,
thighs, and down Altaïr’s legs. He ignored the twitching erection. Apparently
so did Altaïr. The process of massaging continued after Altaïr rolled over. The
softest sighs or moans of relief felt greatly rewarding for Malik. The smell
surrounding them now seemed more warm and spicy than menthol-y.
When he was done, Malik draped several blankets over Altaïr expecting that the
assassin had fallen asleep from the massaging. He closed his muscle rub jar,
and then nestled in under the blankets for warmth with Altaïr. He stifled his
gasp of surprise when Altaïr’s hand snuck over to grasp Malik’s. Malik wrapped
himself around Altaïr, holding him closely. “Whenever you feel ready, Altaïr. I
hope you will talk to me.”
***** Altair: Shadows & Daggers *****
Chapter Summary
     shadows and daggers… my version of hide and seek.
Altaïr wanted to speak, wanted to ask so many things, wanted to express
himself. It just didn’t want to come out. His fingers laced through Malik’s and
tightened. He was too tired anyways.
Waking, Altaïr found Malik had been up for a long time, with the dawn likely.
He wondered why he had not heard him. Malik climbed and jumped, punched and
kicked, as he put himself through some of the obstacle course that Altaïr had
built inside the ruined little church. As he dressed and helped himself to
whatever breakfast Malik left for him, Malik called him down.
As he got to the bottom floor, Malik was nowhere to be seen. The hairs tingled
on his neck as memory tickled his mind. They played this game often in
training. Shadows and daggers. He dropped into a defensive stance. Obviously he
was the target and needed to use the shadows or face the daggers. The game was
on! He cursed silently as he had not brought a weapon with him. He picked up a
stick from the floor. A stone accurately struck his hand when he reached from
his chosen shadowy hiding spot. He dodged and ran from shadow to shadow,
snatching a stick from another spot.
His advantage over Malik was two hands allowed him to climb silently onto a
ledge. Having been tagged on the hand, he was now the aggressor and Malik the
target. He watched below him for movement. He had watched for the black robes
never thinking Malik would be wearing just the sleeveless white tunic over his
dark pants. When the shadow directly below him moved, Altaïr dropped and almost
didn’t pull his blow with the stick. He tagged Malik on the stumped shoulder
and ran.
He winced to himself wishing he had not tagged that shoulder. He heard Malik
hiss loudly. Malik was now the dagger and Altaïr needed to hide in the shadows.
Altaïr expected the next time he was tagged by Malik it would hurt. He deserved
no less. He molded himself to a pillar and listened hard. He hoped to hear
Malik breathing. He, himself, breathed slowly to keep his breathing as quietly
as possible. He crept an agonizing step to the left. The wood of the pillar
snagged his robe. He froze. He waited. He ached. He chose to step and turn back
to his original safe shadow.
The point of open steel met his throat.
Malik met Altaïr’s eyes evenly. This is it. This is payment. Altaïr closed his
eyes. The flat of the blade broadly slammed onto the top of his head, “OWE!”
“Serves you right, Altaïr. Stupid novice out here with no weapon. You had ample
chance to get a proper weapon.” Malik’s words were the familiar caustic tone.
Altaïr found himself liking this familiarity. “So we switch to swords, then?”
The afternoon tore at their sore bodies. The sparring went on for hours.
Several times Malik managed to strike the blade from Altaïr’s left hand. Altaïr
countered with his right. They circled one another, tunics soaked. The sweat
made their hair stick to their faces and drip in little rivulets down their
arms. Malik was still better, but Altaïr was a better survivor when really
pushed to the edge. Clearly Malik intended to see how far he could push Altaïr.
It was a mistake. Altaïr had more stamina. Altaïr earned his first victory
against Malik in wrestling when they fought till they lost their blades and
resorted to crude fighting. Malik was too tired to fight back with all he had.
Malik was also a sore loser according to what Altaïr remembered. They ate in
silence that night. Altaïr poked his food distractedly. “Malik? Am I ready?”
“No.” The statement hurt as much as any blow. “But you will be.”
Altaïr looked up from his food. Malik spread out the map between them. They
went over the plan to take out Robert de Sable over and over with all possible
back-up plans and escape routes. Malik reminded Altaïr that they were no longer
the Ismailis suicide hunters. “Kill him and get out.”
“Have we, Brothers and Nizari, really stepped away from that?” Altaïr asked
skeptically.
“I prefer shadows and daggers to political suicide. These targets have nothing
to do with their politics but someone’s agenda. Do it and then find out whose
agenda and why. You need to be alive for that. Altaïr, this is not meant to be
your last mission.”
Altaïr considered this while he ate and stared at the map. “How do you know?”
“I… just don’t die out there is all,” snapped Malik. He stood and stormed off.
***** Maliks: Tickle *****
“I… just don’t die out there is all,” snapped Malik. He stood and stormed off.
He ground his teeth as much as he ground his heel into the dust while trying to
calm his emotions. He and Altaïr had started to get along better. There was so
much hope and promise. The mortality of this coming mission gave Malik more
anxiety than he wanted.
Altaïr needed to be ready. Needed to be ready enough to survive. His earlier
plot now became a necessity.
They both slept poorly that night. It was easier to wake to Altaïr’s night
terrors when the man shared your blanket. Malik only wished Altaïr would share
his emotions, let them out instead of burying them inside. It never really
occurred to Malik how hypocritical he was, since he too buried his emotions
from Altaïr. It only told Malik how much trust they both had yet to earn. There
was trust, genuine trust, but every unconscious flinch reminded Malik how
fragile that trust was. He is the wounded eagle of Masyaf.
 To distract himself, Malik dug out his current notebook for training and
jotted some thoughts. Know thyself. Know thy enemy. Know the world. Their Order
spent so much time trying to know the enemy that they sometimes completely
missed who the real enemy was. They barely considered the self at all. You
learned the world as a tool not as the result. Malik made some notes about
self-development in the training of future members. He then added the need to
acquire the armor and weapons of the enemy in order to understand these so one
may fight them more efficiently. This was the tactic he intended to employ soon
with Altaïr.
Altaïr stirred, tensed, the sound of rising panic in his breathing alerted
Malik of yet another night terror. He called Altaïr’s name a few times to break
the cycle. Altaïr moved closer and buried his face between Malik’s shoulder
blades. An arm snaked around Malik’s middle and clutched him tight. Muffled
murmurs of falling or drowning coaxed a few soothing words from Malik. He then
returned to his notebook.
What are the roles in the Brotherhood? The hunters, assassins as we are called.
The Dai. The informants. The researchers and scribes. The doctors. Everyone
else is support. What do we all get in common? Basic training in unarmed
combat, basic blade work with a knife, accuracy in throwing knives, training in
how to hide, blend in and pick pockets. We all get an education in mathematics,
languages, religions of the area, map reading, read and writing, philosophy. We
all learn to gather some information and log it. We all learn to write some
code. What else? Riding, simple healing and self-healing, and… survival? We all
learn to read people so we can tell the innocents from the targets.
Malik sighed as he considered all these basics and realized what he had been
remiss in Junayd and Naheem’s training. Not Junayd’s actually. Junayd would get
all these basics mentored with the informants here in Jerusalem. Naheem,
however, missed out. Malik had been so focused on Altaïr that he had forgotten
how much more Naheem needed in training.
If Naheem will be a Dai, what is the role of a Dai and what will he need to
know? The Dai are infiltrators. He needs to master blending in. He needs to
master flexible religious identity. He needs more formal education. I suppose I
could send him to the old man part of the day to learn as I was learning. Dai
need to have a trade skill or merchant skill. I think Naheem has that
naturally. He can do beautiful as well as functional maps. And maybe he could
do portraits. But will he know how to spot trouble? Will he know how to
identify potential candidates for the Brotherhood. How can I possibly teach him
that? He hardly even knows what we are, really.
Malik sighed heavily, then he yawned. It was almost morning. He shifted and
rolled a little till he was on his belly to make the last few notes. Altaïr
mumbled plaintively, and tried to get closer to Malik’s left side where a gap
had caused chill night air to rush in. “Altaïr!” Malik shoved him suddenly. The
scratchiness of the several days stubble had roughly rubbed against his stumpy
arm. Malik sputtered and snapped unintelligibly about the stubble and need to
shave.
At first, Altaïr was startled, ready to fight or defend, slightly disoriented
by the sudden awakening. Malik behaved exactly as he did when Altaïr put a
handful of large spiders in his bed for fun. The expressions and the memory
drew out a smirk, then a chortle, and then a laugh.
“You think that was funny?! I’ll give you something to laugh about!” Malik
pounced Altaïr. He dug his wriggling fingers into all those spots he had been
waiting to deal out true torture to as he tickled Altaïr into breathless teary
laughter, gasping and begging for Malik to stop. “Not till you say your mine!”
It was the standard vow for such torture.
“I’m yours! I swear… I am yours Malik! I have always been yours!” gasped
Altaïr.
Malik stopped suddenly. He felt like his own breath had been sucked from him.
He just held Altaïr, held him tighter than was necessary as Altaïr calmed from
his fits of laughter. I am yours. I have always been yours. The words echoed in
Malik’s mind.
“You need to shave.” Malik wasn’t sure how he wanted to handle this. He
reluctantly released Altaïr who seemed reluctant to leave Malik’s embrace.
***** Altair's Surprise *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“You need to shave.” Malik wasn’t sure how he wanted to handle this. He
reluctantly released Altaïr who seemed to be just as reluctant to leave Malik’s
embrace.
Altaïr and Malik stared at each other like they each wanted to say something.
The long pause and stare grew more and more awkward. They both tore their eyes
from the other. Malik rolled over to try to get a little more sleep. Altaïr
slipped away over the rail and down to the area that they used for waste. He
sat on a barrel and shaved carefully. His confidence with the little knife
showed in his steadiness.
After a quick and icy wash with a cloth, he poured his energy back into
training. Hours later he caught a glimpse of Malik leaning over the rail above
watching him. He kept moving smoothly through the fighting forms, ignoring the
heat that rose in his cheeks.
Malik brought down some breakfast, meager as it was for the end of their
rations. They sat and discussed the problems ahead. Altaïr needed work on his
precision with the blades. “I do not rely on brute strength,” he countered
Malik’s criticism.
“Then why does it take you ten times more strikes to hit the target?” Malik
spat acidly.
Altaïr growled, “Don’t exaggerate. You are no better.” He regretted that last
bit knowing Malik was the better swordsman and seeing Malik’s eyebrow raise
indignantly.
“Very well, then we will work on your precision. And mine later too if you so
insist.” Malik removed his black robe and even his tabard. He retrieved their
weaponry and lined it all up neatly on an overturned church pew. His red sash
blindfolded Altaïr once Altaïr was likewise minimally dressed.
“Hey!”
“Blind fighting is the proof of a master with the blades. I promise; I will
prove that to you later.” Altaïr never saw Malik’s smirk, but he heard it in
the tone of Malik’s voice.
If Altaïr calmed and focused, he could heard Malik’s heartbeat, his every step.
Sometimes, he even saw the shimmer of blue in his mind’s eyes that was Malik’s
form. The second he doubted those senses, Malik’s blade caught him. The sweat
stung in the small cuts that Malik’s blade made, as if Altaïr has been cut by
paper. As much as Altaïr grumbled about this being torture, it helped him think
and focus better. It sharpened his senses and awareness. It forced him to slow
down and think where he was striking till he could let go of the thinking and
move with grace again.
Panting, they felt each other’s breath when their blade slid along the flats
till the hilts crashed together. “Very… very good, Altaïr…. Maybe you do have
the potential to be a master swordsman after all.”
“And you called me arrogant?!” Their fight renewed its energy as Altaïr showed
Malik just how much more stamina he had. The well placed foot hooking and ankle
with a very precise twist of the hilt proved Altaïr wrong as he landed hard on
his back, his blade skittering across the floor. He ripped off the blindfold to
find Malik standing over him, sword pointed to his throat. Altaïr chuffed and
turned his head admitting his defeat.
Altaïr watched as Malik cleaned himself up then filled a basin for Altaïr to
wash from. As Malik dressed in his full Dai robes, Altaïr gave him a quizzical
look. “I’ll be back. Keep training. I’ll bring back something to give you a
little advantage over these Templars.” It didn’t answer Altaïr’s unspoken
questions and clearly Malik was not going to. Altaïr wanted to tell him to be
careful, but after being defeated by Malik, he thought it best not to say
anything at all and just try to trust him instead.
Malik’s absence gave Altaïr a chance to vent in a variety of ways. It also gave
him a chance to sit quiet and finish reading through the journals. Malik sat on
his heels in front of Altaïr for a moment when he returned. “I have brought you
the armor of a Templar so you can find all its weaknesses.” Altaïr gave him the
most puzzled look, for how the hell did Malik manage that?
“Assassin… Tu ne peut pas te cacher ici. Je te trouverais.” An unfamiliar
French voice was heard calling from the main floor of the ruined church.
At Altaïr’s glare of surprise at Malik, Malik replied with a slight shrug, “You
might have to get him out of that armor first. Think you can handle that?”
Altaïr responded with a feral grin. Let the hunt begin!
Malik stayed out of sight so as not to give away what side he actually was on.
Altaïr moved like a silent prowling cat from shadow, to beam, to rafter.
The Templar drew his sword and cautiously crept further into the ruined church.
Malik kept masterfully hidden. Altaïr let the Templar explore without
intervention, even let the Templar discover where he had recently been eating
and reading and planning. The Templar cursed about having missed the assassin.
The corner of Altaïr’s mouth turned up as he slammed the bean back into place
across the main door, effectively locking the Templar in with him. There was
some small pleasure at seeing the man jump. This was followed by blaspheming
the name of god in stream with cursing the assassin, by name. The Templars knew
Altaïr was coming for Robert. This Templar obviously thought he stood a fair
chance as he challenged Altaïr to open combat. The Templar had good weapons and
certainly greater armor.
Altaïr had the advantage of knowing the area intimately, being lighter on his
feet, having speed on his side. That did not mean this would be an easy fight
by any means. Malik took a risk. What if Altaïr was not ready to even take out
a lower ranked Templar? Well, if I can’t then Robert is out of my league. For
Kadar… for Malik… I cannot allow that to happen. I must be able to take them
out. He tried not to think about how maybe he should have started with a city
guard, worked up through crusaders, and then to Templars. It was odd to think
all that. A couple years ago, he would have looked down on this lower ranked
Templar wondering why he was wasting his time on such easy targets.
This Templar was by no means easy. He was decently trained, well armored and
cautious. Altaïr would almost say he was seasoned. “J’ai tué deux assassins
avant toi!” bragged the Templar. “Et six novices… petits démons.”
Altaïr stepped into the open, ignoring Malik’s face and palm clapping together
in dread and despair. His golden eyes smoldered fiery amber. “Et moi, L’aigle
de Masyaf, Maître des Assassins,” Altaïr used the twisted word the Templars had
for his Order. “J’ai tué beaucoup de Templiers.” Altaïr took a step closer.
“Et, Templier, tu est dans MON lieu de pratique. Tu est déjà mort!”
Blades clashed. Sword hit armor, over and over without penetrating. Altaïr
charged and dodged. He hit and bounced back. It looked impossibly to get
through the armor. But he was wearing the Templar down. Hot mid-day. Heavy
plate armor. Intense fight for your life. Every hit told Altaïr more about the
dimensions and sturdiness of the armor. Every strike tore free secrets of the
chinks and weak points.
But Altaïr was not a cruel man. When the fight wore down and Altaïr was fairly
certain he knew most of the gaps in the armour, he lept and pinned the Templar
to the ground. Malik was already taking the rickety stairs two at a time to
join him. He looked up at the Malik for a second then slid the point of his
dagger under the rim of the Templar’s helm till the point touched flesh.
Chapter End Notes
     French Translated:
     “Assassin… You cannot hide here. I will find you.” An unfamiliar
     French voice was heard calling from the main floor of the ruined
     church.
     … … …
     This Templar was by no means easy. He was decently trained, well
     armored and cautious. Altaïr would almost say he was seasoned. “I
     have killed two assassins before you!” bragged the Templar. “And six
     novices… little demons.”
     Altaïr stepped into the open, ignoring Malik’s face and palm clapping
     together in despair. His golden eyes smoldered fiery amber. “And I,
     the Eagle of Masyaf, Master of the Assassins,” Altaïr used the
     twisted word the Templars had for his Order. “I have killed many
     Templars.” Altaïr took a step closer. “And, Templar, You are in my
     place of practice. You are already dead!”
***** Malik Steps into the Fog *****
Malik was pleased with himself for this achievement. He successfully lured a
Templar here to test Altaïr and to figure out the Templar defenses.
The walk outside was a good change. Malik breathed in the dusty hot air. He
adjusted the awkward bundle of rough maps and sketches he did to help with his
cover. He mumbled through a few languages to get the feel of them in his mouth.
He wasn’t sure which Templars he would encounter. He didn’t want a large mix of
Templars, but maybe one or two alone.
Aha! He found two guarding some crate of weapons. It must be duty changing
time. This was perfect. He let his drawings slip and struggled to keep hold of
them under his one arm. As one of the Templars approached to shoo Malik on his
way, he dropped the sketches and maps with a quiet curse. These two Templars
spoke French and Malik apologized to them in heavily accented broken French,
despite his ability to be completely fluent. He would have to show this trick
to Junayd.
He convinced the Templars he was so glad to see them, he was frightened with
all the rumors of assassins and now, as he was surveying a building, he thought
he found one asleep for he could not explain why a white hooded man would sleep
in this ruined building and have so many weapons around him. Malik tried to
stammer to show fear.
The two Templars could not check it out together as one would have to stay to
guard the crate. Perfect. Malik was instructed to guide the other to this
ruined building. They didn’t feel the need to extract the location out of
Malik, seeing Malik clearly not as a threat of any kind. He was promised a
reward for his courage to bring this to their attention. He asked if he had to
come in and if it would be safe after for him to finish his survey. The Templar
assured him that one sleeping assassin was no trouble for him.
Malik stayed hidden as he bolted the door behind him, locking the Templar
inside. Surprise Altaïr, I have a present for you! Malik felt very proud of his
deception. This worked much better than trying to steal pieces of armor from
sleeping Templars. Those damnable men never seemed to sleep.
When Malik reached the bottom of the stairs, he gasped aloud. He had run into a
fog that rose suddenly out of nowhere. All the hairs on his arm and neck rose.
The air was chill and the surroundings simply vanished. He dared not move with
this strange sorcery. Altaïr and the Templar and a scrap of floor were all that
could be seen. Altaïr’s golden eyes still held Malik locked in their gaze.
Malik could smell something in this fog. Somehow, he knew it was fear. The
Templar began to beg for mercy, that he was tricked, lured. Altaïr explained
that the Templar was not his target, but by insisting on trying to kill him,
will meet the fate of one with honour and respect. The Templar again begged
that he was only doing as ordered. “Aren’t we all,” Altaïr told him sadly. “Go
to your God in peace.” The knife slid swiftly up, under the man’s jaw and
deeper till his body shuddered in death. Malik watched as Altaïr removed the
helm and closed the man’s eyes.
Malik finally blinked. The fog was instantly gone as if it were never there.
Altaïr cleaned his knife, “Are you going to help me get him out of the armor?”
Malik’s mouth moved but no sound came out till he cleared his throat in an
attempt to answer Altaïr. Instead, he blurted. “What sorcery was THAT!?!”
Altaïr froze. “You… saw? I wanted you to see, but I didn’t think…”
Malik reigned in his anxiety and shock. He knew that if he showed those to
Altaïr, it would be confirming that Altaïr was an inhuman freak. It would break
the fragile trust they had built. “He was so afraid.” Malik changed the subject
a little.
“I know. I can feel that, smell it, taste it. Sibrand was no different. I
question the choosing of my targets. Some, feel innocent, like this one. Malik?
Don’t do this again. You are not God playing chess with the pawns, even if they
are Templar lives.”
It was a short reprimand thick with emotions. He understood. Altaïr not only
felt the man’s fear, but the man’s death. In that moment in the fog, the souls
knew each other intimately. It would stay with Altaïr forever, as the others
have, to haunt his dreams. Malik simply nodded and walked over to help Altaïr
remove the armour and dispose of the body.
***** Altair: Out of Time *****
Malik simply nodded and walked over to help Altaïr remove the armour and
dispose of the body. Altaïr disposed of the body while Malik struggled to don
the Templar armor. The goal was after all to spar with Altaïr and help him know
every weakness this armor could reveal.
Altaïr returned to see Malik teeter a little. He raised a brow and shook his
head. This was a bad idea as far as Altaïr was concerned. But, he figured he
would at least humor Malik’s effort. Maybe Malik was right. Malik was right
about most things. Maybe this will help find some extra weakness, some secret
to give Altaïr the advantage. He walked buy and plunked the helmet over Malik’s
head. A muffled curse from under the crooked helm drew a smirk from Altaïr, who
hid it with a tug of his hood.
They were evenly matched in height, though now Malik matched Altaïr’s fortitude
and breadth. Wooden stick swords were raised and the sparring began. Heavy
armor made for slower movements. However, it offered better resistance to
blows, even if you felt like your head got trapped in the gong of the church
bell when struck over the helm. Profuse cursing informed Altaïr of this fact
and he noted it for later use. He waited for Malik’s ears to stop ringing and
for him to regain balance from the head blow.
Without such armor, dressed as a master assassin, Altaïr moved with greater
speed, greater dexterity, greater precision. His blows to the metal armor
glanced off over and over. In a flurry of frustration, he pinned Malik to the
wall taking out some buried rage. Malik slapped him with the steel gauntlet,
“Stay focused!” Altaïr reeled from the hit. He made yet another mental note to
not get close enough for that again. His tongue trailed over his teeth to make
sure they were all still there, then over the lip that split from the steel
slap.
Another close call brought stars to his eyes. Malik was still a good fighter,
even in the unwieldy armor. The blurred vision of Malik in Templar armor
brought out a startled yell and a wild swing from Altaïr as he used it to beat
a hasty retreat and shake the old nightmare from his mind. Maybe this was a bad
idea after all.
A loud slam and clatter on the upper level caused them both to turn suddenly.
“AHH! A Templar!” yelled Naheem who let fly an accurate throwing knife in an
attempt to give Altaïr a chance to run or distract the Templar enough for
Altaïr to deal it a deadly blow.
Malik cringed in the armor at the shockingly precise throw as the little dagger
stabbed in through the helm’s grill and stopped at the hilt, the point a bare
centimeter from Malik’s face. He staggered backwards and fell flat on his back.
Altaïr ran forward, “Naheem no! NO! It’s Malik! Malik is in the armor!”
A panicked squeak escaped Naheem who thundered down the stairs as fast as he
could. Altaïr dropped down and ripped the throwing knife out of the helm, then
pulled the helm off of Malik’s head. “I’m alright!” Malik called. Altaïr let
out a great sigh of relief and turned on Naheem. The two exchanged frantic
words and apologies and reprimands. “Will you two novices SHUT UP!” Malik
snarled at them.
They turned to see Malik flailing on the floor in the armor. At their
confusion, Malik flailed more, unable to maneuver in the heavy armor to get
back up. Trapped on the floor, he yelled incoherently before yelling at them to
help him up. Naheem could not resist laughing. “Get me the hell up or I swear!
I swear I will make you clean out the WASTE CHUTE!” It was the worst novice
torture he could think of and Altaïr knew it. Having suffered said punishment
several times for various transgressions in Masyaf, he knew that punishment all
too well.
They helped Malik to his feet and then out of the armor as he snapped
venomously at them both in his fouled mood finally demanding what dared Naheem
to come here before the training was done.
“Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem. The funeral day and time is officially
announced for tomorrow at noon.”
***** Malik Dreads Fate *****
Chapter Summary
     sketchy art for the last line:
     http://the-evil-legacy.deviantart.com/art/AC-Sadness-147262389
“Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem. The funeral day and time is officially
announced for tomorrow at noon.”
Any emotion that might have played on Altaïr’s face vanished into stoicism.
Training and anything akin to fun was over. Malik cursed enough for all three
of them about Robert arriving early. Once they helped Malik out of what he now
considered totally hateful armor. Malik snapped out several orders for Naheem
to clean up all traces of their training. Altaïr was ordered to make the armor
disappear. He packed all traces of their sleeping and living here. They were
done in nearly an hour. It was a rush. “This place is never to be used again.
More than the dead Templar knows there was an assassin sleeping in it.”
Altaïr growled at him and he ignored it. That was the price for some things.
They ran over rooftops from building to building. Malik simply swallowed his
pride and allowed himself to be pulled up now and then by Altaïr. At a discreet
location, Malik continued on the ground. It was faster for them all that way.
The whole city was abuzz with the preparations. Altaïr had no choice, he needed
to be ready. Malik silently worried. His worry grew throughout the afternoon
while they studied maps and reviewed the plan to take out Robert, currently
head of all the Templars, and probably the largest and most dangerous target
Altaïr had ever ended. Robert would be waiting, anticipating. They already knew
someone had leaked the information. Robert knew it would be Altaïr coming for
him.
Malik prayed it would not be a repeat of Solomon’s Temple. He prayed Altaïr had
enough inner strength to not do anything stupid or suicidal. That night they
argued furiously. Altaïr snarled in low growls that he was NOT a novice and
didn’t need to be handled like one. Malik yelled that he was arrogant and
foolish sometimes.
Naheem covered his ears and hoped it did not come to blows. Fed up, Naheem
threw a book at each of them. They stopped and glared dangerously at him. He
whispered fiercely, “Will you two both shut the hell up before the whole world
knows what we are doing.” He huffed and picked up his drawing items to sit in
the main room by candlelight. Altaïr stormed out and threw himself onto the
carpets and pillows in the growing moonlight. Naheem sketched Altaïr while
Malik hid away all the journals. The night felt thick with tension and made for
poor sleep for all.
Malik’s pride prevented him from going out to Altaïr. Altaïr’s insecurity and
inner shame prevented him from going in to Malik. Naheem felt caught in the
middle. Naheem woke Malik and sat cross legged beside Malik’s bed. “Master
Malik? Master Malik?” Malik sat up, though he had not really been asleep. “How
dangerous is Robert de Sable? Who is he to our cause, really? Why must Master
Altaïr take him out?” The questions tumbled out of him in a single breath.
Malik touched Naheem’s lips with a finger to quiet him before more questions
tumbled forth. Malik could see them on the tip of Naheem’s thoughts. “Robert de
Sable is the most dangerous man that I know. He stands almost a head taller
than Altaïr and easily much broader of shoulder. He is a giant of a man who
moves as easily in his heavy armor as we do with nothing.” He quieted,
remembering the time in Solomon’s temple. “Altaïr could not defeat him the
first time we encountered him. It was in Solomon’s temple when we were on
mission to retrieve a treasure from him. He almost knew we were there before we
arrived. He was ready for us.” That admission gave Malik pause for thought.
“Altaïr was literally thrown clear through scaffolding in the temple and cut
off from my brother and I. The other Templars,” Malik stammered, “the… they
killed Kadar, but not before he could toss the treasure to me. Robert almost
ended me there, too. The fragility of the temple was my advantage. I lost my
brother to Robert and his men, and my arm. So much foolishness. If more care
had been taken,” Malik could not finish the thought.
“Robert de Sable is the head of the Templars as we know them. He is… dangerous.
Altaïr, because of who and what he is, because of what he can do that no other
can… Altaïr may be the only one who can stop him. Robert de Sable aims to
conquer, to control all of the Middle East and wipe away our free will to
create some twisted notion of a perfect world. We cannot allow him to do this.
We cannot let him live to attempt it. We must not let him get the treasure, the
Piece Eden, or he will do just that. For now it is safe in Masyaf under Al
Mualim’s careful watch. But if Altaïr does not take out Robert, that Templar
will surely come back to Masyaf for it. He already had followed my blood trail
there. He knows where we are. Altaïr cannot afford any mistakes.”
“Will Master Altaïr make it back?”
Malik dared not voice the answer, the truth as he knew it. Altaïr was not
ready. Altaïr was still healing both physically and emotionally, though it was
the emotional side that concerned Malik most right now. Malik swallowed hard
trying to find the words to reassure Naheem without lying to him.
Naheem saw the truth written in Malik’s eyes and shook his head disbelieving.
He bolted out of the room to where Altaïr lay pretending to be asleep.
Malik covered his eyes with his hand. Dragging those memories to the surface
choked Malik, “Kadar…”
***** Altair's Apology *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Naheem saw the truth written in Malik’s eyes and shook his head disbelieving.
He bolted out of the room to where Altaïr lay pretending to be asleep. He dared
not wake the sleeping assassin, especially for something so selfish as wanting
to spend a little more time with him. He chose instead to sit as close and as
quiet as he could, holding a kind of vigil, praying that these two men would
not part on ill terms, praying for Altaïr’s safe return from a successful
mission.
Altaïr rolled over in the thick silence. Moonlight illuminated the youth beside
him. He had never thought silence to be so disturbing before now, so he gave up
some sleep and sat up. Naheem’s sudden hug, nearly toppled him again. Having
overheard Malik’s talk with Naheem, Altaïr felt worried about the mission
tomorrow. He hugged Naheem in return. “I am proud of you, all you have
accomplished and all you have chosen, Novice. Try not to worry about my
mission. It will give me more strength to know you have faith in me.”
“I have always had faith in you, Master Altaïr. You are my hero in the small
and big ways, remember?”
Naheem’s words brought a small smile to Altaïr’s lips. “Don’t let Malik’s
pessimism get you down. He’s had a long time to be sour and has perhaps
forgotten how to believe…” He wanted to say, ‘believe in me,’ but didn’t think
he really deserved that considering all the stupid and horrible things over the
last few years. “Do you think… if I asked for his forgiveness, he would…”
Altaïr shrugged as he spoke, sheepish and uncertain and feeling very odd asking
the advice of his novice.
Naheem looked him in the eye and spoke with naked honesty, “Why don’t you go in
there and find out?”
Altaïr felt too nervous. “In the morning, before I head out.” It was a promise
more to himself than to Naheem. In case he didn’t come back alive, he wanted to
make sure he at least tried to apologize. So many thoughts of what he could
have done or should have done or wished he had more time to do filled his
dreams.
Walking down the street, he lifted the end of Malik’s sleeve. Malik did not
seem to notice the shadow that followed and clung to him. He whispered that he
was sorry to Malik as they walked, but he wasn’t heard. They sat upon a bench
as Malik sipped a cup of some beverage. Lifting the hem of Malik’s sleeve to
his face, the tears brimming in his eyes, he said he was sorry yet again. But
Malik again never noticed. Malik seemed oblivious to his presence. Inside the
Bureau, Malik began removing his robes to take a bath. The echoes of Malik’s
demand to touch his stump surfaced in Altaïr’s mind. From behind Malik, he
hesitantly touched the bandaged stump. He leaned his brow against the back of
Malik’s shoulder as his tears sped down his cheeks. He choked out another
apology that fell on deaf ears. The scenes played like this over and over with
the same outcome.
Altaïr woke at dawn with his stomach in knots. He hadn’t really slept. He
washed up and dressed, checking his armor and weapons carefully. He watched
Malik come around the counter offering the feather he needed for his kill.
Shame filled Altaïr’s eyes and he hid it under his hood. He took the feather
from Malik’s fingers wanting desperately to feel them comforting him,
reassuring him. He fidgeted from foot to foot. “Malik… Before I go, there is
something I must say.” Now he started, he dared not stop or he would never do
it.
“What is it, Brother?” There was no caustic tone in Malik’s voice as Altaïr
would have expected.
Altaïr swallowed then took a deep breath. “I’ve been a fool.”
Malik seemed confused, though since Altaïr refused to look at the Dai, he never
saw the expression. “Normally I would make no argument, but what is this? What
are you talking about?”
“All this time,” Altaïr began, needing to swallow again as his voice came out
hoarse and thick with the building emotion. “All this time, I never told you I
was… sorry… too damned proud.” He swallowed the shake that threatened his voice
and scrunched his eyes in the shadow of his hood to prevent them from spilling
over. “You lost your arm because of me, lost Kadar.”
Malik stiffened. “I do not accept your apology.”
Altaïr figured as much. It was exactly as he expected, exactly as he felt he
deserved. At least he tried, even if his apology was not worth much in
comparison to what he was apologizing about. “I understand.” It came as a bare
whisper. He turned away aiming to make his escape and start his mission.
“No,” Malik tugged him back towards him. “You don’t understand.” He knew the
fragility of the moment and how tired Altaïr must be from working himself up to
this apology. “I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man
that went with me into Solomon’s Temple. So you have nothing to apologize for.”
Surprised and incredulous, Altaïr didn’t know what to say or how to react.
“Malik…”
Malik rested a hand on Altaïr’s shoulder, “Perhaps if I had not been so envious
of you, I would not have gotten so careless myself. I am just as much to
blame.”
“Don’t say such things,” Altaïr shook his head, voice shaking a little.
Malik tried to fill his words with all the reassurance he could muster, “We are
one, Altaïr. As we share the glory of victory, so too should we share the pain
of defeat. In this we grow closer, we grow stronger.”
Altaïr did not feel very strong. His legs felt like they could no longer hold
him up. His chest hurt and felt like it would burst. He sank down to his knees,
clutching the edges of Malik’s black robe. The tears made their way over the
contours of his cheeks. He barely choked out, “Thank you, Malik.”
With a small smile, Malik murmured an Arabic proverb, “Forgiveness is more
satisfying than revenge.” Malik wished he had a second hand to push off the
hood and caress Altaïr’s hair. “You are tired, my friend. Why don’t you rest
that you might be prepared for what lies ahead?”
Chapter End Notes
     Art that inspired some of this chapter:
     https://himlayan.deviantart.com/art/AC-Forgiveness-186953371
     The Arabic in the picture is the proverb Malik says to Altair.
***** Malik: Shoo Naheem *****
Malik lead Altaïr back under the open lattice roof to lie on the carpets. The
morning sun barely dappled the room. He sat down and coaxed Altaïr to come
rest. Altaïr got himself comfortable and shyly rested his head and hands over
Malik’s thigh. Malik pushed back the hood now and combed his fingers through
Altaïr’s feather soft hair till the assassin truly found sleep.
Naheem snuck to the roof to block Junayd from disturbing the rare tranquil
scene. The two flopped in a dusty shady spot on the roof and exchanged news.
Junayd promised to find a good spot to watch the funeral from so he could tell
Naheem how it all went. Naheem tried to warn him not to, but Junayd would not
listen. “Informants need to be able to do this, to be invisible eyes so the Dai
can know the truth of what is happening.”
Naheem wanted to know too badly to really argue with Junayd. The younger
hurried off to find his hiding spot and dig in to watch the funeral and
hopefully the assassination. Naheem peaked in to see Altaïr still asleep on
Malik’s thigh. The expression on Malik’s face seemed so sad.
He quietly gathered his sketch material and hurried to his lessons in drafting,
trying to not think about what was going to happen today. Sometimes the role of
a Dai is to make sure no one suspects you are anything other than what you
present to the world. Naheem presented a limping apprentice to a map making
uncle, he presented a student of the art of line and drafting that he may be
better at map making in the future, he harboured a gift of drawing the organic
world with innocent appreciation and wonderment. The many other more dangerous
or deceptive elements of his life the world would never know or see.
A stray thought wandered through his mind as he wondered about Tibah. He
supposed she would either have to be kept in the dark somehow, or be part of
his deception. A second more on that thought reminded him of her perceptive
skills and decided him on her total and completely involvement. After all, how
the hell was he going to heal people. He barely knew a thing about medicine
beyond basic care.
By the time Naheem returned to the Bureau, Altaïr had already left for the
mission. Malik threw himself into the most complicated mapping he could find.
This was always his most hated time… the waiting. Naheem thought about telling
Malik about Junayd spying, but then reconsidered. It might only make Malik
worry about two people. Instead, he invaded Malik’s space hearing the TCH of
annoyance. Naheem proffered his sketches, “The architect master insisted I show
you what I have accomplished so far and requests a letter of commentary.”
Naheem hoped he lied as smoothly as Junayd.
The lie went unnoticed as one as Malik’s shoulders relaxed and he took up the
book of drafting sketches. He flipped through them very slowly nodding to
himself or hmm-ing now and then. “Very well done, Novice Naheem. I’ll write
that letter sometime tonight. I will want to look them over more carefully to
provide a proper commentary.” He closed up the drafting book. “Why don’t you
get some food in the market and find Tibah. Remind her you are still interested
in her and that you are both still betrothed.”
Naheem’s cheeks turned pink. He shifted his weight off his sore leg, which now
toed the ground shyly. “I, uh, thought that maybe… maybe I should stay here
with you.” He shrugged uncertainly.
Malik narrowed his eyes. “I do not need a novice being a mother hen over me.
GO! Get out before I throw you out!”
Naheem would have been shocked or hurt by the outburst had he not seen the
smirk on his mentor’s lips.
“Naheem, go. I prefer to handle this in some privacy. And you need, really
need, to try to have some normal relationship to strengthen your position here.
She’s very smart and very cute. Go on and enjoy that. And remember to keep your
hands and lips to yourself.” Malik chuckled at Naheem’s aghast look. “And say
hello to her brother Kadar and wish him and his beloved well for me.” Malik
made a shooing motion with his hand to encourage the teen out.
Naheem gathered up another set of personal sketching supplies and a little
money to do as he was bade to.
***** Altair: Set Up *****
Chapter Summary
     He knew was set up, expected... but not quite like this.
Naheem gathered up another set of personal sketching supplies and a little
money to do as he was bade to.
The world outside was hot, dry and especially dusty today. Altaïr felt he would
never see his robes really white again; he was the same off yellow as all the
other stone buildings. Even when he shook himself hard, the white was not truly
white.
Malik had forgiven him.
Malik had called him friend and meant it.
Those two things comforted him, strengthened him. Even though he had said this
would not be about vengeance, he was doing some of it for Malik, for Kadar. It
wasn’t vengeance. It was justice.
Be my sword, Altaïr. Remember the Creed. Strike swift and true. Be invisible.
And come back to me.
These were Malik’s last words. Altaïr stopped in a sunny spot on a tall roof.
He soaked in the warmth and sipped from his canteen. Altaïr felt comfortable
with death today. He would deal it out to one he believed deserved it. And if
he died doing so, he was comfortable with that too. That feeling allowed him to
be detached from what he must do.
The shadow of an eagle in flight drew Tibah’s eyes to a roof to track Altaïr’s
passing. Almost by instinct both her and her father stepped from their stall,
in different directions, to hawk their wares and distract two guards who
noticed the shadow too but could not yet locate the roof runner. Be safe Great
Eagle. May the Angels watch over you.
Altaïr had to be extra careful with every movement. The city of Jerusalem was
crawling with guards and with Crusaders and Templars. You couldn’t spit without
hitting one or the other. In an effort to preserve his throwing daggers, since
all the thugs were in hiding and could not thus be pilfered from, Altaïr chose
to either avoid roof guards and archers or sneak up and stab them directly.
This latter tactic allowed him to hide the bodies and not alert street traffic
of his actions.
The Creed echoed over and over in his mind. Stay your blade from the flesh of
the innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the Brotherhood. It took
him hours to make his way across the city. He never spotted Robert de Sable,
though. He had hoped to maybe luck out and deal with the foul man while he was
en route to the funeral. That would have been too easy. In a way, his travel to
the funeral site seemed too easy already. His skin prickled with the wrongness.
He ground his teeth and told himself that he would just have to deal because he
would not get another chance like this, even if they were waiting for him.
As he peaked over the edge of a building he saw the crowd. Peasants, villagers,
merchants, nobles, scholars, clergy all gathered and even filled the stairways
and down some of the streets. He could hide among the scholars or priests to
get closer. That was an option. But could he get close enough? In his mind he
reviewed his escape route and considered the more subtle means of attracting
attention then running and hiding to pick off the enemies a few at a time till
he could get to Robert. No, he wanted to save that as his last option.
Killing Robert in front of this whole crowd would make a resoundingly clear and
loud statement.
Altaïr dropped down to street level and drifted through the crowd invisibly
till he reached some scholars who helped get him closer, but not quite close
enough. Not close enough for a throwing knife, though that would not penetrate
the Templar armor anyways. A pallbearer recited a prayer in front of a grave.
“We gather here, today, to mourn the loss of our beloved Majd Addin - taken too
soon from this world.”
Altaïr thought to himself how sick this is. These people have such short
memories of the horror and cruelty of the man they are now praising in death.
Robert de Sable stood prominently beside the pallbearer. The crowd raise their
voices loudly, “AMEN.” Robert’s eyes scan the crowd in search of something or
someone. Altaïr ducked behind the nearest wall corner out of sight, cursing to
himself.
As the pallbearer spoke solemnly again, Altaïr inched back among a group of
scholars. “I know you feel sorrow and pain at his passing, but you should not.
For just as we are all brought forth from the womb; so too must we all, one
day, pass from this world. It is only natural, like the rising and the setting
of the sun. Take this moment to reflect on his life and give thanks for all the
good he did.” Altaïr kept his head bowed to hide his features while watching
from the shadow of his hood. What good? Ignorant fools. “Know that, one day, we
will stand with him again in Paradise,” the pallbearer continued. The crowd all
spoke amen again.
Robert leaned and spoke to the pallbearer. Altaïr took a deep breath and
allowed his vision to shift. So many shimmering red figures glowed softly
unaware of him. Yet, Altaïr’s skin crawled in warning. He dared not retreat
now. It might give him away. The red figures glowed more brightly as Robert
made some gestures to them. They grip their weapons.
“As you know, this man was murdered,” announced the pallbearer. “We have tried
to track his killer, but it has proven difficult. These creatures cling to the
shadows, and run from any who would face them fairly. But not today, for it
seems one stands among us! He mocks us with his presence, and must be made to
pay! Seize him!” His angry yell was punctuated by his pointing directly at
Altaïr.
Camel shit!
“Bring him forward; that God’s justice might be done!” yelled the pallbearer.
Crowd folks, guards, crusaders and Templars all turned to Altaïr.
He ran! He was completely set up. He should have known. He did know, but this
was nothing like he expected. His escape route was blocked by innocent people.
Flailing and shoving and stumbling. There were strikes and cuts and blood. It
was a graceless fleeing. He turned to take out a few and run again. He tumbled
scaffolding to take out others and hoped innocent people were not in that path.
Robert was hot on Altaïr’s heels, determined to catch him. Altaïr cursed the
other man’s remarkable speed. He must have reduced his armor in order to have
this advantage. Cornered in a sea of blood and bodies, Altaïr fought. Robert
joined the fray just as Altaïr’s own strength was starting to wane.
***** Naheem: Courting *****
Robert joined the fray just as Altaïr’s own strength was starting to wane.
Junayd ran with four other street kids trying to watch the ensuing battle. They
had a great view from one roof till the white clad target retreated back
through the streets with God’s own hell on his heels. An Archer plucked and
tossed the kids down to street level. They crashed through a fruit stall on
their way down and scattered in five different directions.
Meanwhile, Naheem tried to feel confident about the mission and behave like a
proper nephew and apprentice. He limped a little with the cane, but could
easily do without it. The small smirk of warning he gave potential thugs saying
that he knows just how to use it as a weapon to defend himself made him feel
very good indeed when they avoided him. He wondered what really made them think
he was not an easy target? Maybe the training he had with Altaïr showed a
little? He wondered if that was bad. Malik used to let himself get beaten.
Naheem frowned to himself. Maybe he let himself get beaten because he thought
somewhere inside that he deserved it? I don’t think I need to get beaten to
still play my role as a rafiq in training.
His confidence completely evaporated when he entered the market and Tibah
smiled at him from her stall across the way. A goofy grin crept across his face
and as he lifted his cane to wiggle his fingers at her, he stumbled. He quickly
regained his balance, blushing. He blushed more when he saw Tibah’s father also
watching him, having noticed the shy goofiness and the stumble. Naheem wished
the earth could swallow him this very moment, yet again. He reminded himself
over and over that their betrothal was assured.
Sometimes Naheem thought about asking Altaïr or Malik for advice on courting.
Then decided that would be dumb. Altaïr’s track record with women was very,
very, VERY poor. Altaïr was either promiscuous and uncaring, or he married with
great failing. Adha was stolen from him and killed. Nina… well, no one dared
say her name in the Bureau. She was a grade A bitch. Perhaps that was a poor
choice of words. It insulted perfectly good bitches. Naheem shook his head as
he sat on a bench by the fountain and opened up his sketchbook. No, Altaïr was
not the person to ask for advice. As for Malik, Naheem suspected Malik was
still a virgin. And if Malik wasn’t, well Naheem had already worked out that
Malik had no interest really in women and since guys did not court guys, Malik
was no source at all of courtship advice. He sighed to himself that he was on
his own on this one.
He worked on a drafting assignment, trying to sketch the building perspectives
from where he sat. Then he worked on a map of the marketplace. By lunch, Tibah
seemed to materialize before his vision. He jolted, and she giggled softly. “I
thought you might like some water and a little to eat. Maybe, you could come
sit with me under the shade of our stall?” Her boldness would be frowned upon
by most, and was by some who observed. He nodded with a small smile and packed
his things. He limped over with his cane, eyes scanning all around almost
protectively. She totally disarmed him by taking his hand. Her father chuckled
and patted him on the shoulder as they passed. Naheem felt like a child, a
foolish one.
Then he felt even more foolish. Bringing him under the shade of the stall
effective hid him from sight as a troop of crusaders and Templars passed at a
quick pace. Naheem wondered how Altaïr’s mission was going. Clearly no success
or failure yet. Alarms were not sounding. Malik had always told Naheem that
when Altaïr finished or failed a mission, the entire city knew. People were not
on alert, and no one was cheering the death of an assassin. Altaïr must still
be getting into position, or was in the middle of a fight whose news had not
reached this part of Jerusalem, yet. Naheem hoped Junayd would spy safely and
bring news.
For now, he and Tibah sat together and nibbled lunch in the shade. Her father
kept one eye on them like a proper wary father. Tibah talked about many
different things she had seen, things she enjoyed doing, even commented on how
well Naheem seemed to be healing. She asked questions when his silence
stretched too long. Questions he could not answer with a nod or shake of the
head. She asked about his family, what he had learned, and if he had hoped to
be something different before he came under his uncle’s care. It challenged him
to keep his truths and lies in order.
She took his hand and thumbed the severed finger. He recoiled a little
uncertainly. She took his hand again and gave him a very knowing smile. “I know
what I am getting into, Naheem. I need you in order to be what I want to be.
And you… you will need me to be what you are planning on being. Why are you so
shy?” Everything went so well until that last question. Why did she have to ask
it? It was as if by asking it pulled all his shyness to the forefront. He
blushed, dimpled, shrugged, averted his eyes. She leaned in to say something,
but her father spoke her name warningly.
Naheem felt doomed. He had been unmanned in five words.
Altaïr must be doing better in his mission. Naheem figured that because he felt
like he was doing quite miserably in his own, so much so that anything Altaïr
was doing had to be better.
***** Altair Meets Maria *****
Altaïr must be doing better in his mission. Naheem figured that because he felt
like he was doing quite miserably in his own, so much so that anything Altaïr
was doing had to be better.
Bodies littered a trail to a dead-end alley. Altaïr could not escape without
being dragged back into the fray. His robes seemed more red than white with
both his blood and that of his enemies. Guards and crusaders moaned, dying
about his feet. Altaïr stood in a sea of blood. His left hand flexed with the
snap snap of the hidden blade. His right held the eagle sword wide, blood and
viscera streaming down to drip off the point.
Altaïr’s chest heaved, desperate to catch his breath before the next wave. The
lack of warning alarm bells in the city cast a weighty and eerie silence that
unnerved Altaïr. It was a trap. They weren’t just waiting for him. They were
ready for him, planned for him. His escape route could still be taken, but
getting to a good run point was difficult. More guards and crusaders stepped in
to surround him. Robert de Sable waited on the outskirts. Altaïr held his
ground waiting for the exhaustion and blurry vision to pass before taking on
this new wave of enemies. His eyes locked darkly on Robert, who was indeed
dressed somewhat lighter than the average Templar.
So, he had taken the steps to learn about our moves and fighting just as we
have about his. He has lightened his armor so he could move faster to try to
match me. It will not work. I will not fall. Not before he does.
His breath huffed, as Altaïr took in the scene of incoming danger. He counted
the enemies. They all shimmered red. Even his target. It didn’t register that
his target should shimmer yellow in his vision. The faint breeze blew a feather
into their midst. Altaïr’s fingers tensed on the sword waiting, recouping,
coiling to spring. The feather touched, stuck, to a puddle of mud and blood.
Tension broke that instant.
The guards and crusaders rushed in. Light as that feather, Altaïr slid through
the blood into the center of the attack. He arched, sword twisting to a down
stroke. The guard dodged too slow. His face was sprayed with red. Altaïr’s left
hand grabbed the wrist of in incoming crusader. The wrist blade pierced mail,
flesh, bone. Each breath was a movement. A round house kick. A staggering
guard. A flash of foreign steel. Abdominal muscles clenched, the blade slicing
a paper thin cut along Altaïr’s side.
Thrust, parry, clash. Steel hit steel. Over and over. Heavy armor deflected
blows. Red and white robes dodged sharp edges. Altaïr punched and crunched the
bridge of a helmet nose piece. The Templar’s head thrashed back. Altaïr’s kick
sent him reeling. The exposed belly taking a long drag of Altaïr’s sword.
Several down, bruised and broken bones numb in the heat of noon sun and battle.
Altaïr staggered a moment. Arms crossing the short knife he pulled from his
back and his sword. Robert’s heavy sword vibrated Altaïr’s tired arms with the
impact. The seasoned French soldier turned a shoulder. Altaïr pulled back. The
blows came fast, furious, both a blur of fabric and metal, kicking up filth in
their deadly dance. Altaïr lost the short knife that had been in his left hand.
His reverse swing struck true. The hilt banged hard into the helm. CRACK!
Robert stumbled back but recovered too soon. Acrobatic leaps and flips kept
Altaïr from the first mistake he made with the Templar. Never let him get hold
of you. The wrist blade glanced off the shoulder. A metal gauntlet cracked
ribs. Altaïr grunted. Ground his teeth. Rushed in and tackled.
The noise and screams of innocent watchers vanished. The dust and scent of
blood vanished. The washed out stone of buildings vanished. The fog rolled in
obscuring everything.
Altaïr and Robert heaved each strained breath in time with each other. Heart
beats pounded in unison like wing beats.
Sensing the accepted defeat of his target, Altaïr eased back. This realm of fog
and souls was his and his alone. The other was but a guest in it till he was
gone to the next life. His wrist blade slid without cutting and then snapped
into its sheath. His sword pressed in to keep his enemy in place. With a deep
huskiness, Altaïr spoke, “I would see your eyes before you die.” With his free
hand, Altaïr pulled the visor free from the helm. He gasped, astonished.
This was not the face of Robert de Sable. This fair woman with strong features
and dark blue eyes gazed harshly back at him, daring him, unafraid. “I sense
you expected someone else.” Her voice was deep and liquid, like thick molten
metal.
Altaïr backed off her immediately. “What sorcery is this?” he demanded.
She pushed herself up. She moved like a Templar, held herself up proud like a
noble. Her soul knew it would die here, yet she stood facing him. “No sorcery.
We knew you’d come. Robert needed time to get away.”
His expression shadowed by his hood flew through confusion and mixed
information. A woman… as a Templar. A woman… who damn near kicked his ass. A
woman… who outsmarted him in this kind of fight. This woman. Her French was
good, but her English origin betrayed itself. Her sword better than any he had
faced. Her lithe form clearly needed the lighter armor or she would never have
been able to move. How did I not notice the size difference?So much was now
explained. So much… yet nothing. “So he flees.” Altaïr wanted to spit his
contempt at the cowardice of Robert.
Even as he grabbed the front of her tunic and shook her to be certain she was
really a woman, she stared him in the eye, past the shadows. “We cannot deny
your success. You have laid waste to our plans. First the treasure, then our
men. Control of the Holy Land slipped away. But then he saw an opportunity to
reclaim what has been stolen; to turn your victories to our advantage.” She
held his wrist hoping to press her words into him more clearly.
“Al Mualim still holds your treasure, and we've routed your army before.
Whatever Robert plans, he'll fail again.” He shook her again, wishing she would
not touch him.
“Ah! But it's not just Templars you'll contend with now.”
“Speak sense!” Altaïr yelled.
The woman wondered how daft these assassins really were. Did she need to
explain as if to a child? So be it. “Robert rides for Arsuf to plead his case,
that Saracen and Crusader unite against the Assassins.
“That will never happen. They have no reason to,” alarm was clear in Altaïr’s
voice as well as uncertainty.
She continued, “Had perhaps. But now you've given them one. Nine, in fact. The
bodies you've left behind; victims on both sides. You've made the Assassins an
enemy in common and ensured the annihilation of your entire order,” she almost
laughed ironically at it. “Well done.”
Then it clicked for Altaïr. She was willing to sacrifice herself for what she
believed, but she had no real knowledge of the dangers. He was starting to
understand the dangers, but not entirely the source. Was Al Mualim’s
information wrong? Was the traitor among his researchers and closest advisors?
Did Al Mualim know the repercussion? An army of both Saracen and Crusader would
wipe out Masyaf and reclaim the treasure. Masyaf could never survive that.
He stood at a cross road. He could take this life, this messenger’s life and
prove to her that the assassins are blind rabid dogs as she seems to believe,
or he could spare her for even as he looked at her more clearly now, she had
shimmered from red of an attacker to the white of an innocent. Stay your blade
from the flesh of an innocent.
Altaïr recalled Malik’s pleas for him to remember the Creed, to not abandon in
for revenge or give in to fury and hate. He made his decision. “Not nine,
eight.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in confusion.
Maybe peace in this area started with small gestures like this one, small
things one could remember. Maybe it started with sparing one life. “You were
not my target. I will not take your life. You're free to go, but do not follow
me.” He warned her for he did not want to have his hand forced.
“I don't need to,” she seemed almost disappointed. This war was not quite as
she had dreamed. There was no glory in the actions she had been bidden to carry
out, Robert’s cruel orders. It didn’t matter anyways. “You're already too
late.”
Altaïr already disliked her brazen attitude. “We'll see,” he threw back in
challenge.
They parted ways without a fight. She lived. So did he. Both lived, though not
unscathed, and not untouched by that moment in the fog. Altaïr wondered if she
would haunt his dreams too, for having let her live. She knew she would never
forget that almost shy stance and the tiniest glimpse of golden eyes beneath
the mystery of his hood. Now was not the time to fight. He gave her freedom. He
gave her a way out. She silently wished him luck and swift flight.
Altaïr flew indeed. A hard dead run through the city, over buildings, up
ladders and down darkened alleys. No city alarm rang out warning of his escape,
however every guard and soldier watched for him, intercepted him, fought him
every step of the way till he panted and shook the questions from his mind in
an alcove out of sight. He needed to get to the Bureau. He needed to speak to
Malik. Malik would know, would understand, would find the answers.
Then the bells of alarm began to toll. Malik would kill him. WHY? Why can I NOT
get through a mission without that infernal ringing? It was like it heralded
his failure long before he could confess it.
At last, the Bureau was in sight! He rushed there so fast, he over-calculated
his jump and nearly fell through the roof opening. He teetered a moment before
dropping into the carpeted room. The crux of the matter hit Altaïr there. Who
gave the orders? Who bade him to kill? Who held a treasure of great temptation?
Doubt boiled up with the experiences of childhood. But to lay blame on Al
Mualim would undermine the whole order and all they have lived and died for for
generations. Malik would never believe this suspicion, but Altaïr felt he
needed to convince him, somehow, to at least consider it. He tried to ignore
everything that hurt as he strode into the main room, Malik busily working over
a map as usual.
***** Malik's Risk *****
Chapter Summary
     You have all waited 204 chapters for this risk...
Chapter Notes
     I would like to thank someone for uploading the fight that I followed
     and the conversation with Malik that I just used here. Thanks Porslu
     for the YouTube vid! It helped a great deal!
     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C29aY9BWVu8
Malik looked up at the flicker of red and white movement knowing that it was
Altaïr. The city alarm hailed his arrival as usual. Malik almost rolled his
eyes and scoffed but for the fact that Altaïr’s robes were more red than white.
“It was a trap!” Altaïr declared.
Malik chose not to scoff and instead set his measuring compass down. “I heard
the funeral ended in chaos. What happened?”
“Robert de Sable was never here,” the growl of frustration laced the edges of
Altaïr’s voice. “He sent another in his stead. He was expecting me. ME!”
This seemed impossible. It was impossible. Malik had worked so hard to give the
impression, to seed the information, that Altaïr likely died of the last deadly
injuries or was not at all within the city. No one should have expected him
personally. “I will need to send word.” This was the proper course. A failed
mission had to be reported so new instructions could be issued. Al Mualim
needed to know the danger of exposure. Malik did not like the Master for a
great many reasons, but he was still the Master of the Order.
“There’s no time.”
Malik’s jaw dropped. Was Altaïr crazy? Was Altaïr actually going to consider
doing something about this? It was not supposed to be about vengeance.
“She told me where he’s gone. Arsuf. If I can head him off, learn his plans. If
he gets to Masyaf, all could be lost. Then, I fear we could all be destroyed.”
Altaïr was not making sense. Malik felt like he was missing important
information like the translation key for this mysterious code. Malik countered
as he gathered medical supplies and a clean uniform. “We have killed most of
his men. He could never mount a proper attack.” He set them on the counter’s
edge and paused as Altaïr’s earlier words hit him. “Wait. Did you say… she?”
At a gesture from Malik, Altaïr began to strip the equipment from himself and
the bloody robes. “Yes. A woman. Strange! I know!” He grunted with a snag of
momentary pain. “But that’s for another time.” Malik paced wishing to know more
now, not wait for some other time that may never come. “For now, we must focus
on Robert.” Malik filled a basin with water and helped Altaïr wash, check each
wound as they talked. “We may have thinned his ranks, but the man is clever. He
goes to plead his case to Richard and Saladin. To unite them against a common
enemy. Against us.”
Altaïr hissed as Malik treated and stitched. Malik wished Altaïr would just
sit, but clearly he was in a driven mood and would take flight if Malik let him
redress now. He had no intention of letting Altaïr rush off without proper
medical treatment. Malik sank onto a stool to better view a gash and bandage
the badly bruised ribs. “Surely you are mistaken. This makes no sense. These
two men… would never…” It was preposterous to even consider King Richard and
Saladin allied.
“Oh, but they would,” insisted Altaïr, “and we have ourselves to blame. The men
I have killed. Men on BOTH sides of the conflict. Men important to both
leaders. Robert’s plan may be ambitious, but it makes sense. And it could
work.”
Malik sighed. He had to agree. It did make sense. “Look, Brother, things have
changed.” He finished the last of the main bandaging and Altaïr already started
to redress. “You must return to Masyaf. We cannot act without our Master’s
permission.” To do so could undermine other missions. Only the Grand Master of
the Order knew where everyone was supposed to be and what missions they were
all on. Generally. “That could compromise the Brotherhood.” Had Altaïr reverted
to the arrogant head-strong man from that fateful day in the temple when they
first faced Robert? “I thought… I thought you had learned this… learned to let
go and follow the Creed and the rules.” He returned to his place behind the
counter full of disappointment.
Altaïr turned ferociously on him, “Stop hiding behind words, Malik! You wield
the Creed and its tenets like some shield! He’s keeping things from us!
IMPORTANT things! You are the one who told me that we could never KNOW
anything, only suspect.” Altaïr approached the counter and leaned his hands
upon the edge. He pulled the hood up but not so far. His golden eyes locked
Malik in place pleadingly, begging for understanding, for trust. It stabbed
Malik in the heart. “Malik, please. I suspect his business with the Templars
goes deeper. When I am done with Robert, I will ride for Masyaf that we might
have answers. But perhaps you could go now.”
Malik flung his arms in the air. Altaïr was not the one to give commands. If
the tone had not had the edge of begging, Malik might have disregarded
everything Altaïr said. Had he not read those journals and asked some of the
same questions Altaïr was asking, too. Bottom line though, “Altaïr, I cannot
leave the city.”
Altaïr leaned over the counter a little, “Then… then… walk among the people.
Seek out those who serve the ones I slew. Learn what you can. You call yourself
perceptive. Malik, perhaps you will see something I could not.”
This was treasonous, dangerous. If Al Mualim knew, suspected, then Malik and
Naheem and anyone Malik had contact with could become targets. “I don’t know. I
must think on this.” He was not the kind of man to rush into things like
Altaïr. He liked clean, sure plans.
Altaïr hung his head, “Do as you must, my friend.” Malik sensed an ending here.
A break of trust and judgement. Altaïr called him friend for the first time as
he had called Altaïr friend before the mission. It sounded so final, like when
you say your last goodbye. “It’s time I ride for Arsuf. Every moment I delay,
our enemy gets another step ahead of me.”
Malik could not let it end like this. He leaned across the counter and slid his
hand into Altaïr’s hood, pulling Altaïr closer. Their brows touched. They
stayed this way for several second before Malik decided to take a chance to
make sure Altaïr remembered there were things and people worth living for. He
hoped this risk was the right choice. He tugged Altaïr slightly closer and
nervously pressed his lips to Altaïr’s. It was rough and inexperienced and
desperate. Malik lowered his hand to see if Altaïr would hold the kiss. Altaïr
rested his hand over Malik’s on the counter. Relief filled Malik. He spoke when
they parted, “Be careful, Brother.”
Altaïr’s golden eyes held Malik’s as he replied in a hoarse whisper, “I will
be. I promise.”
***** Altair Will Do Anything *****
Chapter Notes
     song inspiration for this chapter: “I’ll Do Anything for Love” by
     Meatloaf
Before he lost his nerve or his drive to deal with the current crisis, Altaïr
took flight from the Bureau. The alarm bells still rang out across the city,
even as he managed to sneak out and ride off on a dark horse with white socks.
A few hours later, he slowed the horse from the hard frothing run. It danced in
distress from the harsh treatment. He leaned over and rubbed its neck to soothe
it and walk it past the tall watch tower. As he rounded some bush and tree
cover, he stopped the horse near a pile of hay. The road forked three ways from
here. One doubled back to a lower valley where there were soldiers and guards
and likely some Templars training. One wider road was the usual one he took to
other cities, including Masyaf. It was the main road. The last was guarded
farther ahead and impassable unless you wanted to hike through the treacherous
mountains. He would not be able to do anything as the guards of the watch tower
were ready to attack anyone or warn people of the intruder, unless he returned
to Masyaf, but that was not his choice.
The bruises and stitching reminded him of their presence rather loudly. The
cracked ribs did so too after he took out the guards around the base of the
tower and climbed it to the top to deal with the lookout guard. He winced with
the pain. He knew he needed rest, but there wasn’t really any time. A graceful
leap from the tower landed him perfectly in the hay. Yes. That rib was
definitely cracked. He lay there many minutes steadying his breath and reigning
in his focus. Also, he weighed the risk of time. Robert could be hiding out in
the training grounds. Or, he could already be in Arsuf or close. If he was in
the training ground, there was no way Altaïr could deal with him. It would be
too dangerous. If he was already on his way to Arsuf, Altaïr had no time to
lose.
He brushed off the hay and snuck VERY carefully into the training grounds to
spy and listen. Just enough to get a notion of where Robert was and if he was
there. He was! He watched the training; Templars spoke of his journey in the
morning with them to Arsuf. They would ride hard to meet King Richard. Altaïr
almost cursed. He didn’t have the strength at this moment to plan or fight in
an ambush for them along their route. His only option now would be to get as
far ahead as he could now and grab rest before confronting King Richard
directly. He cursed again as he reached his now rested horse. He had planned to
kill the guards blocking the pass. But if he did, that would alert Robert of
trouble. Mountain hike it would have to be.
He freed the horse and started his climb. He found an ill-used goat track and
used that to get past the guards. It was slow so as not to accidentally kick
stones or earth upon the heads of all those guards. Once past them, he grinned
and stole one of their horses to ride as hard as he could. Once the sun set, he
found a good spot to leave the horse and continued into the mountains on foot
till it was too dark to see or traverse safely. There he nestled down to rest,
to sleep off as much of his earlier wounds as he could, yet listen in case
anyone passed him below or even above.
Altaïr’s mind ran circles around the mysteries of his missions, around the
lessons he had learned, and around the actions and conversations he had had
with his Master. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected terrible
things he did not want to believe. Finally, he stripped everything away except
the bare naked facts. And all of those lead to Robert de Sable and that
treasure now safe in Masyaf. That was the whole reason for uniting Richard and
Saladin, to wipe out Masyaf and the assassins and thus take back the Apple of
Eden. Altaïr cursed the stupid useless ball of metal. At least he sorted out
his initial thoughts and could allow his mind to tackle the next nagging
thoughts, which were so tangled with emotions that he was almost afraid to
acknowledge them.
Malik… kissed me.
Exhaustion claimed him long before he could sort out those thoughts and
feelings. He simply accepted them as a fact at the moment, abandoning the why
for now. He allowed the memory of that hand on the back of his neck and the
lips on his and the tickle of Malik’s goatee on his chin to comfort him and
remind him that he could not waste any action or risk his life too much. There
was a chance lying in wait for him. A chance with Malik, a chance at the deep
friendship they used to have that he wanted back badly enough to kill or die
for. He dreamed of Malik tending his wounds and of all the times that gentle
hand cared for him. He dreamed of all the times he lay snuggled close to Malik
in the night to ward off the night terrors and the times Malik held him through
them. All the small signs he hadn’t recognized before that he now saw. It
swelled in his sleeping heart and filled it with strength and hope. This
mission would be for Malik. Not out of revenge, but out of love. He promised to
bring peace to the Holy Land, for Malik.
Altaïr would do anything for Malik. Anything.
***** Malik's Labyrinth Walk *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik had raised his hand to his mouth disbelieving his leap of faith to kiss
Altaïr. It took a loud bang and yell from a guard outside his front door to
snap him from his stillness. Guards were starting to search buildings. Malik
ran through to the shut and lock the lattice roof, timing it to the bangs on
his door. A shadow of a roof guard moved on the ground through the lattice and
Malik dashed back out of sight and into his back room. He pressed his back
against the wall to the left of the curtained door. A sword in hand, he was
ready if the guards and Templars broke in. He listened, almost holding his
breath till they moved on. He remained there still as stone for another half an
hour praying Altaïr escaped the city alive. The fact that the alarm bells rang
on, reassured him that Altaïr was still free.
The sound of the door being rattled and fought with in the lock made Malik
tense again, just as he was about to relax. He readied for the fight.
“Uncle?” called a familiar voice with the familiar click of a cane on the
floor, followed by a fumble and the cane fell. “Dammit,” came the muttered
curse as the door closed shut. “Master Malik?”
Naheem. Malik sagged against the wall with relief. He dropped the sword back
into the corner and came out as Naheem was relocking the door.
“Is he alright? Is he alive? Did you see him?!” Naheem expressed Malik’s inner
thoughts. Malik’s nod and composure reassured the teen of Altaïr’s safety. “Oh
good! It is CRAZY out there!” Naheem looked down and snapped his head back up.
“Master Malik. There’s blood on the floor!”
“Yes, yes. You should scrub it clean before you get to the robes.” Naheem
groaned at the instruction but obeyed. Malik patted his shoulder. “Altaïr is
hurt but not incapacitated. His mission was a trap. He’s on his way to meet
Robert now in Arsuf.”
Naheem’s eyes widened. But before he could say or ask anything, Malik continued
with his orders. “Do not leave the Bureau unless it is compromised. You know
the rules and what to do if it is.”
“Where are you going?” asked Naheem.
“To keep a promise. Something has not been right for months. I need to
investigate some things and talk to people. I’ll be gone several days. Send
word that I want to meet with all our trusted in one week.” Malik jotted down a
list of people to be spied on and told Naheem to send out the informants to
find these people and learn what they can about the nine missions of Altaïr’s
assassinations. There had to be a link that made this all make sense.
As he thought about links while packing a satchel with a few supplies and a
journal, he froze. Links. So many things and people were connected. “Naheem?
What was the name of that doctor your father sent to treat your mother and
teach you bedside manners?”
“Faruq. He was nice. He reminded me of you with how he takes copious notes. I
wish I could get word to him to thank him for all that he did to help ease
her.”
Malik smiled sadly. “Faruq was my elder brother. Light some incense and thank
his spirit. He’ll hear you.” He stopped at the door before leaving, “I’ll be
back by the end of the week. Get that information.”
Malik locked up after himself. Naheem could handle this. He told himself over
and over that he could not coddle the novice. He had handled a several days
here alone before. Another five to seven will be fine. Malik had a mission of
his own, to find answers, to find out the truth. He wove discreetly through the
rushed and panicky city. He avoided guards and occasionally had to show the
scrolls of prayers he carried in his satchel for delivery to be allowed to
continue on.
There was a blinded Templar in the Gnostics Temple he felt ready to see now.
This man, who knew his brother Faruq, had important information for Malik that
he was not ready to hear before. Also, the man needed time to heal. He hoped
the Templar was still there. He knocked upon the Gnostics door and politely
requested to sit and pray with the blind man. He was admitted and taken to a
private prayer booth past many scrolls and books that he so badly wanted to
read. Later maybe. Altaïr’s life hung in the balance of this knowledge, the
safety of the whole Brotherhood might.
To get to the room, he had to descend again into the bowels of the building.
The stairs opened to a larger room he had not seen last time he was here. He
was instructed to walk the path to the other side and think about his
questions. The floor revealed a labyrinth pattern that Malik thought was
painted, but as his feet began the first steps, he realized it was slightly
ridged, so one may make this journey with their eyes closed, trusting that God
would guide them. His heart fluttered in this sacred moment. It was like taking
a leap of faith. His questions revolved around the idea of treason and
treachery and whether what he was planning was right or wrong.
If I am to believe in Altaïr, if his concerns are right, morally right, then
dear God, guide me to the truth.
Malik closed his eyes and slowly shuffled along the path of the labyrinth.
Every step raised the knowledge and insights from all the journals and
experiences Malik had this past year with Altaïr. Every turn shifted the
patterns in his mind and heart. Every return along the path brought him back to
Faruq, Kadar, Altaïr, and the lessons and secrets in their childhood and
training.
He reached the end of the labyrinth. If someone had told him it took almost
three hours to do so, he would not have believed them. It was like he had been
walking outside of time. Not yet opening his eyes, Malik was afraid to leave
the labyrinth, afraid to learn the truth.
“Knowledge and truth can be dangerous things. They can trap you with their
temptations or free you from slavery. They may not protect your body, but wield
them with faith, trust, and honor, and they will shield your soul.”
Malik swore he heard his brother speak them now, sure a soft voice murmured
them into the silence of the cavernous room. “Faruq,” whispered Malik.
“Yes, it was he who spoke those words to me.”
Malik’s eyes flew open. The Templar, still dressed like a Templar, with a neat
blindfold covering his ruined eyes, stood before Malik in the doorway. They
were at the beginning of the labyrinth from where Malik had started. “He was my
brother,” Malik whispered.
“He was my lover,” the Templar whispered back as he turned and walked into a
darkened prayer room lit with candles and smoking gently with incense.
Chapter End Notes
     An eleven circuit labyrinth is a powerful meditation tool as well as
     problem solving tool. You walk it in silence with the problem or
     prayer in mind. A large one will take about 2-3 hours, a smaller one
     about an hour (for a seven circuit labyrinth). You can even make it
     out of clay and follow it with your finger if you cannot find a
     walking one near you.
     https://www.tokenrock.com/explain-labyrinth-99.html
***** Altair Learns the Truth *****
Chapter Notes
     To understand the story behind the Knight and the Bishop changed
     rules, see this fanfic of my fic written by symphonyofsilence:
     http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6664751/1/The_bishop_and_his_knight
The sun woke him from his comfortable dream. Or was it the poking stick in his
hip. Altaïr shifted a little then realized the poky thing was in his pocket. He
pulled it out as he stretched, wincing a little with bruises and stitches. He
rolled the black bishop piece in his hand and rubbed it against his lips
remembering that kiss. The sound of an army or three jostled his focus back to
reality. He hurried to track the movements and stay ahead till he could reach
Arsuf, hopefully ahead of Robert. Saladin’s army was slowly moving through the
rougher higher ground. Richard’s army controlled Arsuf. Robert’s Templar’s
moved along the lower ground.
Altaïr watched with suspicion. Robert managed his army as if it were
independent of King Richard. It was as if there actually were three armies
here. Robert was ready to take out his own king if that became necessary for
Robert’s plans. So, Richard has a traitor in his ranks too. That could work to
Altaïr’s advantage, if he could convince the English King. Unfortunately, there
was no way Altaïr could catch up to Robert and his elite contingent. Altaïr
prayed he could be convincing, prayed for the silver tongue that Malik was
gifted with, or at least for the courage to be calm and patient and clear.
He watched Robert’s men enter Richard’s camp. There was no time to lose. He
took a breath and silently apologized to Malik for he decided the best course
of action… was to break the Creed. He stepped into plain sight and walked
openly to the camp. Two of Richard’s men stopped him. “Hold a moment,” Altaïr
raised his hands palms up briefly, “It is words I bring not steel.” Altaïr’s
English was almost flawless and only slightly accented.
King Richard looked like a tired man, but just a man, a man in control.
“Offering terms of surrender then?” asked the king, making assumptions upon
Altaïr’s identity. “It’s about time.”
“You misunderstand. It is Al Mualim who sends me not Saladin.”
Richard cursed out the word, “assassin,” and almost disregarded Altaïr to the
dealings of his men. “What is the meaning of this and be quick with it!”
Altaïr kept his poise and his calm, “You have a traitor in your midst.”
“And he has hired you to kill me?” Richard held the courage of a lion to face
Altaïr the assassin fearlessly. “Have you come to gloat about it before you
strike? I won’t be taken so easily!” How could he? He was surrounded by armies
ready to do more battle with Saladin’s.
“It is not you I have come to kill,” countered Altaïr. “It is him.” He tried to
let the mystery of the who hold Richard to conversation. It was a tactic Malik
employed often to keep Altaïr’s attention.
“Speak then that I may judge the truth,” encouraged Richard. “Who is this
traitor?”
Altaïr was highly impressed at King Richard’s willingness to listen. Altaïr was
allowed to pass and approach the king to a safe distance. “Robert de Sable.”
“My lieutenant?” Richard laughed.
“He aims to betray,” Altaïr tried to plead his own case to the king.
Calmly, Richard replied, “That is not the way he tells it. He seeks revenge for
the havoc you wreaked in Acre, and I am inclined to support him. Some of my
best men were murdered by some of yours.”
Altaïr clenched his teeth. He thought he had arrived before Robert had settled
in long enough to speak to the king. He obviously was wrong. Altaïr needed to
tip his hand, risk everything for the one thing he needed, the king’s ear.
Altaïr reminded himself that he would do anything for Malik, and that included
being careful. If he did not convince the king now, Altaïr would be killed,
slaughtered. “It was I who killed them and with good reason.” Now he had to
build his proof without sounding insane. “Hear me out.”
Altaïr was very grateful for Malik’s insistence to write things out, journal
them. It helped Altaïr sort out the facts and feelings. “William of Montfort,
he sought to use his soldiers to take Acre by force. Garnier de la Plouse, he
would use his skills to indoctrinate and control any who resisted. Sibrand, he
intended to block the ports, preventing your kingdom from providing aid. They
betrayed you and they took their orders from Robert.” That was as succinct as
Altaïr could put it.
Richard did not seem convinced, “You expect me to believe this outlandish
tale?”
“You knew these men, better than I. Are you truly surprised to learn of their
ill intentions?” Altaïr had heard that Richard was a smart king.
Richard turned to one of the Templars and demanded, “Is this true?!”
Robert removed his silver helm. His cold eyes regarded Altaïr with cool
recognition. He bowed his head to the king and spoke English accented in
French, “My liege. It is an assassin that stands before us. These creatures are
masters of manipulation.” He spoke as if the assassins were animals. It only
made Altaïr hate him more. “Of course it isn’t true,” he lied smoothly.
Altaïr pushed his hood back just enough to expose his face and look the king in
the eye, “I have no reason to deceive.”
Robert stepped in readily, “Oh, but you do. You are afraid of what will happen
to your little fortress. Can it withstand the combined force of the Saracen and
the Crusader armies?”
Altaïr thought of the chess board, thought of Malik, thought of the people he
was growing to care about. “My concern is for the people of the Holy Land. If I
must sacrifice myself for there to be peace, then so be it.” If the king was as
honourable as rumor would have, then he would rise to seek out the truth and to
find justice. Altaïr hoped for this.
To Altaïr’s relief, King Richard did, “it is a strange place we find ourselves
in, one man accusing the other.”
Here Robert’s composure began to break, “There really is no time for this!”
Perhaps if he had not spoken at all and remained patient and humble, Richard
would never have had a doubt. “I must be off to meet with Saladin and enlist
his aid. The longer we delay, the harder this will become.”
Altaïr saw that flicker of doubt and suspicion in the king’s eyes at Robert’s
haste to avoid this conflict. “Hold a moment Robert,” called the king.
Robert stabbed Altaïr with a dagger look as he turned to face his king as
humbly as he could pretend to be. “Why? What do you intend?” He eyed Altaïr
then Richard. “Surely you do not believe him?”
Altaïr saved his case by holding to good training. He remains still, quiet,
patient. He did not push any more than he had to. He waited, allowing Robert’s
actions to create their own noose and Richard to realize it.
“It is a difficult decision,” stated the king, “one I cannot make alone. I must
leave it in the hands of one wiser than I.”
And Robert hung himself with his next words of arrogance, “thank you.” He dared
assume he was wiser than King Richard.
The king did not miss it, eyebrows knit hard. “No, Robert. Not you.” King
Richard refrained from declaring how insulted he was, by divine grace alone.
“Then who?” asked Robert feeling suddenly undermined.
A flicker of a grin from Richard was aimed at Altaïr, “The Lord God. Let this
be decided by combat. Surely God will side with the one whose cause if
righteous.”
Suddenly Altaïr’s insides clenched as he felt damned. He took a deep breath.
This would be like a leap of faith. Maybe Adha was right. Maybe there is a God.
Altaïr wondered if this was a good time to actually pray. Would God actually
listen to him? He doubted it. Maybe if he were Malik.
Remembering how he had defeated the assassins before, Robert grinned arrogantly
at Altaïr. He bowed to the king, “If this is what you wish, so be it.” He drew
his blade and called out, “To arms men!” and his Templars also drew their
blades. Robert, like a coward, like that woman he had trained, backed away and
let his men fight Altaïr first, to tire the assassin before he stepped in.
Conviction kept Altaïr alive. He fought as hard there, or harder, than he did
in the fight at the funeral. By the time he mowed through the Templars and took
on Robert directly, his vision wavered in little heat waves. Altaïr had no idea
how he would survive this, if he could survive this. When the fog rolled in as
he fought Robert, he wasn’t sure for a moment whether it was there for the
Templar’s dying soul or for his own. The pain vanished in the fog and Robert
grew limp in Altaïr’s arms. That is when he knew. “It’s done then. Your
schemes, like you, are put to rest.”
Robert, dying, laughed still, “You know nothing of schemes.” The older man
chuckled again, “He betrayed you, boy, just as he betrayed me.”
“Speak sense Templar, or not at all.” Altaïr was fed up with the cryptic
messages in these fogged episodes.
Here the truth was revealed. Nine men guarded the secret of the treasure. Not
really nine, but ten. It was ten men who found it and the tenth… was Al Mualim.
It all made sense now. How Al Mualim knew so much about Templars and the
Templar movements and goals. Robert turned out to be no more than just another
pawn… like Altaïr. Altaïr was tired of being a pawn. He wanted to be the white
knight. He wanted to fight alongside the black bishop in the made up rules he
and Malik had created one day over a chess game. Robert’s words were the truth;
it was always the truth in the fog. And with his death, there were no more
missions, no one for Altaïr to hunt. Robert was right. Altaïr knew too much. He
would be the next target. Then Al Mualim might follow the trail and learn who
else Altaïr shared the knowledge with. Malik would be next. In that moment,
Altaïr had to choose between Malik and Al Mualim. It was surprising how easy
that decision turned out to be.
Even as Altaïr left the camp safely, the conversation he had with King Richard
hung in his mind.
Even if you do not believe in God, he seems to believe in you.
Vengence, then…
… no not vengeance, justice, that there might be peace…
This is what you fight for? Peace? Do you not see the contraction?
… some men cannot be reasoned with…
We come into this world kicking and screaming, violent and unstable, it is what
we are, we cannot help ourselves.
… no, we are what we choose to be…
… I speak the truth…
In time, maybe, what you seek may be possible, but not today.
… Then I take my leave to see my Master. Apparently even he is not without
fault…
He is only human, as are we all, you as well.
Altaïr had bid him safety and peace, as he would a Brother of the Order. He
wanted to rush back to Malik with this news. However, he had to trust that
Malik would come to the same truths. He took the first horse he could steal and
rode it hard to Masyaf. The extra distance of Arsuf meant the journey would
take him a week to make his way around the battles and the mountains to a road
he could ride upon.
He rode for Masyaf, for Master Al Mualim. This time, Altaïr was armed with the
truth. May it guard his soul and lend him strength. Some things are true and
some things are not permitted. He was determined to face his master and this
time, not back down. It would be a confrontation.
***** Malik & the Templar *****
Faruq….
 “He was my brother,” Malik whispered.
“He was my lover,” the Templar whispered back as he turned and walked into a
darkened prayer room lit with candles and smoking gently with incense.
At first Malik did not follow the Templar. The incongruity of the man and his
words and his brother came as a shock. And yet, it made perfect sense. Faruq
never took a wife, threw himself into training and medicine and missions, and
thus never had children. Malik and Kadar, being the children of their father’s
second wife, were so much younger than Faruq that they were very much like his
own children already. Other clues in Malik’s memories helped fill in the gaps
and make this notion make sense, including himself and his own comforts and
desires. But with a Templar? He wanted to yell at his brother for having taken
leave of his senses to find a lover among the enemy. What had Faruq gotten
himself into?
The prayer room Malik had been guided into was dimly lit by warm candles with
gentle incense burning. There was a cushioned bench, a small carpet, a kneeling
cushion and a bowl filled with prayer beads. A wooden table served both as a
place to lean for prayer and as a library for prayer books and scrolls. Every
religion Malik was familiar with and many he wasn’t seemed to be recognized in
some small way here.
The Templar sat upon the bench. Malik took out his journal, “I hold short notes
about the clues of the mysteries I have been trying to unravel, of the puzzle
of treachery I have been trying to piece together. I have many chain links, and
am just starting to see how they connect. My friend, my Brothers, others in my…
Order, our master, this war for the Holy Land, King Richard, Saladin, the
Templars. They seem all connected and underlying them all are lies, secrets,
betrayal.” Malik’s hands tightened on the book. The leather creaked as he did.
“I have been thinking these through for months,” confessed Malik. “Terrible
things have happened and I am missing the key clues to make it all make sense.
People have been or are being hurt or killed and I need to know why and how to
stop it… if I can. I made this book over the last few days trying to put it all
together before talking to anyone. I wanted to be sure. Then… then my friend
bade me promise to seek the truth to help free him from something, to help save
our Order before the traitor in our ranks destroys us.” He thought about
Altaïr’s words and Altaïr’s drugged journal sessions.
“And now you come to a temple dedicated to no god and yet to all gods for your
answers?” asked the Templar in his relatively good Arabic.
“No. I have come to seek answers from you. When we last spoke, you told me you
knew things I needed to know. You knew them through Faruq. What was my brother
involved in? Was it why he was killed?” Malik took a breath and then charged
into his other questions that betrayed some of his current discriminations,
“and with you! A Templar! What were you and my brother doing? I mean how did
you two… you should be enemies. What reasons do you have that I should not kill
you here now?”
The Templar sighed sadly. “I suppose you have every right to demand such
questions. Remember, Assassin and Templar and Crusader and Sarasin are all just
people, humans, with dreams and hopes and families, and needs. We all make
mistakes and hopefully we all learn from them.” He gestured to the walls of the
prayer room. “They say the walls echo the Golden Rule. Do they?”
Malik tore his angry eyes from the Templar to look upon the walls, to study
them. He gasped as he scanned from wall to wall. “Do unto others as you would
have them do unto you.” It read thus in many languages with slight variants.
The Templar named a religion after Malik read each one.
“Every religion seems to share similar kernels of truth,” the Templar
explained. “God has been part of every culture. And into them did he lay
powerful gifts to aid the people in their journeys through life. However some
are greedy and ignore the Golden Rule. So the treasures were hidden from the
world. We Templars learned of them through some texts and started our search
for them. At first it was to ensure they did not fall into unrighteous hands.
But who are we to decide who are righteous and not? We were condemning people
simply because they were different. I fell ill one year and a man cared for me
as he did many others, regardless of our color, code or creed. I admired him so
much for he fluidly spoke each person’s language as he soothed them through the
plague that hit the village me and the men I was with controlled. Few of us
survived. He and I became cautious friends then.”
“The plague lasted so long and help would not come. So in the quiet waiting, he
and I spoke. He taught me many things. We spoke of a Sacred Chalice. She did
not survive the voyage by sea. He knew she was a treasure. Faruq knew about
such things and more. He was a listener. A watcher. He learned from everything
and everyone. He warned me of danger in my ranks, and that a traitor was
seeking to control the treasures, not protect them. But he did not know who.”
“One night we abandoned our flags and met simply as men, shared our needs and
our loneliness. Our paths crossed often after that. We risked our lives with
each secret encounter. Often we met only to teach each other languages, reading
and writing, and the things we have discovered in our travels. One day I told
him that I overheard Robert de Sable speak of a treasure that he and nine
others had found. They were a haphazard band of men who encountered it in the
tomb of King Solomon. Saracen and Templar. Ten men found a treasure. They were
going to take it back to England, but then they fought. Saracens wanted to keep
it here in the Holy Land. Templars wanted it in England or Rome. Robert dreamed
big of using it to bring peace, control the Holy Land and the world. A new
world order.”
Malik listened with a chill in his back. This was consistent with his own notes
and things Altaïr had written.
“Faruq asked me to find out the names of these men if I could. So I did.” The
Templar recited the names of all the men as if reading a list he had memorized.
They were all Altaïr’s targets save for one, their own master. “I only knew
Robert directly and heard the name of some of the other Templars, but all the
others are a mystery to me. When I asked him if he knew who any of these men
were, he told me that one day he would die for this knowledge and perhaps so
would I, but likely it would be he. If he did die, I was to find you and tell
you the list, that you would know how to proceed in his stead.”
“I know these men you speak of.” Malik barely whispered. “They are all dead or
will be. I thank you for this.” Malik understood now. Faruq must have
confronted Al Mualim about this and thus earned a black mark. That the Templar
and Faruq had no consistent way of meeting, having met randomly and in secret
when they happened to by luck cross paths, meant the Templar was protected
unless Robert wished him dead. And why would he want him dead when it gave him
a perfect link inside the Assassins. Malik jotted down all these notes and
never once asked this Templar’s name. The anonymity would help protect him
further. This confirmed so much. Malik had once wondered what secrets his
brother was investigating but had always been told it was not his business yet.
Yet. Now, it was. Now, it was his duty to finish what his brother started.
The Templar pulled out a small notebook from somewhere inside his armor and
handed it to Malik. “This is all I have left of him. I loved him very much. And
through him I know you must love your friend very much as well. Please, take
this. This is all I learned and all the research your brother could find on the
treasures so far. Use it and protect the one you love as I should have been
there to protect Faruq. Do not let your differences keep you apart.”
Malik took the notebook. It was a shared journal, much like the one he and
Altaïr shared. He swallowed hard many times as he flipped randomly through it.
He wasn’t sure if he did so because of what it meant to this man, or because it
was Faruq’s handwriting, or because all Malik could think of was Altaïr and the
danger Altaïr was in.
Malik stayed several days in this Gnostic temple reading this notebook,
comparing it to his own notes and Altaïr’s, and speaking more with this
Templar. Malik learned that the Templar had lost his own little brother in this
war and worried about his cousin he had promised to look out for as she was so
foolishly trying to live as a man in this dangerous world. Malik learned her
name, Maria, and knew she was the Templar Altaïr had faced. He could not help
some mild amusement that Altaïr had been beaten by a girl, nor the amusement
that Malik knew the woman’s name and Altaïr did not. Maybe, just maybe this
woman could be as reasonable as this Templar. She could make a strong ally, if
you suspended gender expectations.
As the end of the fourth day neared and Malik felt he almost had his puzzle
worked out, he spotted two identical pieces of information. One came from
Altaïr and the other from Faruq. The treasure could control the minds of the
weak, bend them to your will if only you make them look upon it and command
them. Al Mualim had tried this very thing on Altaïr but it had not worked.
Altaïr was thankfully special that way. But what if… what about the rest of
those in Masyaf? What about the other assassins? Somehow, Naheem’s father must
have learned this from Faruq when Faruq went to treat Naheem’s mother and that
was why he had insisted that Altaïr not take Naheem to Masyaf. If Altaïr went
to Masyaf alone now…
Yes, all these men on the list were dead, so long as Altaïr managed to kill
Robert. All, but… Al Mualim. Malik could not face that man, not with the
treasure, but Altaïr could… must…
… He would not just be facing Al Mualim though, but a whole army of assassins
and civilians under Al Mualim’s mind control. Alone, Altaïr would be killed.
***** Altair: Delerium *****
Chapter Summary
     ... never ignore Malik.
Yes, all these men on the list were dead, so long as Altaïr managed to kill
Robert. All, but… Al Mualim. Malik could not face that man, not with the
treasure, but Altaïr could… must…
Altaïr rode for Masyaf, for Master Al Mualim. This time, Altaïr was armed with
the truth. May it guard his soul and lend him strength. Some things are true
and some things are not permitted. He was determined to face his master and
this time, not back down. It would be a confrontation.
From Arsuf, Altaïr should have been able to continue north through the
mountains and find a reconnecting point to the main road. That certainly was
impossible with Richard’s armies deep in warring battles with Saladin’s. Altaïr
backtracked at a hard ride. He pushed the horse through the night. Finally back
on the road, it would be another four days to Masyaf. Altaïr tried to stay in
the saddle and let the horse walk. He slept in the saddle and ate what was in
his belt pouches. Along the road, he stopped at a small hut. Altaïr raided it
for food and bandages, water and a bottle of terrible alcohol. There was hardly
enough water to fill one canteen on his belt.
He slept on some rough blankets on the one lonely cot. When he woke, he knew he
was wounded from his fight. Battling Robert’s Templars and then Robert after
the fight with that fake Robert (that woman), had left Altaïr with more wounds
than he had been aware of while hard riding away. Now without the adrenalin
high from battle, every wound screamed at him. He rolled to his side to sit up
and doubled over gritting his teeth. He panted and slowly forced focus and
breath back into himself. Bit by bit, he shunted away the pain. He wished he
had the time to return to Jerusalem to let Malik care for him, but he didn’t.
He sat up with determination and hauled himself out of the hut.
His horse was gone. He spat several vile cursed in several languages.
Altaïr walked along the road, trying to stay to the shade. Sun stroke would not
be good, especially now. He glanced back now and then to be sure he was not
leaving a blood trail. When he did spot blood, he scuffed his boot over it till
it was well rubbed into the dirt before he continued on. When he reached the
bridges, he found his wandering horse and coaxed it over. Riding proved
painful, but necessary. Strange shadows seemed to tease the corners of his
vision, like a giant eagle might have been following him. Or maybe it was a
vulture waiting for him to drop from his horse to become its meal. Altaïr had
no intention of being a buzzard’s meal of carrion. “I am not dead yet!” he
yelled to the shadows.
The horse wound through a fort full of dead men. Saladin’s men were wiped out
here by Richard’s. Altaïr remembered this place. Around the back bend of the
mountain near this fort, you could squeeze through with a horse to a small path
and a lake. Altaïr clenched his teeth and tensed at the prospect of squeezing
between rock and water, but he knew he needed to wash his bloody robes and his
wounds. It was a long process, scrubbing a bluing ball into his clothes to
bleach them white again. Naked on the shore, he tried to ignore the little
droplet trails of blood he left. He draped the robes over bushes and staggered
back to the edge of the water with a rag to wash his own wounds.
He grunted against the pain as he scrubbed. The sound of that damned vulture’s
wings warned him to try to hurry. Sleeping or passing out could get him pecked
to death. He lined up what bandaging he had. It was far from enough for the
wounds he bore. He yelled at it again, but that burned through his lungs and he
almost blacked out. Sipping some of the water to keep his alertness, he
returned to scraping out filth and pulling the odd bit of hay out of wounds. He
sat upon the horse blanket at the edge of the shore as a way to not get sand
into his wounds as he washed, and to give him the sense that he was not
entirely on the edge of water. He paused to just breathe and shut out the pain
again, closing his eyes and counting each breath.
When he opened his eyes, he was curled on his side on the horse blanket. The
sun had moved several hours to a new position, dappling through the leaves over
Altaïr’s bare body. The vulture must have been by and decided he was not
carrion, for Altaïr saw the white and black feathers here and there. He checked
his wounded and realized he must have been treating himself in such a stupor.
As full awareness settled through his mind, so too was the terrible sting of
the last of his salt in his wounds. Malik would kill him for this poor self-
mending. But, what was he to do? He lacked both skill and supplies. He didn’t
remember bringing over the little salt block from his pouches, but shrugged.
Everything had grown fuzzy since he left that hut. He tugged on his robes with
several silent curses. The stray feathers were interesting, so he shoved a
black one and a white one into his belt pouches, to prove to Malik he survived
a buzzard.
Saddled and trotting, the horse carried Altaïr onward. There should be a large
town by another lake. He could hide there, steal food and better bandaging, and
then ride on through to Masyaf. The sun beat down hotly. Sweat stung the gashes
and stabs, especially where salt had been rubbed in. Those would all scar
badly, adding to Altaïr’s collection. He desperately wanted sleep and fought
nodding off in the saddle. Even as the sun set, Altaïr did not feel the brutal
cold of the night. He still felt hot, so very hot. The town seemed to manifest
around him. People ignored his slow passing. He directed the horse to a remote
area near the lake. Oh how he hated that lake. He nearly drowned in it fighting
a Templar and destroying a flag on the little island in the middle of it. But
the hut there, despite the state of ruin, belonged to assassins and should be
stocked with food, fresh water, and medical supplies.
Altaïr slid from the saddle and clung to it till he was sure his shaking legs
would hold him. That vulture’s wings seemed to haunt him everywhere. Or maybe
the fever setting in was making him delirious. Altaïr let the horse loose to
eat the nearby hay while he staggered into the old hut. He dropped his supplies
and heard the thud of the bottle of alcohol he had stolen from the previous
hut. He stripped down to once again scrub his robes white and drape them over
various places. Again he washed, from a bucket of water this time. Then he
uncorked the bottle and thought about drinking it to dull his pain and burn off
his fever. He could hear Malik chastising him about how alcohol thinned the
blood and made you bleed more. So he used it for the original purpose he had
stolen it for. He doused his wounded in it. He tried to muffle his initial
scream of pain by biting on a cloth.
He woke crumpled on the floor.
Maybe he didn’t wake.
The snap of annoyed wings ruffled in his ears. A large shadow moved around him.
Altaïr blurred in and out of fevered dreams. The stabbing pain made him sure he
collapsed outside where that tenacious buzzard must be pecking at his flesh
repeatedly. Vaguely in the back of his mind he could hear Malik speaking small
instructions or chastising him for trying to do so much while already injured.
He voiced his protests futilely. There was no time, he needed to get to Masyaf.
A hand pushed him back onto the bed. Altaïr murmured Malik’s name. Only Malik
cared this much about him. When did Malik grow wings? Maybe it was an angel of
Kadar? He sank back into fevered sleep.
There was no way of knowing how long he had been asleep or healing. He woke to
find his fever broken, his wounds crudely stitched and neatly bandaged. Not
Malik’s work after all. He was mending well. He sat up carefully and flexed
each muscle to test his abilities. He slid cautiously from the bed and dressed.
Sniffing the food, he chose not to eat it in case it was drugged. Altaïr found
his weapons and armour where he had dropped it all. A shiver raced down his
spine at the scattering of black and white feather. He whispered about foreign
sorcery and hurried out of the ruined hut.
“You grouse like a woman when you are wounded,” chuckled a voice with the
faintest hint of familiarity.
Altaïr spun to face the man, the priest or monk from Acre. It was the one who
spoke to him in the church, the same one who saved him from drowning. From
under his hood many expressions danced till his eyes fell upon the white
feathered and black feathered headless chickens in the monk’s left hand,
hanging by their feet. The monk gingerly pushed back Altaïr’s hood and their
eyes met. The gaul and fearlessness of the monk and the half grin as he left
Altaïr to take the chickens in the house made Altaïr feel like a total fool for
the flitting thought that angels existed. No dream-Malik had cared for him.
Altaïr coughed to clear his throat and hoarsely spoke, “Thank… thank you for
your care. I must go.” He wasn’t even sure why he thanked the man or spoke at
all. He pulled his hood back up.
“Eat first. You will need your strength.”
Altaïr weighed the need to get moving, the desire to run away, the urge to
kill, and the intense growl of his stomach at the thought to cooked meat. The
monk emerged from the ruined hut and shoved a plate of food into Altaïr’s
chest. He had to grab it quickly to not drop it. He pulled from his belt pouch
the black and white feathers he had stored for Malik and scrutinized them as he
ate.
“Like white knights and black bishops. Some kings must fall. I will pray for
your success.”
Altaïr tucked the feathers away in the pouch with the black bishop piece not
bothering to question the monk or even wonder at the strangenesses anymore.
Later while on the horse, he glanced back, but there was no monk where moments
ago there was. Altaïr concluded that maybe he did dream everything after all
and vowed to listen to Malik from now on about resting and healing properly.
Clearly ignoring Malik leads to degrees of madness.
He kicked the horse into a run.
***** Called by the King of Swords *****
Chapter Notes
     Are you nervous? Excited? I am!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Altaïr kicked the horse into a run.
Armed with information that could ruin the Brotherhood, Malik hurried back to
the Bureau.
Naheem shook out his hand, sore from transcribing so many notes from
information the informants brought to him. War. The news was not good at all.
Saladin’s armies had moved into the south. Richard’s army held Arsuf and the
border to the Holy Land. The other news Naheem kept was in a different book,
for Malik. The last of the informants vanished out the roof for the day as
Naheem tried to finish the notes. He scrubbed his face with worry and closed
the secret log. Malik had been gone for days. Naheem fiddled with the slip of
paper in his pocket. Al Mualim ordered the assassins back to Masyaf to protect
it from invasion. Naheem did not follow through with the command. His trust in
this mysterious master was too thin. But what if he was wrong? He didn’t know
what to do. What if Malik did not return?
The door rattled. Naheem’s eyes snapped to it. He had obeyed Malik and kept
things carefully locked. He even had things packed and hidden just in case…
just in case the Bureau was breached. It rattled again. Naheem grabbed the two
log books and ran into the back. He dropped them into an oiled burlap sack,
lifted the waste grill, and leaned into it. He held his breath as he swung the
sack a little hearing the lock clang and the door open.
“Naheem?!”
The novice froze.
“Naheem?!”
“Master Malik?!” Naheem called back. He almost regretted the stench he inhaled
as he had yelled back. He refrained from dropping the log books and wriggled
back out of the waste grill opening.
Malik locked the door and was greeted by a strong and foul smelling hug.
After some cleaning up and a good dinner, Naheem shared what he had learned so
far. The dealings and cross dealings. The lies and the deceptions against both
leaders, Saladin and Richard. All in the name of God and for God’s treasures.
Naheem had not put all the pieces together yet, but Malik was sure it would not
be long, especially with the information he had to add to this.
“Naheem. You are a good novice, the best I have seen in a long time. You know
we have a traitor in our ranks. I know who it is. So does Altaïr. He goes for
the traitor now. He doesn’t know what he is about to encounter. I need to help
him. Go to the aviary and send out these messages.” Malik scrawled out a list
and the message. The men on his list would know. Some months ago when he was
sure of a traitor, Malik had sent word to those he trusted and sent them to
hide and train and wait. He would call them and they would know.
The King of Swords stands ready at the ruined tower.
“Master Malik?” Naheem guiltily handed over the wrinkled slip of paper from the
message bird.
Malik examined it. It bode poorly for Altaïr. He changed his list for Naheem
and then ordered Naheem to run the Bureau as normal, as if nothing had changed.
Naheem asked who the traitor was and Malik refused to tell him, nor where he
learned the truth. “For your sake, my novice. You must remain ignorant. If have
no answers, then they cannot get them from you by torture.”
“Do you think someone will come to torture me for answers?” It was an honest
question.
Malik gave him the most honest answer, “Yes, it is very possible.”
It was sobering and terrifying. “Guess I won’t be getting married after all,”
whispered Naheem as his eyes drifted to a recent sketch of Tibah he had done.
Malik wished to comfort this young man. The words came too easily, “Don’t give
up on that just yet, boy.” Malik aimed with the small tease, much like when he
called Altaïr novice. “We will go on and the Creed must still be upheld.” Malik
tapped the picture. “Run the Bureau as if I were here. See her as if I had sent
you. Send word to Masyaf as if I wrote it. You know how to run this place. Oh…
and don’t you dare forget your lessons, any of them.”
Naheem nodded his promise. Malik left the next day with some maps for a fort
outside the city.
Some of his trusted men and a few assassins from Jerusalem joined him. They
stole horses at their earliest convenience and followed Malik’s maps through
narrow passageways and back routes as he cut a path toward Masyaf. They rode
through the ruins to a tower and waited a day for friends, brothers-in-arms.
Malik made sure they knew what they were facing, warned them of the innocents
they might face, and reminded them of the Creed. Scouting ahead told them more,
including that Altaïr had recently passed. Malik shook his head. Altaïr could
be very efficient when he wanted to be. More often than not, Altaïr tossed
discretion off the eagle point.
Malik prayed that Altaïr had not abandoned the Creed. That prayer was soon
followed by the prayer that Altaïr was still alive.
Chapter End Notes
     *nail biting*
***** Altair & the Brainwashed *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the short chapter.
     Also... from statistics in the other places I have posted this story,
     almost 1000 (one THOUSAND) people have read this story. I am shocked,
     humbled and grateful.
Altaïr met no resistance outside Masyaf. At first, he thought nothing of it. He
was an assassin after all; why should he encounter such trouble? But as he
walked the horse past the guard posts and to the stable, he had the chilling
feeling of wrongness. There were no guards. None. Nowhere. It was as if the
tower and entry gates had been abandoned.
Thinking that maybe he had actually been too late in encountering Robert, that
maybe Masyaf had already fallen to the combined army… but that was foolish. He
already met with King Richard, who surprisingly shone the blue of a trusted
ally. He ran into the city. The quiet was liken to the tombs of the old
temples. There was no one there either, not even rotting bodies. Littering
carcasses Altaïr could deal with. This… this made him uneasy. It was too much
like many of his nightmares.
He walked cautiously through the town of Masyaf toward the central fountain of
the lower part of the city. He dared to look into homes. Empty. Empty with food
burned to nothing on the cook fires, or still warm on tables. There were no
signs of fleeing or fighting. Altaïr jerked aside at the movement of a shadow.
A cat hopped off a table where it was stealing food off a plate. Everything was
so quiet. The only sounds were of the occasional animals. No hustle and bustle
of men at the stable or the market, no babbling and clanging of women doing the
laundry or the cooking, no shrill playful cries of children chasing each other
through the streets.
A man lumbered by the fountain and Altaïr approached, demanding answers, “What
happened here? Where is everyone?”
The man replied in a monotone, “Gone to see the Master.”
“Was it the Templars? Did they attack again?”
Again the man replied in an eerie monotone, “They walk the path.”
“The path? What path?” Altaïr did not understand. “What are you talking about?
The man continued almost as if Altaïr had not spoken to him, “… Towards the
light.”
“Speak sense!”
“There is only what the Master shows us. This is the truth.”
No… this is the truth. “You have lost your mind!” Altaïr had no other
explanation.
“You too will walk the path or you will perish.” The man’s words sounded like a
threat to Altaïr, what Robert had warned him of in the fog. “Sword and Master
commands.”
“It was Al Mualim, wasn’t it?” Altaïr needed to be absolutely sure. As hateful
as the treatment was to him by his Master, Al Mualim made Altaïr what he was
today, the very best assassin. He even helped Altaïr better understand the
Creed when he stepped too far beyond it and failed Malik. Al Mualim was mentor
and father in a way. “What has he done to you?”
“Praise be to the Master for he has led us to the light!” The man sounded like
one of those religious fanatics.
Altaïr could take no more of his words and fled through the city to climb to
the upper markets. Chest heaving, he molded himself to the stones at the side
of a building. There were few things more creepy or terrifying than this. Only
water…. And walking dead.
Altaïr heard movement on the other side of the building. Soldiers’ marching
feet. They formed up in the clearing at the bottom of the hill path that wound
its way up to the castle and training grounds of Masyaf. Altaïr forced his
breathing to slow down, tried to quiet his heart and listened. He tried to
count how many were there without looking, without giving away his position.
His heart pounded in his ears. He risked a swift glance.
Masyaf guards and trained assassins between ranks five and eight. Brothers.
He approached and asked about the city as he had to the first man. The answers
from them were the same. They invited him to join them on the path, to join
them in the light. At his refusal they attacked!
***** Journey of Robert's Journal *****
Chapter Summary
     I wanted to know, didn’t you?
Not all the informants had made it into the Bureau before Malik left, but Malik
could not wait. He had given a date for them to return or send information and
left right after. So when the last one dropped through the roof into the
Bureau, Naheem nearly died of fright. The older informant was wounded, too. He
was scraped and gashed and bleeding. Naheem immediately helped him into the
back and did what he could to wash and roughly bandage the wounds. Just the
bleeding would not stop. The informant had been in the old Temple of Solomon
seeking clues left behind by Robert de Sable. He held out a bloodied journal,
“Get it to Malik. He… urgh! He needs to see this.”
Naheem hid the journal for the moment. Saving this life came first to him. He
rushed out, locking the door, and was almost too careless in front of guards
who demanded why he was trying to run with his bad limp. “I… I spilled cerulean
blue ink! The map is due today! I need to get more before the client arrives.
I’m just the novice… I... I have to go!” The guards let him go and laughed at
how scared the novice was on his own without his master. Naheem had no
intention of enlightening them about his true anxiety.
He arrived to the market too late. The stalls were closed up for the evening.
His next destination was the home of the woman he was courting. The Creed ran
through Naheem’s mind. What he was about to do would break that. But if he
married Tibah, wouldn’t she know anyways? Wasn’t she going to train under Malik
and thus be the doctor Naheem could not be? When she arrived with her brother,
he made a decision. “Tibah? I need your help. I am not my uncle.” His voice
shook just a little.
Tibah stepped indecently close to him. Her keen eyes saw the blood dotted shirt
Naheem hid under his overshirt. “I’ll get my books and some supplies. Wash it,
bandage it, and put pressure. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Naheem decided
he loved her already, more than the growing crush. Her keenness was simply
incredible to him and saved him from breaking any oaths. He hurried back to do
as she said.
The informant however, was already dead.
“NOOOO!” he screamed. “NOOO! No…” Naheem sank to his knees and buried his face
into his hands and fisted his hands in his hair.
He ran from there to the old man’s house, the old Dai. Junayd was out at
language lessons and the man often just called Grandfadder by Junayd took the
news of his son’s death sadly, but in stride as an eventual expectation. He
walked back with Naheem to teach him what to do. Another informant was
summoned. Tibah sat with Naheem on the carpets. He sat there tapping his cane
on the ground feeling totally useless and like he just broke every rule and
failed Malik. He failed that informant who died on him. He threw the cane and
watched it clatter and scare the pigeons. “It was just a stupid book!”
All eyes suddenly turned to him. He heard the door lock. Grandfadder took over
after the body of his eldest son was snuck out to be dealt with in private. He
demanded to see the book. Tibah swore her brother to silence for his lover’s
sake. Kadar stayed out of the way, but kept a hand on his sword hilt. The old
Dai was too old to fight, if he even knew how. Tibah couldn’t fight. And
Naheem, well Kadar didn’t think Naheem was trained enough to really fight.
Naheem retrieved the book and let the old Dai look through it.
Grandfadder skimmed it and gasped. “This… Master Malik needs this. He needs
this now.” The urgency strained in the wrinkles of his face.
Naheem’s eyes flitted back and forth as though he searched his mind for if he
could leave this place to get to Malik or not then hung his head to confess, “I
don’t know how to ride.” Altaïr had guided his horse and only showed him the
basics. This run to Malik needed someone with experience.
“I’ll go.” The silence echoed off the walls as everyone looked then to young
Kadar. “I can fight and I can ride. And I owe Master Malik a life.”
The old Dai nodded, “You would be saving more than one life but the whole of
the Holy Land.”
Tibah was so proud of her brother. However that evaporated when he planned to
take her home. She wanted to stay. Naheem needed help, needed someone with him
after this trauma. “No Tibah, propriety. You go home now. There isn’t time to
argue.”
“How dare you speak to me about propriety!”
“Tibah! You are not married to him yet and I don’t want what happened to Abby
to happen to you,” Kadar pleaded with his willful sister. She sighed and let
him escort her home, but not before she kissed Naheem’s cheek for comfort. He
needed all he could get.
The old man ordered Naheem to scrub up all evidence of the blood, and then log
the death. Naheem apologized often to the old man who lost his eldest son. They
then closed up the Bureau and changed the flags to announce closure. Just for a
few days. They secured everything away from potential prying eyes.
Kadar returned later that afternoon with travel armor on, and a second shorter
sword tied in with his first. Over his shoulder was a satchel with some food
and water for travel and letters for passage and for securing a horse. His
father seemed much more understanding than Kadar had expected, and yet nervous
for his son. Kadar knew he would be riding into potential danger just by his
father’s reaction.
Naheem provided Kadar with maps and wondered if Malik would kill him for this
breach. Grandfadder assured him that the need seriously outweighed the
consequence at this point. The old Dai also strongly advised Kadar to be
cautious as Malik had hardened warriors with him and they might try to harm him
as he is a stranger. He should call out the greeting of “Safety & peace from
novices of Jerusalem” should he meet anyone. If they still attack, he should
run. Malik and his men would not attack if that greeting were called out.
Kadar left immediately with the book wrapped well and hidden under his chest
armor.
Grandfadder brought Naheem to Tibah’s home where he would find comfort. Naheem
would have to serve in Kadar’s place in the mornings and serve the Bureau as
the scribe and map maker in the afternoons. Left on the doorstep like a
foundling, Naheem didn’t feel ready to face humans. He climbed the nearest
ladder and sat on a roof. If he had disliked killing a man to protect others,
he disliked even more failing to save the life of one in the Bureau where
safety and peace were supposed to be assured. His eyes blurred with threatening
tears. He pulled up his knees and buried his face in his arms. He thought he
had felt someone hug him gentle but was too distraught to see who. A soft
feather brushed his cheek and the person left. A man’s voice whispered, “This
was not your fault. You have done as best as you could. The rest is now up to
others. Be strong or them for when they return.” Naheem remained on the roof
till well after sunset before he climbed back down and shyly knocked upon the
estate door.
Tibah’s father drew him in like a father to a broken son. He found sanctuary
there for the night. Tibah received firm instructions from her elder sister and
mother on wifely behavior and duty which she would serve this night to her
betrothed. She served him a late meal, prepared a bedroom for him, and sat
chastely in silence… hating every second. Her mother brought in the triplets to
distract the two young adults from their own thoughts and frustrations. Naheem
was patient, watchful and altogether too adorable with the babies, especially
once he realized Altaïr ’s son was the boy. He would know those golden eyes
anywhere. When the babes went to bed, Naheem was offered paper and some
charcoals to draw. Tibah knew what soothed him already and her mother was very
proud. Naheem quietly vented onto the pages with many rough and raw sketches.
He bathed alone and had evening drinks with Tibah’s father and Abby, Kadar’s
badly scarred but alive lover. Naheem retired for the night to draw in the bed
Tibah had prepared for him. He felt so… useless. He had weathered so much and
found himself unable to weather this, not understanding why. It was very late,
past midnight when Tibah secretly slipped into his bedroom. He thought it was
one of their servants or her father. He scrubbed his face with the edge of his
sleeve to try to appear presentable. Tibah sank gently upon his bed and rubbed
his back. “You should not be here,” he whispered.
“You should not have to be alone after what happened today,” she countered in a
soft voice.
He looked down at the picture he was trying to draw of her with a child in her
arms.
She echoed the stranger’s words from the roof, “What happened was not your
fault, Naheem. You did the best you could. His wounds from the accident in the
old Temple were just too great. You are a strong man and will still be that
tomorrow.” She smiled at him as his eyes met her warm brown ones. Her hair
matched her eyes with tiny strands of gold mixed in that caught the
candlelight, reminders that her mother was European and not Middle Eastern. He
lost himself in those warm brown eyes. “Are you worried about your uncle and
the eagle?” At his nod she continued with a surety that he clung to, “They will
be fine. I know. Angels watch over them all the time. Just like they watch over
you, too.”
They watched each other in silence for a few minutes while he drank in her
support. She caressed his cheek before asking, “That picture, is that what you
want one day?”
“One day. I want to … share… share who I am before anything happens.” He looked
away again as his shyness wiggled under his skin. Her touch pulled his eyes
back to her.
Tibah closed her eyes, leaned in and softly pressed her lips to his.
Naheem froze at first, and then relaxed into the curious kiss. “When I am with
you, once I learn from your uncle, this sad thing will not happen again. We
will be a very good team.” She fingered the picture. “I love this picture best,
of all the ones I’ve seen you draw. May I keep it?”
“Tomorrow, when I finish it.” He tasted his lips to see if he could taste her
on them. “Tibah? Thank you.”
She kissed his cheek innocently before she left his room.
In this moment, Naheem didn’t feel alone. He thought he would have been scared
about her in his bedroom when he was hardly decent, when she was hardly decent.
He thought he would have so much anxiety when she kissed him. But he did not.
It simply felt… right. Just right. He finished the drawing and went to sleep
with a small prayer that the angels she spoke of would indeed watch over Malik,
Altaïr , and Kadar who was riding out to meet them.
Kadar had no trouble securing a horse on his father’s order from the stables
outside. He tied the satchel of papers, maps, some apothecary bottles of
medicine and one bottle of ink over his horse and the other with food and water
for his travel. He secured his head scarf to be safe from the sun and rode off
up the road. He kept his horse at a steady but fast pace as long as it could
handle it. He stopped to water it while he studied the map. He slept in the
saddle the first night and regretted that choice. The next night as he drew
closer to the ruins on his map he debated sleeping in the ruins or riding
through them in the dark. Neither option sat well with him. He slept in the hay
outside the ruins. Riding through them in the day was unnerving enough,
especially as he exited them to a wasted battlefield of mostly rotted corpses.
The horse picked its way through. Kadar saw the ruined tower up the hill and
steered the horse to it. He called out the greeting, but was met with silence.
He explored the tower, but found nothing, nothing but the faded warm spot of a
fire from the night. He was not much more than half a day behind Master Malik.
Excited, he rode the horse hard through the roads. He was hauled aside by every
guard post and soldier from that point on. And he had so recently thought how
boring it was riding and doing nothing.
By the time he reached the village where all the roads intersected, he was well
pissed off with being stopped by guards. His letters from his father had gotten
him past most of the guards with not too much trouble. Ok, sometimes he had to
draw blade and cross swords to prove he meant business. But otherwise it was
mostly just annoying. At the village, he was again hauled aside when he tried
to ride through it. He fought and argued. They held him back and searched all
his belonging. It earned him a fist full of chain mail to the mouth as he
watched them empty all his packs and search his whole person. He tried not to
panic when the tossed the book they found on him to the ground and kept
searching. They confiscated his coin and demanded what the weird bottles were.
For the tenth time this day, he explained about his father’s apothecary. They
hit him in the face again and then left him be. Kadar growled to himself as he
repacked everything. He spat out the tooth they knocked loose and wondered how
Master Malik got past these men.
Bruised, tired, hungry, Kadar trotted the horse onward up the long road into
the rough and rugged terrain of the mountains toward Masyaf. The sun set long
before he saw anything akin to buildings. He sagged in the saddle and tried
hard not to fall asleep, or off. A scuffling noise made his horse rear and
throw him to the ground. Two men pounced on him in seconds. “Safety… safety and
peace,” he winced out, “Safety and peace from the novices of Jerusalem.”
“Hold! Don’t kill him.”
Kadar wasn’t sure if that was the Master map maker or not. It sounded like him,
but much more sure, in command, much scarier of a man, like his father when his
father chose to be. And these men Master Malik was with, slipped in and out of
sight like trained ghosts with swift deadly teeth. Demons. Assassins.
“What in Allah’s name are YOU doing here, Kadar?”
Kadar was starting to ask himself the same question. He dared not move in case
an assassin threw a knife and ended him.
“Naheem… book…” He hated that he stammered. He ran his tongue over the missing
front tooth and swollen lip. “Naheem got a book that some old guy said you must
have. Someone died trying to get it to you. The old guy said it was a matter of
life and death of the whole of the Holy Land, your life and the life of some
eagle my sister babbles about. You saved Abby’s life. So I said I would take it
to you since no one else could and not like anyone of them could fight god
forsaken soldiers that I hope go to HELL!” Malik’s hand gripped his chin and
forced his face to turn into the moonlight. “I just want to get back home…
alive…”
“You will rest with us tonight. Then you will go straight back home. This is no
place for you. I’ll show you on a map a different way back to Jerusalem, a
safer way. Give me this book.” Malik helped him up.
Wary of the shadows now, Kadar pulled the book out and handed it over to Malik.
He then followed Malik into a building he swore was a cave a moment ago, it was
so well camouflaged. Malik commanded the men around him, four men, to take
rounds for the night in case anyone followed this young man here. Then he
ordered another to bring Kadar some food and water, while he treated Kadar’s
wounds. “Now you have a battle wound to tell Abby about for your heroics.”
Kadar scoffed. “Battle wound. It was stupid. I should have moved. I don’t know
why I just stood there.”
“Well, next time then, you will move.” Malik’s words were of little comfort
other than that they sounded much like what his father would have said. After a
full belly, sleep came easily, but when he woke, he woke alone. He wondered if
maybe he had dreamed it all, but the book was gone. His packs were filled with
fresh provisions and ready on his horse. He rode home not feeling like much of
any hero.
Through the night, Malik read through the book, Robert’s journal. The French
was exotic, but not impossible to read. Malik was fluent in many languages,
French among them. What he read was both shocking and heart wrenching for the
fate of people. Altaïr was walking right into that. Altaïr might be the only
one who could end it before it ends the whole of the Holy Land. He shared some
of what he read to the horror of the four men with him. There was so much in
this journal. Malik wanted to study all the secrets within those pages, but
that would have to wait till later. Altaïr came first. Just before Dawn they
all invisibly abandoned the young guard to weave through the fallen old stones
and trees that marked the road into the city of Masyaf.
Still no sign of Altaïr.
They took cautious routes to the higher grounds. Malik met the man at the
fountain that Altaïr had met. The sound of battle echoed eerily off the stones
and buildings. Malik rounded a boulder of the upper road to an opening where he
and his four men could look down.
Altaïr approached and asked the assassins about the city as he had to the first
man. The answers from them were the same. They invited him to join them on the
path, to join them in the light. At his refusal they attacked!
Malik’s men readied throwing knives at his order. They felled five men and
Altaïr regrettably killed two more.
***** Altair: Trapped *****
Chapter Summary
     Black Bishop aids White Knight.
Malik’s men readied throwing knives at his order. They felled five men and
Altaïr regrettably killed two more. Altaïr Spun to look up at the higher
ground, ready with a throwing knife of his own in case the aid was not so
friendly.
“Altaïr! Up here!” Malik called.
Altaïr could hardly believe it. “You picked a fine time to arrive.” The relief
was evident in his voice.
“So it seems.”
“Guard yourself well friend. Al Mualim has betrayed us.” Altaïr walked up the
path to where the higher ground intersected it.
“Betrayed his Templar allies, as well.”
Altaïr felt stunned. He thought he alone knew that as Robert had told him so in
the fog, “How? How do you know?”
Altaïr needed to know Malik trusted him, needed to know that Malik actually did
as he asked, and did not think him crazy. It was one thing for Malik to seem to
behave so, but Altaïr needed to hear it sometimes. Malik needed to say it to
reassure Altaïr, “After we spoke, I sent men out to seek the answers you asked.
I went out to seek the answers. I found many things both shocking and
disturbing. I came as soon as I could. Then … Then I got my hands on something
found in the ruins of the old Temple of Solomon.”
Altaïr winced at what might be spoken next. He wished then he had not asked
Malik to do some personal digging. He braced himself for losing everything
again and knew somewhere that he must deserve it.
“Robert had kept a journal,” Malik explained. It was not what Altaïr expected
to hear. “He filled its pages with revelations. What I read there broke my
heart. But it also opened my eyes.” Altaïr could say and do nothing but listen.
“You were right, Altaïr. All along, our master has used us. We were not meant
to save the Holy Land, but to deliver it to him. He must be stopped!”
It was what Altaïr had suspected, but this was more than he had known for sure.
The words about a New World Order from the Master, Master Al Mualim, suddenly
made sickening sense. Altaïr knew he had to stop Al Mualim himself. Malik, as
good as he was, could not endure the Master. “Be careful, Malik. What he has
done to the others, he will do to us the chance that he can.” Then he
remembered how Al Mualim had indeed tried to control his mind by making him
gaze upon the treasure. It had no effect, not on Altaïr. “Malik, you must stay
far from him!”
Clearly Malik had intended to fight by Altaïr’s side. As much as Altaïr wanted
that, deeply he did, he did not want to risk Malik’s mind being twisted and
controlled. He did not want to perhaps be forced to fight, and kill, this man,
this one he cared too much for. “Then, what do you propose?” Malik asked,
deferring to Altaïr for the first time. “My blade arm is still strong and my
men remain my own. It would be a mistake not to use us.”
Altaïr searched quickly in his mind. He needed a plan. He needed to get to the
Master without having to fight everyone to get there. Altaïr knew he would kill
anyone in his path. And they hardly deserved dying because they were
brainwashed into mindlessness. “Distract these thralls, then.” Altaïr thought a
moment more, feeling so very weird giving Malik the orders. He glanced at Malik
and saw him nod approval. Taking the orders from Altaïr was not just his
choice, but also for the men with Malik. He was securing trusted men for
Altaïr. It was a coup… and Altaïr was made to be the leader of it. If it went
well, he would end up the new Master. If it went poorly, then Malik and his men
could be spared for their ignorance of following a madman. It was encouraging
and saddening. However, they were running out of time. Altaïr took change,
“Yes, distract these thralls. Assault the fortress from behind. If you can draw
their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim.” Altaïr rarely called
the Master by his name, but he has lost the right to be respected by such
titles now.
“I will do as you ask, Master.” Malik reinforced his deferral to Altaïr. His
men gave him questioning looks for a moment, but only a moment. If Malik was
accepting Altaïr as the new Master, then it must be so. Altaïr had redeemed
himself, and more so, would save their Order and the Holy Land. He would be the
Great Eagle, the Hero of Masyaf once again. They took up defensive positions to
follow the orders.
“Malik, these men that we face, their minds are not their own. If you can avoid
killing them…” Altaïr hoped he made the good impression Malik had set him up
for. He hoped he had really learned and thus earned what Malik was offering
him. He didn’t have time to wonder if he was qualified or ready.
“Yes, Altaïr. Though he has betrayed the tenets of the Creed, it does not mean
that we must as well.” Malik always was the moral compass. “I’ll do what I
can.”
“It’s all I ask,” Malik believed in him and that helped him believe in himself.
“Safety and peace, my friend.” Altaïr doubted he would live to see Malik again,
but he was certain he would take Al Mualim down before he perished.
Malik gave Altaïr a bow and used words that were too similar to the first words
he had spoken to Altaïr in Jerusalem, “You presence here…” Altaïr held his
breath. “… will deliver us both.”
In that, Altaïr understood. They had been manipulated all their lives from the
moment they had met, perhaps before. They were both prisoners of Al Mualim’s
plans. For himself, for Malik, for the Brothers they lost due to this
treachery, Altaïr set his resolve. Al Mualim must die.
Altaïr continued on to the fortress courtyard while Malik and his men planned
their attacks and defenses. The courtyard was filled with people. Citizens,
guards, soldiers, assassins, servants. Men, women, children. Altaïr heard them
spewing about walking the path to the light. He calmed his mind as best he
could and looked at them again. He scanned for the flickers of gold or red. All
he saw was white, the shimmering aura of innocent people. He carefully wove
through them, murmuring reminders to himself about the Creed. It felt like he
walked through a sea of the dead, raised by evil necromancy. Zombies. All they
were missing was rotting flesh, which he was sure would come due to neglect. He
shuddered.
Altaïr turned his back on the mindless horde and walked through the gates of
the fortress. A preliminary search of the libraries revealed nothing and no
one. A further search up the stairs and around the Master’s desk revealed also
nothing, not even the treasure. The Master must carry it with him. He clenched
his fists and his jaw before invading the private office, map room and sleeping
quarters. Flashes of the things done to him sent sweat racing down his spine.
The Master was not here either. That left one last place. The gardens with the
women and servants.
He descended the stairs and walked cautiously out into the gardens. Invisible
hand suddenly gripped him, spun him, stretched him out as if on a torture rack.
“NO! What... what’s happening?!” Could phantoms be real after all? He stood
frozen in place, unable to move, wrapped in this strange sorcery. His heart
pounding in his ears.
“So!” Al Mualim called from a ledge above, “The student returns.”
***** Malik Borrows Time *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“So!” Al Mualim called from a ledge above, “The student returns.”
Naheem escorted his betrothed to the merchant booth and stayed with her till
her father arrived. He wanted over and over to ask her what she knew of what he
did and the order he was in. She would pass him as she set up and scoop up his
hand. Her fingers would play through his and almost purposely touch at his
missing finger. He would open his mouth to say something only to find her other
hand covering it as she smiled behind her veil. He would smile under her
fingers. It was a sad smile though. The night of the dying informant still
shook him.
Once Tibah’s father arrived, Naheem limped through the city to the builders’
guild where he took drafting lessons. He had to give the impression that
nothing was wrong, that life moved through normal obligations of the nephew and
novice. Then he would lunch in the Bureau and sometimes open it up for scribe
or mapping business. The praise he received from the occasional client helped
bolster his confidence. The occasional informant would slip in now and then to
update him on news and events and concerns. He would return to the market
square in the evening to help close it up and escort Tibah home where he supped
with her family. He stayed overnight there a couple of times till he felt he
could face that back room of the Bureau again.
Every three days, Junayd would still show up. He was saddened by the loss of
his informant mentor, Grandfadder’s eldest son. The two would yell at each
other a little, and then fight. When Naheem hit Junayd hard, he felt so very
sorry. Junayd repaid the hit with a decent knife cut on Naheem’s chin. They
stood in silent loss at each other, ashamed knowing that Malik would be cross
about their behaviour. They missed him much and worried. They walked together
to see Tibah for stitches. She looked at them both very crossly. “Both of you
ought to be ashamed of yourselves. You are practically brothers. To draw blood
from each other. SHAME.” They both hung their heads as she treated each of
them. “You have both lost someone. Why don’t you try supporting each other
instead?”
The next time Junayd came to the Bureau, Naheem was more mature and ready to
handle the little novice. They prayed together for Malik and Altair. Naheem
added Tibah’s brother to their prayers. They worked on lessons together. Junayd
offered to help at the Bureau and learn a little of what Naheem does. Naheem
welcomed the company. They sparred in the late afternoon before dinner. Naheem
showed Junayd the unarmed combat he had learned from Altair. Junayd taught
Naheem some acrobatics.
Naheem still went to Tibah’s for dinner though. His ulterior motive was to
check on Sufyan (Stephan) for Malik and Altair. Malik would have checked on the
child if he was there. Instead, Malik and his four men struggled through
civilians of Masyaf. Two of the men did their best to be distractions on the
front steps while Malik and two men snuck around the back. Malik needed help
with the climbing. It insulted him, but he dared not complain at the moment. He
directed his men to attack, draw away the other assassins. They worked on
suppressing them without killing them, wherever they could. People would die by
the end of this anyways.
A yell came up that there were prisoners still in the dungeons, not
brainwashed. Malik ordered they be left there for their own safety for the
moment. In the fortress itself, the fight was furious. It was all Malik could
do to give Altair time. Five men against so many, including hordes of
civilians, Malik worried he would never get to Altair. It was like riding a
horse through a desert without water and being chased by the dust devils and
mirage phantoms. He knew he could not interfere with Altair’s fight or it would
compromise it. But this running and dodging grew more and more difficult.
Riding hard through desert heat was never fun. Young Kadar had clued in now.
Master Malik was part of the assassins guild. Did that mean so was Naheem? Did
their father know? Whose side were the assassins on? Every shadow spooked him.
He rode his horse so hard it falters and broke a leg, throwing him. The back
path on the map took him skirting so close to the war zones. He stole a horse
and rode on.
The feeling on all fronts was that eerie sense that they were running out of
time.
Another informant dropped in and died. His message in his hand was confusing,
at least for Naheem.
Damascus belongs to a New Order, the Rafiq has claimed his own sect. Send no
one there.
Naheem wished Malik were here. He had no training on how to handle this or what
to do next. He wished Altair were there to deal with this. The Brotherhood was
splitting into schisms. Time slipped by like sand in the hourglass…
unstoppably.
All he could do was pretend… pretend everything was normal, like Malik did. He
had to be a good student. He trusted Malik as his master. He trusted Altair as
his master, too.
At some point, though, the student will have to stand on their own. Naheem was
not yet ready to do that. However, he hoped Altair was… facing his master,
Master Al Mualim.
Chapter End Notes
     wow… that felt much more morbid than I intended. Oh well…
***** Altair: Battling Illusions *****
Chapter Summary
     What sorcery is this?!
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Altair descended the stairs and walked cautiously out into the gardens.
Invisible hands suddenly gripped him, spun him, and stretched him out as if on
a torture rack. “NO! What... what’s happening?!” Could phantoms be real after
all? He stood frozen in place, unable to move, wrapped in this strange sorcery.
His heart pounded in his ears.
“So!” Al Mualim called from a ledge above, “The student returns.”
How did he miss the man? Altair had been in that room, on that whole floor. He
cursed himself for not using that auric seeing. Maybe he would have seen the
old Master in hiding otherwise. He doubted his specialness knowing how trapped
he felt. He thought he was immune to this thing in his Master’s hand. Maybe he
wasn’t so immune. Sounding bold, hurt and betrayed, he declared loudly, “I have
never been one to run!”
Al Mualim scoffed, “Never been one to listen either.”
“I still live because of it,” not that Altair didn’t listen, he simply listened
selectively. And lately, he gauged what he heard with Malik before he listened.
There was a difference after all, between hearing and listening. Hearing was
the simple auditory function of observing sounds or words. Listening was when
you gave those sounds and words attention, enough to think about them and judge
them. You could then discard some of what you listened to as just sounds you
heard if they proved unworthy or proved to be lies. How much of this… of his
life… was a lie. He chose not to listen to those thoughts for he wanted to
live, at least now he wanted to live… for Malik.
“What will I do with you,” mused the one-eyed Master.
“Let me go,” stated Altair matter-of-factly. It was worth a shot.
Al Mualim knew Altair well enough to know the emotions buried under those words
spoken so stoically. Altair was only that stoic when he was beyond furious. “Oh
Altair, I hear the hatred in your voice. Let you go? No, that would be unwise.”
“Why are you doing this?” demanded Altair as he strained immovably against his
invisible shackles.
Al Mualim raised the glowing treasure, “I found proof!” Triumph rumbled from
rolling tongue.
“Proof of what?”
Raised higher, the treasure glowed even brighter. “Proof, Altair, that nothing
is true and everything IS permitted!” Al Mualim leaned a little over the rail
on the ledge balcony. “Come!” he summoned, “Destroy the betrayer! Send him from
this world!”
Altair feared few things and one of those was swiftly vanishing. His Master was
a traitor against everything Altair believed in. His other fears included
water, so much of that having been Al Mualim’s doing, and losing Malik. He did
have one other fear and it had crawled over his flesh the entire walk through
this city as it had plagued his nightmares. Walking dead. Out of the shadows
stepped the dead, those nine targets Altair had killed already. The sweat froze
on his skin watching them approach. Phantoms… created by this Apple of Eden.
As he was released, a stray thought wondered why it was called the Apple when
Apples were not native to this Holy Land. Apples were a foreign, European
import. Should it not be a pomegranate? There was no time to dwell on the
oddity. He was released from the magical restraints to fight. And fight he had
to, for even though these were phantoms, they hit for real and drew blood for
real. His nightmares were before him, haunting him in the real world, avenging
their own deaths. Altair fought for his life, and his sanity.
As each fell, the fog did not come. Altair expected the fog, but these were
soulless copies.
Altair staggered, panting and catching his breath, relieved that his nightmares
did not last long and once the ninth, Robert, died, they faded like mirages.
Altair looked back up to the ledge, but Al Mualim was gone. He spun and yelled,
“Face me! Or are you afraid?”
Altair’s body snapped back into those invisible restraints. Now Altair was sure
that he did not have the unique quality to resist the power of this orb after
all. Al Mualim snarled back at Altair’s insolence, “I have stood before a
thousand men! All of them superior to you! And all of them dead--by my hand! I
am not afraid!” It was indeed how most grandmasters became so, they fought and
killed their way to the top, often taking the life of their former
grandmaster. 
Using this time to calm himself, gather his wits, and allow his strength to
return, Altair continued to bate his old Master. He would never have done this
in the past, never, but then he never thought he had anyone’s real support.
Some things are true, my friend. And one of those things is how I feel about
you. Malik… Altair’s anchor and lifeline, source and reason. He shoved aside
any lingering pains from the fight a moment ago. He watched as Al Mualim strode
down the stairs. The cane clacked twice before the old man of the mountain
pulled it apart to reveal a sword. Altair’s face wiped clean of emotions, his
eyes darkened to deep fire. He dared, “Prove it.” 
“What could I possibly fear?” Al Mualim asked rhetorically, “Look at the power
that I wield.”  
The invisible force tugged Altair’s limbs almost to the snapping point as eight
phantom copies of Al Mualim manifested before Altair’s eyes, causing those eyes
to widen a moment. This was even more impossible than raising the dead. At
least there were known necromantic theories and texts about that, but this?
This was impossible. The nine Al Mualim’s walked towards him and surrounded
him, raising their swords to point at him. He kept his eyes open in defiance of
this immanent manslaughter.  
Once again, Altair found himself free to fight. It was as if Al Mualim cockily
wished to prove his point. Altair intended to prove him wrong. The fury rose to
the surface, making Altair what he was best known for, a dangerous and wild and
unpredictable killer. He abandoned any sense of moral fighting, abandoned his
humanity, killed without remorse, cutting down these demon copies. He ignored
or never noticed any wounds he might have incurred from the brutal battle. They
too were like phantoms on his awareness. They were nothing. 
Altair was nothing. At least he was reminded of that when the last of the Al
Mualim’s remained standing and the magic stretched him in the air again,
immobilizing him. He panted, calming, refocusing. Awareness returned along with
the pain of betrayal, not just for himself, but for all those in the
Brotherhood. “Have you any final words?” asked Al Mualim. 
Altair tried to spit the blood from his mouth. He was going to die anyways, he
wanted to know why or at least have given the Master real reason to end him.
“You lied to me! Called Robert’s goals foul when all along they were your
own!” 
Al Mualim shrugged, “I’ve never been very good at sharing.” 
Altair thought of Malik, “You won’t succeed. Others will find the strength to
stand against you.” Although he deeply hoped Malik would not arrive yet, or
would have the good sense to stay away. Of course Malik stayed out. Malik was
never reckless like Altair. He was reliable, trustworthy, often too much by the
book, but Altair found he loved that about Malik. Malik balanced him in that
way. 
“And this is why so long as men maintain free will, there can be no peace.” Al
Mualim paced before Altair as if gloating. 
Altair growled, “I killed the last man who spoke as such.” 
A hand slapped Altair hard across the face. “Bold words, BOY! But just words!” 
Menacingly low, Altair taunted, “Then let me go and I will put words into
action.” Al Mualim simply laughed out loud. “Then tell me… Master,” Altair’s
tone remained low and mocking, “why did you not make me like the other
Assassins? Why allow me to retain my mind?” 
“Who you are and what you do are twined too tight together. To rob you of one
would have deprived me of the other. And those Templars had to die.” Al Mualim
sighed, “But the truth, is I did try, in my study, when I showed you the
treasure. But you are not like the others. You saw through the illusion.” 
“Illusion?” Altair did not understand. He recalled the incident all too clearly
and that which followed, but he still did not understand. “That's all it's ever
done, this Templar treasure, this Piece of Eden, this word of God. Do you
understand now? The Red Sea was never parted, water never turned to wine. It
was not the machinations of Ares that spawned the Trojan War, but this!
Illusions! All of them!” He shook the treasure at Altair. 
Altair thought to himself that those were remarkably real illusion. The cuts
and bruises upon his body attested to that. However, he thought he was starting
to understand the philosophical undercurrent and used it against his former
master.“What you plan is no less an illusion--to force men against their
will.” 
Al Mualim carelessly shrugged one shoulder. “Is it any less real than the
phantoms the Saracens and Crusaders follow now? Those... craven gods who
retreat from this world that men might slaughter one another in their names?
They live amongst an illusion already. I'm simply giving them another, one that
demands less blood.” 
It seemed so temping in a way, and yet so very very wrong, like honey laced
with poison. “At least they CHOOSE these phantoms.” 
“Oh, do they?” The old man raised his one eyebrow. “Aside from the occasional
convert or heretic?” 
“It isn’t right!” That came out sounding more childish than Altair intended,
especially since he was such a rationalizing atheist. 
“Ahh, and now logic has left you. In its place you embrace emotion.” His grey
eye peered into the shadow of Altair’s sanctuary. His fatherly tone cutting
Altair as deeply as the sword might have, “I am disappointed in you.” He
watched Altair’s hope and resolve flicker and fade.
Chapter End Notes
     The game ends here... but not this story...
***** Malik Witnesses the Fog *****
Chapter Summary
     This was a challenge to write from Malik’s viewpoint.
“Ahh, and now logic has left you. In its place you embrace emotion.” His grey
eye peered into the shadow of Altaïr’s sanctuary. His fatherly tone cutting
Altaïr as deeply as the sword might have, “I am disappointed in you.” Al Mualim
watched Altaïr’s hope and resolve flicker and fade.
Malik remained still, back pressed to the wall on the left side of the garden
doors. Every word he overheard, every word… made him despise Al Mualim even
more. His only encounters with the man were mission related and brief. He had
been jealous all through his growing up that Altaïr had the Master’s attention,
conversed at length with him, seemed to be the pet. Pet indeed. Altaïr was
nothing more than a pawn. Malik recalled the first time Altaïr had moved a
chess piece on his board in the Bureau, a pawn. Be strong Altaïr. Be cunning.
Be the white knight.
Malik quietly directed his men, now in the castle, to secure it, lock everyone
out. Incapacitate if possible, injure if they must, kill if there was no other
choice. He wanted there to be nowhere to go. Not for Al Mualim. A swift peak
showed Altaïr still ensorcelled. He gripped his sword tighter in his hand.
There was only one way out of the gardens. Three ways, if you were Altaïr or
suicidal. The suicidal route was off the cliff side to your death. If you were
Altaïr, then you could make the precarious climb up the wall to the second
floor. Al Mualim still limped slightly, and would not make that climb. He was
strong and agile still, but not enough for that. So his only way out was
through the doors. Malik dared not get entrapped by the Piece of Eden, so he
waited, heart twisting for Altaïr. He waited. If black robes appeared through
this door, he would run the person through.
Until that time, he continued to listen and hate. Al Mualim’s words were
insidious, manipulative, demoralizing. Malik heard Altaïr’s dejected tone in
the question he asked, “What is to be done then?”
Al Mualim thought out loud, “You will not follow me, and I cannot compel you.”
“And you refuse to give up this evil scheme,” Altaïr shot back.
Al Mualim sighed, “Seems we are at an impasse.”
Malik doubted it was really an impasse, Al Mualim would kill Altaïr. He
sheathed his sword and drew his last throwing knife. He eased into view just
barely to see if he could get a shot. He met golden eyes across the garden, but
could not make a clean shot for Al Mualim. He almost regretted letting Altaïr
see him.
“No! We are at an end!” Altaïr shouted back with fire once again. Malik
regretted nothing after that.
“I will miss you, Altaïr. You were my very best student.” Al Mualim could not
multitask the illusions and so, to fight Altaïr, he had to release him and let
him fight back. Or was it that Al Mualim actually respected Altaïr enough to
give him the fighting chance. At the first good hit on Al Mualim, it was as if
Altaïr had hit himself. Al Mualim scoffed, “Blind, Altaïr. Blind is all you’ve
ever been, all you’ll ever be!” He vanished from sight to reappear in another
part of the garden. Nope, as far as Malik was concerned, Al Mualim did not
actually respect Altaïr, likely never did.
Running, hitting, falling back as if drained or hit, Altaïr chased the
miraculously vanishing Master. Over and over. Patience. Pace yourself, my
friend. Don’t let him just wear you out. Malik drew his sword in case the old
man appeared in the doorway. He would meet a nasty surprise from a sword
master. A spark and clang. The wrist blade broke and flew off through the door
almost grazing Malik’s face. Malik wondered if they fought that close to him.
He inched around to see. PTANG! Altaïr’s last weapon, his sword, flew off over
the rail and cliffs. He dodged. He got in a good kick. Al Mualim spun and
vanished with yet another laugh.
Malik threw his sword spinning toward Altaïr the second the white knight caught
a glimpse of the black bishop in the doorway. Altaïr caught the blade in mid-
flight. He swung. The blade bit flesh and Al Mualim grunted and vanished again.
Altaïr growled with renewed strength, with Malik’s blade as if Malik gave him
the strength he needed. “My blade sees for me, Al Mualim! And it cuts through
the darkness!” It was a mock. Malik smiled wryly, proud of Altaïr and hopeful
once again. Novice, don’t you dare lose my favourite sword over the cliff, too.
“Curse you, Altaïr!” Al Mualim disappeared one more time and appeared again
behind Altaïr.
An arc, a clash, and spin and tug. A pounce. Fog shrouded Al Mualim and Altaïr
with a scream. The golden glow of the treasure faded a little as it rolled out
of the old man’s grasp through the fog. His fingers stretched for it.
Malik crouched by the door. He could strangely almost count his own heartbeats
as if time had slowed around him. His own vision clouded a little, but he could
still see Altaïr straddling over Al Mualim, over his kill, as he had many
others before. They seemed like statues. And through the odd stillness, Malik
heard their continued words, the words of a great man and those of a dying
soul. So rarely had Malik ever been caught in this fog. Maybe it was but the
second time, even though he had read of it often enough in Altaïr’s journals.
“Impossible,” whispered Al Mualim. “The student does not defeat the teacher.”
In the smooth velvety Arabic that Altaïr had learned from Al Mualim, he spoke
perhaps the first Arabic words he had learned, “La shai'a waqe'on mutlak bal
kollon mumkin.” (Nothing is True. Everything is Permitted.)
“So it seems,” Al Mualim followed venomously, “Go then, claim your prize.”
Malik knew it had nothing to do with winning or losing. It had nothing to do
with this treasure that Altaïr honestly didn’t care about. Malik wondered what
Altaïr did care about. Certainly the innocent people of the Holy Land, but that
was too faceless and vague to really move this great eagle.
Altaïr frowned. Malik knew; he could see the frown in the clenching of one of
Altaïr’s fists. Altaïr voice sounded pained, “You held fire in your hand, old
man.” Malik wondered if Altaïr referred to the Piece of Eden or himself. “It
should have been destroyed.” The treasure then, but that was still questionable
from Malik’s perspective and understanding of Altaïr.
“Destroy the only things capable of ending these crusades and bringing about
true peace?” Al Mualim snarled, “Never.”
With resolve, Altaïr stood, abandoning the body of Al Mualim. “Then I will.”
Malik could do nothing but watch. Altaïr faltered and glanced back briefly.
Malik wondered what thoughts and feels ran through Altaïr’s mind as the fog
faded. He heard one of his men fall to his death defending the front gates. The
others secured them. Time sped back up to normal and Malik wondered how much
time had actually passed, if any at all. He watched Altaïr approach the now
unmoving metal ball.
Altaïr limped slowly toward the Piece of Eden as if listening to something, as
if in pain, as if sure and fearful simultaneously.
***** The End is the Beginning *****
Altaïr limped slowly toward the Piece of Eden as if listening to something, as
if in pain, as if sure and fearful simultaneously. The air felt heavier. He
paused in his steps, staring at the glowing ball. He had thought it such a
silly thing months ago. Now, the weight of its trouble dragged at him.
The haunting voice of a dead master seems to still whisper in the fog of his
mind. How could he have thought he was really rid of his father figure and
tormenter so easily? Altaïr wondered why the soul had not faded yet with the
fog.
I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceived
that this also was a chasing at the wind. For in much wisdom is much grief. And
he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.
Altaïr wanted to tell the voice to shut the hell up. Al Mualim did not stop
though in the conversation. Altaïr stood before the treasure. He tightened his
hold on Malik’s sword.
Do it! Destroy it! Destroy it as you said you would!
He raised the sword to strike. “I… I can’t.” He lowered his sword.
Yes, you can Altaïr. But you won’t…
The voice faded to nothing at last, but its truth lingered. Altaïr could not
destroy it. Not for the reasons that Al Mualim gloated about even in death.
What about all those people whose minds have been enslaved? Altaïr worried that
maybe destroying it would leave them all mindless. No, Altaïr needed to learn
how this thing worked so as to undo the evils it had caused.
He watched this … this… thing… on the floor. Malik had called him Master
earlier… he… Altaïr. And the weight of new responsibility lay upon his
shoulders. But I am not a leader, Malik. You are. I am a disgrace… I am
nothing… not even a hero… They have hated me so. How could I lead them? Why me?
Why this thing?
Even as the questions rolled in his mind and heart, he remembered that there
were more treasures. Adha. She was a treasure. The sacred cup was Adha, a
woman, not an object. There must be more of these. The Templars must know of
them, for they hunt for them as Al Mualim did. He and nine others learned of
them. Them. How many are there? Where are they?
As if it heard his thoughts, the Piece of Eden lit a beam of sunlight upwards
to illuminate a large orb that spun on a slightly tilted axis. Designs of
golden light traced shining lines over the strange floating orb with pin prick
dots. Altaïr did not understand. Altaïr staggered just slightly, Malik’s sword
slipped from his numbing fingers.
Malik and two of his other men ran into the garden to see this magic. The two
fighters backed away uncertainly from it. Malik caught his sword before it
truly hit the ground. He stood next to Altaïr staring almost stunned at the
vision before them. Altaïr whispered, “Maps?” Malik nodded beside him. A moment
later it winked out.
Malik almost reached for the Treasure and stopped. He pulled a cloth from a
belt pouch and dropped it over the orb. Altaïr watched him empty the contents
of another pouch and then wrap the Piece of Eden in the cloth, dropping it into
the pouch. Malik shoved it into Altaïr’s hand, “Master, this is yours to
unravel.”
Altaïr’s eyes strayed sideways to the two other men, Malik’s men, now his men.
His hooded eyes fell upon the body of Al Mualim. He could not seem to move. He
could hardly feel his own body, numb and cold and strange as it was. The pouch
almost fell from his fingers as Malik’s sword had, but Malik prevented that.
Malik was speaking to him, but he could not really hear the words. It was like
listening through the walls. Something about the men taking care of things in
the castle. Something about him being wounded. Malik tugged Altaïr into the
castle and through the halls to the barracks. One of Altaïr’s arms over Malik’s
shoulder, held firm in place by Malik’s hand. He thought for a moment he was
drowning. The air became stifling. His breath came in short gulps. “Altaïr…
Altaïr… Don’t worry. The men are taking care of things back there. Right now, I
need to take care of you. Altaïr!” A sharp slap shook the hood back and shook
Altaïr back to his fading awareness. They were in Altaïr’s old room, what used
to be their shared room.
“Malik… I killed him. I… killed him.” The room grew dark in his eyes. Even the
sight of Malik faded from his vision. He felt cold and didn’t understand why he
was shivering.
“Yes, my friend, you freed us all.” Malik sadly touched his brow to Altaïr’s
before easing his eagle into a bed.
***** No One But Malik May Enter *****
“Yes my friend, you freed us all.” Malik sadly touched his brow to Altaïr’s
before easing his eagle into a bed. Shock. That is what Malik could deduce from
Altaïr’s behaviour. Some physical shock from his wounds, but usually Altaïr
weathered those well. No, this was deeper. This was more like mental or
emotional shock. It would swiftly turn to physical shock and surely kill Altaïr
if he did not act fast.
Sure that Altaïr was unconscious; he called in one of his men. The others he
ordered to ready wounded in the hospital wing. He and his temporary assistant
stripped Altaïr down. The assistant ran errands for Malik while Malik kept
track of the eagle’s vitals. Basins of water were brought in, almost a dozen of
them, along with cleaning supplies and medical supplies from the hospital. The
soiled clothing was shoved into a corner for now. There were no novices here
with coherent minds to be at all helpful. Malik placed the wrapped Piece of
Eden on a tiny writing desk in the room.
The man he had helping him was ordered to take rest rotations with the others,
do what they can for basic healing in the hospital, and try to keep a watch on
the mindless populous. They were ordered NOT to come into Altaïr’s room. “Only
I come into here, understand? It is dangerous.” They nodded their understanding
of the order, though did not understand how a wounded Altaïr could be
dangerous. Maybe it was the demonic ball that was there?
Once Altaïr was treated for his wounds and bundled against shock, Malik headed
down to the hospital wing to continue being a doctor. One of his men reminded
him of the prisoners in the dungeon and asked what to do about them. Feed them?
Starve them? Execute them? “Feed them. Give them water. Keep it simple fare.
The Grandmaster will decide their fate when he is healed.” Back to work for
Malik. He had wanted to be a doctor; now he remembered why he had chosen not to
be. So many wounded and dying. Blood all over the floor and his robes. Some
lives simply could not be saved. Hours upon hours of suturing and bandaging,
Malik had to drag in one of his men and teach them the rudimentary skills of a
surgeon. He supervised while he ate something. His assistant regretted seeing
Malik eat in the middle of this near carnage and vomited. Malik threw him out
and got back to work.
Tired, Malik ordered an extra bedroll and pillows and a sheet to be brought to
Altaïr’s room and left out in the hall. It had been far too many hours and he
was in a ripe sour grumpy mood. He arrived to a change in the guard at Altaïr’s
door. The two men stilled. Malik knew something happened. His eyes washed over
the hall, spotting to fresh chips in the stone from small blades. He pinned the
new guard to the wall with his eyes seconds before he pinned the old one by the
throat with his hand. His eyes flicked a second to the slightly bloody nick in
the man’s ear. “I told you NO ONE ENTERS! What part of NO ONE did you NOT
understand?” Malik yelled.
“Dai, sir, he… he was thrashing. Yelling. We thought… I thought…”
“A man like Altaïr is DANGEROUS! He does not know you. He would kill you before
thinking. He’d kill someone he knew before thinking in his state. I am used to
dealing with him, YOU are NOT! I gave you an order! I expect you to obey it!
You are lucking to be alive. I won’t weep over you if you make the same mistake
again.” Malik released him and the old guard staggered away to leave the new
one to quake in his place.
As Malik’s angry eyes fell upon the new guard again, the younger man stammered
out, “I got it. No one enters, no matter what we hear.”
Malik nodded approval. He thought how Altaïr must have woken and tried to
dress, had likely gotten hold of his armour and weapons. Malik braced himself,
ready for a fight, as he inched the door open with a pillow in hand as a
shield. Nothing. He inched in. A throwing knife sailed in his direction, wildly
off course. He dodged, expecting it, and rolled low out of the way. He managed
to kick the door shut as he did.
Altaïr was half dressed, wounds bleeding from moving, eyes a bit too wild.
“Altaïr… stop,” Malik controlled his voice, keeping it as low and calm as he
could. “I’m here to help.”
“M-malik?”
With a sigh of relief that Altaïr spoke his name, he stood and walked over.
“Stay down, you are wounded. I’ll treat you in a moment.” He gathered all the
weapons and carried them out of the room, dropping them in the hall well out of
harm’s way. Then he brought in the bedroll, pillows and blanket that he set out
beside Altaïr’s. He took the cold uneaten food from the little writing desk he
had left earlier and encouraged Altaïr to eat while he checked the bandaging
and replaced some. He knew tonight would be a rough night for Altaïr. The
nightmares had already started.
Altaïr asked in a small voice, “Malik? Will you stay with me?”
Malik knew it was meant for tonight, but it felt like a deep and loaded
question. Maybe somewhere inside, Malik wanted it to mean more. Tonight was
enough for now. Altaïr needed safe and trustworthy company. “Yes.” He answered
the questions simply, whether it meant just tonight or more. As he mentally
acknowledged what he himself meant, he had to now accept that feeling. “Yes,
Altaïr. I’ll stay. Do you trust me?”
Altaïr nodded and grunted his affirmative. Malik nestled down to sleep and
offered his hand to Altaïr. Altaïr snatched it like a desperate drowning man.
Malik held Altaïr’s eyes for several minutes. “Try not to keep me up, novice.”
Altaïr sucked his teeth in annoyance at Malik’s tease, before closing his eyes.
Malik smiled mostly to himself. He knew he would be woken often by the
nightmares. He did manage at least a solid four hours of sleep before the first
wave hit. They rode them out, talked about them, and eased back into sleep. The
shockiness faded over the night, but there were bound to be further random
issues over the coming months. Malik made note to dig through the medical
books, the ones his brother had mentioned about psychoses and behaviour and
trauma. He hoped to maybe even find his brother’s own notes on the subjects.
Altaïr used to be cocky and charming before he had started doing solo missions
for Al Mualim. Now, Malik knew Altaïr could hardly function with other people
very well. The people needed a leader and a hero. Malik would never pass as
one, despite his involvement. So he fully intended on coaching Altaïr into the
position. He knew, if he could find some scrap of the old Altaïr minus the
asshole, Altaïr would do just fine. He’d need help, but Malik had already
promised to be there for him with that first “Yes, I’ll stay.”
Two more days passed before Altaïr was well enough to venture out of the room.
Over those days, Malik discussed the situation of the mindless people of Masyaf
and they puzzled out how to undo the spell. Malik would stay to help get that
started and to help sort a few basics out. He would even leave his four loyal
guards. However, he did need to return to Jerusalem to finish someone’s
training, get the boy married, and arrange training for Tibah in medicine.
Altaïr would be up to his eyeballs for months cleaning up the mess of Masyaf.
Maybe even a year to restore things. Malik didn’t tell Altaïr of all this. He
doubted Altaïr was ready to have Malik out of sight just yet.
First step was to sort through Al Mualim’s things to find out what exactly had
been done and what were the last orders of affairs within the fortress… and who
was responsible for what. Well, maybe the first step was to get Altaïr
comfortable with the four men that came with Malik and have them comfortable
with Altaïr as the new Grandmaster of the Order. It became the first, though
less than formal, meeting at the old desk at the top of the stairs.
***** Altair Appointed *****
Well, maybe the first step was to get Altaïr comfortable with the four men that
came with Malik and have them comfortable with Altaïr as the new grandmaster of
the Order. It became the first, though less than formal, meeting at the old
desk at the top of the stairs.
Still healing, but able to move about, Altaïr followed Malik up the stairs to
the huge desk. They violated every aspect of that desk and the nearest shelves
together. That very act helped Altaïr feel at least a little vindicated. The
desk was then stripped down as were the shelves. Altaïr would have to be the
one to reclaim them in his own way. He stared at the vacant space.
“Malik… I am not sure…” Altaïr didn’t get to finish as Malik let out a sharp
whistle and the four men started coming up the stairs.
Altaïr shrank a little under his hood. Malik casually reached over and shoved
the hood off Altaïr’s head before greeting the four men. “This is Altaïr Ibn-
la’Ahad. Grandmaster of our Brotherhood by right of saving all our asses. You
know of his fall and his rise back through the ranks. He has more than redeemed
himself in the eyes of the Order… and in mine. He knows injustice when he sees
it, can make swift decisions, and understands the needs of the people. He is a
Master Assassin second to none. He might be terrible with managing a group, but
we will help him with that. His decisions are the final ones, may he listen to
wise counsel and may he never hesitate to do what must be done.”
Altaïr could not believe the speech Malik had just given. It swelled his heart
to know this was how Malik felt. It also stirred the strangest feeling of panic
with these four strangers staring wide-eyed like novices at him. The four men
recited the Creed to him with a small bow. Altaïr looked from them to Malik and
back wondering what to say or do. He tried to recall the discussions of the
past couple days.
“My…” Altaïr cleared his husky voice and started again. “It… Thank you for your
support. Malik, I name as my second. You will take orders from him as if I
myself gave them.” Back at you my friend! You said you would stay with me, I am
ensuring it.
Malik took that in stride better than Altaïr had expected. The four men were
immediately ordered to clear out Al Mualim’s private room and find all personal
journals, indications of use of the Piece of Eden or reference to any other
treasures, lists of the state of affairs of the fortress and the city of
Masyaf, as well as the rosters of personnel. One guard would be responsible for
the front doors. One guard would run the reports about the healing people in
the hospital, so Malik did not lose any lives that could be saved.
Altaïr was deeply relieved that Malik knew what to do. It must be the training
for running a Bureau that helped Malik to know how to run something this… big.
One guard asked again about the prisoners. “I will check them out personally.”
Altaïr wondered, wondered beyond hope about someone that was placed their some
time ago, a year or more. Malik agreed that Altaïr would be best suited to that
as Malik would be best suited to sorting and reading a plethora of documents.
Altaïr knew that meant he needed to use his strange ability to see the shine or
aura of people to determine the truth of their allegiance or condemnation.
Besides, Altaïr wanted NOTHING to do with Al Mualim’s private rooms or the map
room. He could not bear to cross that threshold again, not yet, maybe never.
The dungeons would feel far more comfortable and welcoming by comparison. As
Altaïr made his way through the maze of deep underground passageways to the
dungeon, he wished he could turn back time, a little, to when he used to enjoy
being here, being with Malik. He wondered if he would again, if they would.
He heard water and recoiled. Comfort demanded he pull his hood back up, so he
did, before peering over to see the place he almost himself drowned in when he
and Malik were playing tag through this part of the fortress. Malik had pulled
him out then. Malik was always there to save him. Malik was now taking on a
more public role though. Altaïr knew; it would make Malik a target of those who
want to shake things. He knew Malik would eventually return to the novice at
the Bureau. Altaïr hoped beyond hope that there was a suitable shadow, suitable
spare left arm, still alive down here.
Some prisoners were down here to suffer for their crimes because they did not
deserve the easy way out of death. Some were down here for training to learn
how to survive hell in case they were every captured. Some, like one Altaïr
searched for now, was down here like a dirty secret, kept alive only because
someone smuggled her here in order to save her life. Altaïr wondered if his ex-
wife had had the opportunity to become an assassin trained, if she would have
turned out a different person. Altaïr scowled to himself. No, of course she
wouldn’t. She was a volatile viper. He hoped she was dead. But this woman… this
one he hoped was alive. Altaïr had cut out her tongue himself when Kadar could
not summon the courage to do so. Altaïr hoped that for Kadar, she would protect
Malik.
Altaïr took a slow breath, partly to steady himself since he was tired from his
wounds and the long walk here and partly to shift his vision so each life
shimmered in various vibrant hues.
***** Malik: Secret Room *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Malik steeled himself to do for Altaïr what Altaïr would not do for himself. He
walked into the side office and looked down upon the map table. His fingers
touched over Jerusalem. When he closed his eyes, he could picture the broken
writing in Altaïr’s journals of the scenes in here. He exhaled loudly before
ordering the room emptied. The map desk was to be dismantled and re-built in a
room in the libraries. The furniture was to be removed… and burned. The books
however, the books Malik wanted piled on the main desk at the top of the
stairs. Any files from these rooms, he wanted to go through personally.
While Altaïr was off alone, sorting his thoughts in the dungeons, Malik skimmed
through all the material. Nothing. NOTHING! Malik snarled and shoved all the
books and papers to the floor in frustration. There was nothing in them on how
the Piece of Eden was used on the people of Masyaf, and so no idea how to
reverse this. No idea how Altaïr could reverse this. Malik grabbed a book and
threw it. It sailed over the rail to bounce and tear till it hit the main
floor.
Malik checked on the injured in the hospital wing to calm himself and to try to
think more clearly. He scoured the private rooms again till they were
unrecognizable. Then he frowned. Something was not quite right. Was the
fortress not symmetrical? He dashed down the stairs and out into the gardens
wondering why he had never thought about this before in all the time he had
been here training and serving. He skidded on the bloodstained marble where Al
Mualim died and looked back up at the balcony. The huge desk was barely visible
behind the window, but there was no door to it. There was a small door in the
side room that served as Al Mualim’s private quarters. Yet, from the past
couple days of talking in quiet privacy with Altaïr, Altaïr had thoroughly
checked those rooms. Despite his anxiety, he followed his mission. He found no
trace of Al Mualim in them, yet the old Master appeared first on the balcony.
Malik narrowed his eyes and studied the structure of the building. Yes, it was
symmetrical on the outside. There must be another set of rooms. But even from
the view here, Malik could only see the one door to the known rooms. Hidden
rooms them. That is where he would find Al Mualim’s dark secrets and the
skeletons in the closet. He marched back up the stairs and got to work looking
for a way into those rooms. Little did he think he would find actual skeletons.
And yet, when he found the secret door and entered, skeletons indeed lurked in
many corners. Small ones and tall ones. The room contained the oddest
collection of things, including foreign books. Malik recognized a Chinese
alchemy book, recalling that Altaïr had a mission to find an elixir of
longevity. He narrowed his eyes and searched.
Finally he found some scraps that indicated the corruptions of the innocent
people of Masyaf and the vile deeds recorded of Al Mualim’s treachery. It
divulged little of the secrets of the metal ball now entrusted to Altaïr beyond
the simple already known things. Still, there was a list of strange treasures
and the proofs of Al Mualim’s dealings with the Saracens and the Templars. He
found a record that matched Robert’s accounting that fateful day ten men
discovered the Piece of Eden. He also found the accounting of Al Mualim’s first
treacheries of taking over the Order. Then he found an accounting of how Al
Mualim found Altaïr and several other children of “strange birth” with “strange
eyes” who must be descendants of “those who came before,” but there was no
explanation. Altaïr had been chosen. The skeletons in this room were of those
others who had been chosen, but who had not survived as Altaïr did.
Malik stepped out of the room startling one of his men. They nearly skewered
each other for the startlement. Malik ordered the items and papers and books
also removed from these rooms to be stored for the time being in the tower
above them. These rooms were to be scoured as the other ones were.
By late evening, Malik apologized for working his four men so hard. He also
worried for he had not seen Altaïr all day. He decided he would go find him
when Altaïr lined several men in the hallway. Ragged and filthy, some bloodied
recently, but all seemed well-fed and in decent health. None seemed to have
been under the spell that the rest of the town suffered.
“Altaïr ? What is this?” Malik asked wondering if Altaïr figured out how to
reverse the brainwashing effects.
Chapter End Notes
     Altaïr may not seem like much of a leader, but he is… in his own way.
     He always knew Malik needed a novice or 3 to train and managed to
     provide them. And now he knows that the four men with Malik can’t fix
     this fortress or the town by themselves.
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