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There was a tell-tale creak of wood, followed by a heavy dull thud that made Malik grind his teeth. He knew better than to whip his head around – there still were inkstains marring the countertop as a grim reminder – so he carefully set the quill aside first. Taking a deep, annoyed breath, he prepared to launch his customary tirade at the poor unfortunate novice that came crashing through the patio about the importance of stealth and silent movement, when he realized that the hood he saw in the doorway of the bureau was nowhere near the usual novice grey.
"Altaïr!" Malik reeled, having trouble willing his face back to scorn from the obvious surprise it was suddenly stuck in. "How come it is you, horsing around the roofs like you owned the city of Jerusalem?" He didn't need to add and acting like a novice to the outburst, it hardly held the bite it used to.
Altaïr dusted his robes, easing himself into Malik's office, arms spread. "I can't come to visit my own bureaus, brother?"
"Last time I heard of you from the messenger birds, you were buried in the documents of Masyaf to no end," Malik replied, berating himself the new Master caught him off guard, like he was the novice here.
"Not anymore, not anymore," Altaïr sighed, his jovial tone gone. "But worry not, I did leave the fortress knowing that things are running smoothly, with the thing deep in the vaults."
Malik finally looked at him properly, noticing Altaïr's posture was once again stiff, like years ago, when he nothing but bowed his head to him, soaking all the blame and accusations like dirt of a battleground would soak in the blood of the unfortunate.
"What troubles you, my friend? It is far too bothersome to travel all the way from Masyaf without a purpose."
"I certainly did not come here just to bore you to death with my speech," Altaïr paced the bureau instead of a proper reply, his tone poorly covering his unease. And just as his tone, his swagger poorly covered up the fact he was favoring his left leg.
"I shall truly call you a novice to the end of your days if you are hiding a wound there, Altaïr," Malik scowled.
He saw a flash of teeth under the white hood. "No, not an injury, no. Yet it is not a thing I could approach the doctors of Masyaf with - three nights ago I woke up with a terrible spasm wracking my leg," he admitted, shifting his weight as if revealing a shameful secret instead of something so trifling. "It's been a mere discomfort since then, but I cannot... run freely anymore."
There was startling disparity between something so trivial as leg cramps and the gravity of Altaïr's strained voice. Had it been back in the past, Malik would yell in outrage, cursing Altaïr for flaunting such a minor injury in front of a man without a whole arm. Yet any response he might have died on his lips, as it all suddenly made sense. Altaïr didn't have to elaborate – it was so obvious that Malik felt a chill creep down his spine despite the beat of the midday sun. There was one thing the Assassins feared as death itself, maybe even more so. It was the simple and inevitable betrayal of one's own body – when it grew too tired and weary, deteriorated and beyond control of the mind of its owner, even in youth. Malik, no matter if forever wounded and forever incomplete, without something as vital for an Assassin as an arm, had a lithe trustworthy body that obeyed his every beck and call. What they feared were jittery shaking hands unable to throw a knife, brittle bones broken far too many times, legs failing under the strain of a pursuit or the mind losing itself to the world. Such unfortunates often left Masyaf never to be heard of again, dying on the roads of the Kingdom wearing nothing but shame and no will to live.
Taking a leap of faith with a leg that defied its master meant plunging into the open arms of a certain death. Yet Malik wanted nothing more than to assure Altaïr that it might pass in a few days and never return again, but the darkness in his eyes spoke of the seriousness Altaïr took the whole matter in. He was the Master now, after all, and such situation was not to be taken lightly. If the Master was crippled and feeble, so was the Brotherhood – and as Altaïr had said once, one word of gossip could send the Order into disarray.
"I- don't know what to say, brother. Pray it is just a temporary thing, but for now - sit," Malik commanded, his tone soft but allowing no objection as he waved towards the cushions. "Rest, and do not move an inch."
And without a word, just with a humble, curt nod, Altaïr complied, carefully piling his blades and belts neatly in a corner, sinking down amidst pillows, almost relieved.
Sometimes, and he would never admit it openly, Malik missed the Altaïr of old, the one that spoke with eagerness and sported a wild smile - it was almost a different man now, sitting in a well-mannered way on the cushions, the curve of his back unyielding and tense, hiding from the glare of Jerusalem's scorching sun.
Malik brought him a pile of books, water and a small dinner when the evening slowly came and the shadows stretched. They spoke in hushed tones, and Malik was somehow glad Altaïr's stiffness was slowly melting away as he relaxed into the pillows. When the sun slipped beyond the horizon for good and the city beyond the walls of the bureau started to bustle with night life, he ordered Altaïr out of his intricate leather shoes. Quite nimbly for an one-armed man, he quickly fetched a bowl of warm water, oils and a strip of a clean linen cloth. To his surprise, Altaïr offered his troubled leg without protests, almost like a wild animal yielding to a man, knowing his pain will be eased, with absolute trust. And thus in the flickering light of nothing but lamps and torches, he quickly wiped Altaïr's limb clean, washing away any grime, then warming the oil against his calf. The muscles under his fingertips were coiled like springs, wound too tight for too long. He cussed mildly, as he could hardly put enough pressure to the strained flesh with only one hand, but Altaïr looked content as it was, eyes half-lidded yet following Malik's ministrations raptly.
Later, when the stone walls cooled off and let the night chill in, Altaïr politely refused Malik's offer to take the rafiq's bed upstairs, above the bureau, being the injured one; as if surprised by Malik's kindness altogether. He managed to convince him that he was quite comfortable on the pillows, only asking for a simple blanket or a cape. Malik complied and bid him a peaceful night before disappearing into the depths of the bureau. Before the fleeting dreams claimed him, he realized that in spite of the wounds they blindly inflicted upon each other in the past, he was the only one Altaïr confided in, the only one he came to seeking help despite his pride and Malik felt the heartbeat thunder in his ears a little bit louder, a little bit faster.
*
The morning found Altaïr drowsy on the pillows, as he owlishly blinked at a breakfast perched on a small table nearby. Malik was obviously an early riser and Altaïr idly wondered how he managed to sleep through his morning routine. The bureau was empty and the sun already quite high in the sky, books and Malik's note that he was off to the markets being Altaïr's only companions for the day, save the two startled informants. When Malik returned, with a sac full of scrolls and provisions slung over his shoulder, his temporary tenant was once again curled up on the pillows, having the audacity to nap in the broad daylight. Malik felt a tiny stab in his chest when thinking how sleep-deprived the Master Assassin must have been. He expected him to already pace the bureau like a caged animal, bored to death, yet there he was, resting like an exhausted child.
*
The second day, after checking the muscles properly, deft fingers against warm flesh, Malik allowed him to move around the bureau. Prohibited to do anything tiring, Altaïr helped himself to more books and scrolls, poring over the bookshelves as he pleased. Though, after scaring yet another informant for life, Malik glared him back to the pillows and he obeyed, amused far more than a man of his status should be. Later, they dined in a simple manner – Altaïr was not a picky eater and Malik realized that even if he almost had to babysit the other Assassin, his work flew by faster.
*
The third day caught Altaïr by surprise in the late afternoon.
"We're going outside," Malik stated, handing him a small pile of clothes. "Not as members of the Brotherhood, but as simple residents of Jerusalem."
Altaïr did not look pleased, his lip twitching - abandoning his identity of an Assassin was something his pride protested vehemently against. Malik sighed.
"Walk the city in whites and reds when you heal properly, brother. You still need to rest, not to fight. We shall just walk, and nothing more."
Begrudgingly, Altaïr accepted the clothes, shedding his white robe when Malik was out of sight. The clothes felt well-worn under his touch, yet still in a good shape, smelling faintly of the bureau's incense. It was obvious from the creases in the fabric that they were Malik's own, and Altaïr took his time to get dressed properly.
*
For the first time in his life, Altaïr walked out of the front door of the bureau.
It felt alien, like he was doing something strongly prohibited, almost like breaking a taboo, when he carefully stepped over the threshold and into the street.
Malik tugged at his arm, voice low. "For this evening alone, you have nothing to fear. No one is to be a victim of your blades, and neither you are a target. Open your eyes and ears to the city."
That was easier said than done; every guard at every corner made his back stiffen, his hands twitching to be locked in a prayer he did not need. He was trying to believe in what Malik had said, that he had no reason to hide as they were a part of the crowd itself. As he finally shook the tension off, he realized the rafiq was right. The sun rolled lazily above the distant mountain ranges, painting the city in wild hues of oranges and reds, the minarets casting long crooked shadows, making the city look like an ever-moving tiger's pelt. And as they slowly weaved through the streets and crowds, markets and plazas, Altaïr noticed the city smelled of more than just cold steel, waste and the stale scent of blood he associated Jerusalem with. Dark alleys still indeed smelled foul, but then there were market halls bursting at seams with air laden with spices of such variety he could not even identify them all by smell alone. Strong scent of myrrh wafted around them as they passed the numerous places of worship, clashing mildly with the inviting smell of shisha from the small shops that littered the streets. But what was catching Altaïr's attention even more were food stands, some brimming with delicacies, spices and wonderfully smelling meat. He felt his stomach growl, embarrassingly loud, something he did not feel since he was a scrawny urchin.
"You are finally starting to look your age," Malik pointed out, to Altaïr's surprise, with mirth in his voice.
"And you finally cracked a smile, brother," he quipped and the rafiq smiled again. "True indeed. Shall we help ourselves to some food, then?"
On the way back to the bureau, when the night enveloped the bustling city with a soothing cover of a starry sky, they randomly stopped by fountains or sat on benches, watching dancers and musicians. It was a simple pastime, yet it warmed Malik to the bone to see that Altaïr was starting to look far more at ease.
*
The next morning, Malik was alone in his bureau, in the quiet company of rustling scrolls, incense and dust fluttering idly in the air. Cushions were neatly piled, clothes from yesterday folded, weapons gone - all traces of Altaïr gone.
He just stood in the middle of the bureau, suddenly lost, all his plans torn, his schedule for the day jumbled and forgotten. Soon after shaking off the reverie, Malik berated himself for losing focus so easily. Duties needed to be fulfilled; maps copied, pigeons sent, messengers dispatched. He reminded himself that it was all for the better, with Altaïr gone, nothing would hinder his work. But it felt hollow and he knew he wasn't even able to fool himself anymore. For a split second, he wondered where did all his outrage go, as he was only startlingly empty, more sad than angry that Altaïr did not bother with even a good-bye. Or a single word of gratitude - Malik didn't even know if his leg stopped hurting. Crouching over a map that needed finishing, he felt the familiar bile rise in his throat.
*
"Dai of Jerusalem, a moment of your time?"
To Malik's credit, he did not jump - his knuckles went white, eyes wide; the only sign of his shock. There was no creak of wood and no thud of boots against the floor, yet Altaïr was standing right beside him, as if he dropped through the wooden bars like a bird of prey diving for a kill. He counted to three, the rush of blood obscenely loud in his ears.
"Do you require anything else, Master Altaïr?" he wished his voice was more steady, not laced with spite, but he could not control it after spending the whole day wallowing in misery of his lonely mind. It felt strangely sinful yet familiar, to spit malice at the younger man. Upon hearing the bite of Malik's voice, Altaïr paused, pulling his hood down, sharp eagle eyes rising to meet Malik's evasive ones.
"My friend, forgive me for this trickery. Please, allow me to express my gratitude?"
"Your gratitude? By leaving again?"
And Malik hated, hated the way how jaded and hurt his voice sounded. He tried to quench the tiny spark of hope blooming in his chest, because Altaïr was bound to leave again. And again and again till Malik's heart just turned to ash. Even if he pretended with all his might that it meant nothing to him.
"No, no. Please?"
And despite what his mind screamed, Malik nodded reluctantly, eyes burning and evasive.
Altaïr led them swooping across the rooftops and flying over the streets, leaving Malik wondering more and more, rafiq's robe fluttering behind him like a pair of black wings as he followed the eagle's lead.
When they reached the wealthiest of Jerusalem's districts, Altaïr skidded to a halt in front of an intricate roof garden, its white silk curtains flapping invitingly. Only a little breathless, he hopped over the railing, beckoning Malik to follow.
Malik couldn't stop the impressed whistle as he eased himself in. The roof garden was stuffed with cushions, with a low carved table laden with fruits, snacks and carafes. He even a spotted a hookah hose as he slid between the cushions.
And Malik slowly relaxed into the cushions, just like the Master of Masyaf did mere few days ago, listening to Altaïr going on about what he saw from the towers and in the streets, how he found this garden, how he went searching for a particular shisha flavor, how he had prepared all this, slowly being lulled by the flow of his voice and the distant bustle of the palace below them.
"Malik."
When the rafiq's eyes focused on him, the other scooted closer, expression serious, eyes searching. Slowly, carefully, as one would reach for a skittish horse, he took Malik's hand, softly yet firmly gripping his fingers against his own. "Thank you, for everything you have ever done for me. Especially...everything."
Surprising himself how easy it was to do so, Malik squeezed his hand back, callused fingers warm against his touch. "For such a small thing, it was nothing."
"Small thing?" Altaïr echoed, his grip tightening. "You wouldn't imagine how much I wanted to turn my horse back with every mile that passed by on my way here. Part of me reeled at the idea that you won't notice, you won't care or you won't even speak to me, while the other part, twisted in shame that I even dared to think you would deny me refuge clawed at my conscience."
"So thank you, more than words can ever express, for your care healed far more than just my beaten body, far more I could ever hope to ask for," he concluded, and, never breaking eye contact, he bent down to kiss the top of Malik's hand, as if revering a holy relic.
Gently shaking his hand free, Malik straightened, his bearing far more confident than he actually felt, yet his movements were sure like never before. Slowly, just as the other reached for him moments ago, he reached across the pillows for Altaïr's face, cupping his chin, thumbing the scar that split his lip until he felt Altaïr's breath hitch hopelessly.
Drawing a shaky breath, Altaïr continued, eyes closed. "I couldn't think straight. When I woke up to the pain back at Masyaf, I was deathly scared, not of the pain, but that I couldn't tell of it to anyone. All the brothers were suddenly strangers to me, their reverent gazes only scaring me more, like I was all alone in those halls of stone. And I wanted to run, as fast as I could, as hard I could, yet the leg crippled me before I could even begin. I was so, so lost. For the first time, I have been seized by fear that it is all over, and my only thought was that I wanted, needed to have you by my side."
Malik knew he probably whimpered, a tiny sound escaping his lips, before things happened so quickly he could barely blink. Altaïr moved with deadly swiftness, lunging forward, giving him no time to brace for an impact that never came. Instead, Altaïr's arms wrapped around him, snaking under the rafiq's customary robe, pulling half-sitting Malik into a tight embrace.
No matter how startled, he could not think of any other action than to wrap his arm around Altaïr's shoulders, listening to nothing but ragged breaths that could have been as well his own. Time seemed to stretch indefinitely; only thing that seemed real was Altaïr's breath, hot against his neck. The smell of his hair under his nose, smelling of sun-dried hay. His heaving chest, out of sync with Malik's own unevenly drawn breaths. The body in his half-embrace. Altaïr.
It's been a long time since Malik bitterly cursed the loss of his arm, now he would gladly exchange all of Salahaddin's treasures to have his hand back, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around the man in front of him. But he couldn't and he will be never able to, the thought itself making him want to melt against Altaïr, to make up for his shameful flaw.
"I should be the one thanking you, and the one apologizing," Malik finally breathed. "I was no different from the others, thinking you were cold as a blade, with no feelings of your own. I did not allow myself to think you would desire company like anyone did – like I did. Thank you, for coming to me."
"Thank you," he repeated, voice muffled as he rested his cheek against Altaïr's hair. And Altaïr shifted in response, making him lean back into the pillows, until the younger man was almost sprawled on top of him, blanketing him with warmth he did not know he desired until now. Nuzzling into the crook of Malik's neck, he continued.
"I pray you never have the need to look into the Apple, for the truth it shows is so scalding it tears your mind apart to the point you don't even trust yourself, let alone others. As the Creed says, truly nothing is true, nothing we have been brought to believe, nothing we feverishly hope for is true. I can't- I don't want- I won't ever believe that what we feel is nothing," Altaïr whispered, listening to the fast but steady roll of Malik's heartbeat. "I have seen a thousand years of war against the Templars, meaning we can never stop them here and now, yet if we give up, there will be no war, just an endless tyranny of that thing... things," he almost spat, teeth grazing Malik's neck. "If we live our lives well, there, far, far away in the future will be someone who can change things to the way they are meant to be. And if I'm to live my life to the fullest, I want no one but you to walk that path with me. Will...will you do me the honor?" Altaïr rose to meet his eyes.
If as the Apple said nothing was true, everything around him nothing but a filthy lie, if all the gods above were nowhere to be found, Malik mused, having Altaïr as the only safe haven amidst the sea of pitch black darkness was not a bad thing, not in the slightest. Staying lonely to the end of his days was not a twisted luxury he was willing–wanting to afford, not when a soul equally lonely and wounded was reaching tentatively to him.
"The honor will be mine, Altaïr," he whispered back, his voice cracking ever so slightly.