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Even while falling to his certain death Altair manages to do it quietly, without causing a disturbance, and so it is not until the following morning that Malik finds the man’s shivering, pale body crumpled on the terrace’s floor. During the night a dark liquid has formed a puddle around Alatir’s figure and with a start Malik realises that the man is bleeding – God, please let him still be bleeding. Please let there be still blood left inside him.
With that thought Malik snaps out of his stupor and rushes to the unconscious man, carefully turning him on his back. Altair’s skin is cold to the touch. And he is pale. So very pale.
Malik mutters a curse because with only one arm, how is he supposed to get Altair inside, to his cot? If he is still alive, that is. He presses his ear to the other man’s mouth and listens. After a seemingly endless moment, he detects shallow breathing. It is only then that is own breath is coming somewhat more easily, even though he didn’t even realise he’d been holding it.
Gently, he grabs the assassin’s shoulder and shakes him. „Altair?“, he says softly. „Altair, brother! You have to wake up! I cannot get you inside.“
For a moment he thinks that Altair will not come through. That Malik will have to try and patch him up right here on the cold stone floor. But then the other man’s eyes do flutter open, his gaze unfocused and bleary, before it finally settles on Malik with a frown.
„Is it time for another mission?“ he asks and his voice sounds very different than usual. It’s a notch higher but sort of raspy at the same time, almost boyish.
„You are hurt,“ Malik replies. As he scans the man’s body he sees that the fabric is drenched in deep red liquid at the side, and that it is ripped. He gulps. „Do you not remember?“
Altair blinks, frowns again and then his gaze becomes somewhat clearer. He tries to sit up, but only manages with Malik’s aid as he moves his body behind Altair’s. He manouvers the other man’s arm around his shoulders and pulls him up. „You need to help me with this, brother. I cannot carry you.“
Altair does not respond, only nods briskly. He seems to need all his energy for the task at hand, and even though he tries to walk on his own he leans into Malik heavily, his feet giving way under his weight more often than not. Eventually Malik begins to coax him like he would a child, it’s not much further, only a few more steps and then you can lie down and rest, it isn’t far. He cannot tell how aware Altair is of his surroundings. His breath is coming in shallow hitches and his skin is still much too cold. He is only half conscious as Malik guides him into his own spartanic quarters and eases him down onto the bed. He can tell that Altair is trying to stay awake, but his lids keep falling shut and his posture is slumped, like a rag doll.
„Lie down, friend“, Malik thus tells him and again, helps the other man to ease down so he will not simply fall over and hurt himself. A deep sigh escapes Altair’s lips as his head finds the pillow, and his body goes limp from exhaustion. Maybe it is a blessing. Malik will have to look at the wound and dress it, and hope that his herbs and poultices will be enough to help him heal.
Before Malik leaves him alone, though, he briefly places his hand on the man’s forehead in a reassuring gesture. „I will be right back“, he says, not even sure if Altair can hear him, and almost adds, „Do not die on me while I am gone.“ But he does not want to tempt fate.
He gathers some supplies from the shelves in the bureau, before he returns to his quarters. Altair has not moved at all, but his chest is still rising and falling ever so slightly. He has not gone and died out of pure stubborness then. Malik exhales.
Kneeling beside the cot, he begins to lay out the poultices, bandages and tinctures that he alwas keeps in stock in case something like this happens. He may not be able to fight anymore, but that doesn’t render him useless. He reads and learns and observes, and has turned himself into somewhat of a healer. Good enough to tend to small battle wounds and injuries. Something like this though? Malik does not know.
With swift fingers he begins to open Altair’s tunic, exposing the tanned skin beneath. How often has he secretly wished he could do just that – taking off the man’s clothes and catching a glimpse of the muscled body. But not like this. Never like this.
When he reaches the bit where the wound is, his fingers become even more gentle, but still Alatir winces as Malik removes the fabric where it has begun to stick to the wound. With the tunic gone he finally gets a clear view at the wound, and his own breath hitches.
Altair must have had a run-in with the guards or some thugs, because there is a deep stab wound at his side, the kind that is done very deliberately and meant to kill. In fact, Altair was very lucky that apparently no vital organs were hit and that gives Malik a little hope to cling to. If Altair has lasted this long...surely that has to be a good sign? He sends a brief prayer to his god even though he isn’t even sure he actually believes in a higher entity. Not after all the things he has seen.
His hand is shaking so badly that he can barely pick up the bottle with the tincture. Opening it with one hand proves to be even more difficult particularly now that the one person who must never die is clinging to life by a very fine thread.
Altair is half conscious again, and so Malik gets to work – cleaning the wound, applying herbs and a poultice, bandaging – which ist he real challenge and only possible because in his state, Altair obediently follows his orders. „Roll over again, Altair. Yes. Like that. Very well. We are almost done.“ When at least Malik has done everything in his power, and the assassin allows himself to slip back into complete unconsciousness, Malik stares at his hand for a while. It is all covered in blood – Altair’s blood – and suddenly, Malik’s stomach flips. He rushes to the door and outside, and starts retching, throwing up the meal from the day before.
Please let him live, he finds himself thinking, begging, though who he is begging he does not know. Just let him live. I will do anything. There is no answer. Not that he expected one.
When he returns to his quarters the other man is still passed out, though Malik likest o think that Altair’s breath seems to be coming somewhat easier. The bleeding is stopped – all they can do now is hope that the blood loss wasn’t too grave. But Altair is strong. He ist he strongest of them all, Malik tells himself.
And because there is nothing else to do, he sits down on the floor beside the cot and watches over his friend’s sleep, praying and hoping that rest and the herbs will help him heal. Outside in Jerusalem a new day has begun, the sun is rising high into the sky, but here in the bureau time moves differently. Indeed it seems to be standing still.
Hours pass. Day turns into night. Still Malik hasn’t moved. It is like he cannot move. As if Altair will slip away as soon as Malik leaves his post.
Then, suddenly, a hand grabs his shoulder and Malik whips around. Altair is staring at him, eyes wide and feverish, his hair wet and sticking to his forehead. He is pale and his face is contorted in horror, and instantly Malik knows that his friend seems to be trapped in some sort of fever-induced delirium.
„You have forgiven me, yes?“, Altair asks at last, his voice so desperate that it breaks Malik’s heart. „You … you have forgiven me?“
His eyes are begging, burning into Malik’s like he holds the answer that will be the end to Altair’s torment.
He nods, tries to sound as calming and reassuring as he possibly can. „Of course, brother. Do you not remember?“
The other man frowns, and then his gaze grows a little clearer, and he nods in return. „Yes. Yes… I think.“
He closes his eyes, but when Malik gently pushes the man’s hand from his own shoulder, Altair’s eyes snap open again. His hand tightens around Malik’s, as if he too is scared of what might happen if Malik leaves the room for just a minute. His hand is still very cold, but his grip is surprisingly strong for someone this wounded, and once again hope is sparked in Malik.
„You will stay?“ Altair asks, seeming very small all of a sudden.
„Of course.“
Altair nods again and his eyes fall shut, but his grip never loosens.
The night passes into day again, followed by another night and another day. Fever takes hold of Altair and for a long, long while Malik fears that his feeble hope will be crushed. The other man’s breath is laboured, then barely audible at all as the blood loss and exhaustion drag him to the brink of death. Malik clasps Altair’s hand, hums a lullaby that his mother used to sing to him long ago. Altair’s bare torso is covered in a fine layer of cold sweat, and every so often the man will moan softly. He is in pain, that much is certain, and yet Malik cannot do anything but change the bandages, apply new herbs and pour a few drops of water into Altair’s mouth.
Unless he absolutely has to, he doesn’t leave the assassin’s side. He sets up a makeshift bed next to the cot that is now occupied by Altair, and his slumber is shallow, always listening out for unusual sounds or signs that indicate a change in Altair’s condition.
Finally during the third night the fever breaks and Malik feels like he too can breathe more freely at last. Altair still has not woken again, butnow his sleep seems to actually help him regain his strength somewhat. His breathing evens out and now and then a sigh will escape his lips, but there are no more nightmares, thankfully. Malik isn’t certain he could bear to see that expression in Altair’s eyes again when he was no longer sure he had Malik’s forgiveness, that horror and shame and fear.
He is cleaning the man’s body with a wet cloth, removing the sweat and washing the wound like he has done so many timest he past few days, when Altair finally regains consciousness. Malik does not notice right away; he is immersed in his task and focusing on causing the injured man as less pain as possible. But then he hears his name being whispered, and as he turns his head he sees that Altair’s eyes are open, his gaze, if exhausted, now clear and firmly fixed on Malik.
„Try to rest,“ he tells Altair. „You have been very sick.“
Altair nods weakly. „Thank you,“ he replies. He sounds as if producing words takes much effort.
„You do not need to thank me.“
„Yes. I do. I would have—„
„Stop such talk,“ Malik cuts in because truly, he cannot even bear to hear Altair speak like that. „Rest. Now that you are awake I will prepare a soup. You need to eat.“
„Malik—„ Altair reaches out, grabs Malik’s hand and then presses it against his lips. It is a brief gesture, so brief that later it almost feels like it never happened at all. But Malik will swear that his heart stopped for just a moment and time froze. As the other man’s lips brush against Malik’s knuckles he thinks that this is what it must be like to be struck by lightning. No other comparison will do.
Then he does the most peculiar thing. He curls his fingers around Altair’s hand, and reciprocates the gesture. The other man’s skin is no longer deathly cold, but warm like the sun on a spring day.
Carefully he eases Altair’s hand down an das he does, he notices the other man’s eyes watching him. A smile is playing around Alatir’s lips, thankful and relieved.
Malik smiles. All of a sudden, he feels like he could take on the world.
„Rest, brother,“ he says. „Do not worry. I will not leave.“
„Not ever?“
His smile widens. He cannot recall the last time he felt like smiling. Not like this. „No. Not ever.“
-fin-