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Malik finds him huddled in a corner, up high on Masyaf’s westernmost tower. Altaïr has always preferred to be alone, particularly when he is hurt. Malik is the only one who has been able to ferret out most of his hiding places; but even he hasn’t found them all yet.
“Altaïr.” Malik’s voice is measured, careful. Altaïr in pain is like a wounded animal; he will hide it until it becomes too much to bear and will lash out at anyone trying to get close without warning. He looks up at Malik from where he is hugging himself with one arm, gaze guarded and watchful. It doesn’t soften, not even when Malik steps into his view.
“Altaïr,” he says again, this time more quietly. He takes another few steps in his friend’s direction, reaching out but not touching him. Altaïr gazes at him warily but doesn’t move away, a cautious sign of the trust between them. He looks away again when their eyes meet, a flicker of shame dancing through his.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles. Not even the note of pain in his voice can hide his particular brand of mulish stubbornness that is laced through every syllable. Malik raises his brows at the obvious lie.
“You are not.” He reaches out again at the arm that Altaïr is cradling so close to this body. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” Altaïr snaps again, leaning away from Malik’s touch. He has always expressed himself in physical ways more than with words – be it with weapons in the ring, his aversiveness to casual touch, or the way his hungry mouth ghosts over Malik’s skin when they lie together in the darkness of the night.
Malik only rolls his eyes in response.
“Look,” he says, refusing to budge from his current position. “You’re hurt, whether you want to admit it or not. You’re going to save us all some trouble if you just let me have a look at it. Or do I have to tell Al Mualim, novice?”
Altaïr’s glare is positively murderous. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Malik meets it without flinching. For a moment they just stare at each other, a silent battle of wills, before Altaïr huffs and loosens his grip on his own arm just a little as he looks away. Malik knows that this is the only encouragement he’s going to get. He tries to be gentle as he touches Altaïr’s arm and shoulder but can’t help but notice his friend’s face going white as a sheet, especially when he produces a knife to cut off the sleeve.
“It’s dislocated.” He frowns as his fingers wander over the rest of Altaïr’s body, making sure that this is the only injury. There are a few bruises and bloody scrapes, but nothing else as serious as his shoulder. “What did you do?”
Altaïr mumbles something unintelligible. Now that Malik has coaxed him into at least letting him examine his injuries he’s gone sullen again, but this time with his exhaustion showing through.
“What was that?” Malik is relentless as he prods Altaïr to bring him around into the correct position to reset the joint.
“I said I fell,” Altaïr grunts. He grits his teeth when another unfortunate movement seems to send an arrow of pain through him. But he’s well aware that talking helps distract him, and so he keeps going. “Slipped when I was climbing. Fell and caught myself with one arm. Not good.”
“’Not good’, indeed.” Malik sighs. Altaïr’s insatiable urge to climb is almost legendary amongst the novices. He seems incapable of standing still for long, whether inside or outside the practice arena, always on the move. If he does rest, it is usually at one of the most remote places that he can find.
“Hold still.” Malik shifts a little. “On three. One, two…”
On ‘two’, he makes a well-practised move, popping Altaïr’s joint back into place. Altaïr spits out a curse, and then another one as he leans back against the wall, panting harshly with his eyes closed. Malik doesn’t try to comfort him, only sets to binding his shoulder and making a sling for his arm.
“Since when do you know how to reset a dislocated shoulder?” Altaïr finally says, his voice rough and scratchy.
“Since I didn’t sneak off during the healer’s lessons in order to climb.” All Assassins are supposed to have at least a modicum of medical knowledge, so that they can look after themselves and their companions in the field. Malik, conscious that this knowledge will certainly come in handy at some point, has volunteered with the healers on several occasions now. Learning how the body works is a fascinating subject of study in and of itself, nevermind that the knowledge can be used just as easily to kill as it can to heal.
Altaïr takes the rebuke in silence, which is rare enough that Malik sneaks a second, worried glance at his face. It reveals absolutely nothing of what goes on inside Altaïr, of course. With a huff, he sits down on his friend’s uninjured side when he is done.
“A ‘thank you’ might be in order,” he suggests after a moment.
“I didn’t ask you to find me.” If anyone could heal themselves by the power of sheer stubbornness alone, Altaïr would likely live forever. Malik says nothing, his sullen silence answer enough. Altaïr expels his breath, looks at him and shifts a little, the tension bleeding from his body. “Thank you,” he adds, eventually.
“Mhm.” Malik acknowledges the gratitude and half-apology hidden inside the words. He leans back and scoots closer to Altaïr, just a fraction, until their arms touch. It is somehow more intimate than any of their kisses have ever been, made even more so by the tiny sigh that escapes Altaïr’s lips as he settles himself against the wall more comfortably and closes his eyes again.
*
Jerusalem is in a frenzy.
Lights are blazing along the streets, glinting off drawn swords and polished armour as small troops of soldiers are making their way through every street. The clanging of the bells renders most of their conversations inaudible to all but the most sensible ear, but Altaïr doesn’t have to listen to know what they are saying.
He is being hunted.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed the guard who he interrogated about the whereabouts of his current target. Perhaps he should have tried to hide the body better instead of just dragging him behind a stack of crates. Perhaps he should have remained hidden, waiting patiently until the hubbub had died down around home before returning to the bureau. Not that it matters now – the entire city is after him and it is only a matter of time before they spot him, even running across the rooftops as he is.
As if to confirm his thoughts, a shout rings out behind him. Altaïr can hear the sound of a crossbow being shot and dives to the left. He isn’t quite fast enough, however; the bolt slams into his upper arm and throws him off balance. He curses colourfully as he tumbles off the roof onto a balcony below. A quick look shows him that no major blood vessels have been injured, but the wound is deep and the pain from it keeps racing through him, making him dizzy as he tries to get up again. There is some excited shouting on the other side of the house, the soldiers no doubt looking for a way to get up to find him.
Altaïr forces himself to his feet and grits his teeth as he draws himself back up onto the roof again. The pain almost makes him black out, especially when he discovers that he must’ve twisted his ankle when falling earlier. But the bureau isn’t far. He can only hope that Malik will let him in despite the sound of the bells – it’s only three more rooftops, he should be able to make it.
One guard, evidently less encumbered by heavy armour than the others, chooses this exact moment to clamber onto the roof in front of Altaïr. Altaïr curses and flings a throwing knife at the man, drawing his sword only a breath later. The knife grazes the soldier’s shoulder but does little to deter him. With a shout, Altaïr runs towards him, hoping to catch him before he has found his footing.
The man blocks Altaïr’s first hit and makes a grab for his sword. Altaïr sidesteps, angling his blade and sliding it down the smooth metal of the other’s weapon. The soldier takes a step back just in time to avoid being stabbed and Altaïr withdraws. Not for long, however; his shoulder and ankle are on fire, and he can feel his strength seeping away with frightening speed. The guard lets out a triumphant cry and attacks him with a powerful overhead slash from his double-handed sword. Altaïr grits his teeth, knowing this is going to hurt, but he brings his blade up to meet the blow. Instead of blocking, however, he uses the ferocity of the hit levelled against him, steps out of the way as the force of his attack carries the man forward, and brings his own sword around above his head. His blade meets the unprotected side of the man’s throat right above the jaw and almost cleaves his head in half.
With this last monumental effort, however, Altaïr’s energy is spent and he tumbles forward, only barely catching himself with his healthy arm. He has to hurry; the other soldiers can’t be far behind. Pulling the last bits of his strength together he makes it to the bureau’s roof; how, he doesn’t quite know. The gate, of course, is closed.
“Malik, open the gate!” he yells. He looks behind him, unable to see or hear his pursuers for the moment. “I’m alone.”
There is no answer from inside, although he thinks he can see some movement through the doorway.
“Malik!” he calls again, fury and just the smallest sliver of fear lining his voice.
The movement in the doorway becomes more obvious now as Malik’s figure slowly emerges from the half-dark of the bureau and looks up at him with utter derision in his eyes.
“Malik,” Altaïr says a third time. He can hear shouts coming closer. There isn’t much time – as loath as he is to admit it, he won’t be able to survive a fight with two of the soldiers coming at him at once. He would rather walk barefoot all the way to hell before admitting as much in front of Malik, however. Altaïr presses his lips together, already hating the words that are about to tumble across his lips. But they might be the only ones that work. “Please.”
Malik’s brow furrows, his gaze becoming piercing when he spots the blood that is soaking Altaïr’s sleeve by now.
“Why shouldn’t I just let you die, novice?” he demands to know. Like you did Kadar, hangs unspoken in the air. Altaïr feels rage running through him, hot and heavy.
“Whatever you decide to do, do it quickly,” he snaps. He knows he’s almost out of time. Malik only stares at him for a moment longer, looks at the blood dripping down from his arm, before he fetches the pole that enables him to slide open a part of the latticework above him.
Altaïr tries to descend gracefully, mindful of Malik’s eagle-eyed watch on him. He only makes it a short distance before tumbling unceremoniously to the ground, landing on his injured ankle. Unable to take his own weight, he rolls over with a curse, landing in a painful heap right in front of Malik.
Malik only looks at him with a sneer, before turning around and heading back into the inside of the bureau.
For a few precious seconds, Altaïr concentrates on nothing else but drawing breath, before the pain floods him again and becomes too strong to ignore. The crossbow bolt is the most immediate of his concerns. It takes him the better part of half an hour to rip enough of his clothing into shreds, strip the wound bare, and push the bolt through, and the sooner he can forget the entire ordeal, the better. His hands and the tiles around him are slick with his own blood and Altaïr isn’t sure whether he hasn’t blacked out a few times, but at least the wound is as tightly bound as he can get it for now. It will have to be cleaned more thoroughly and stitched shut soon. Malik is unlikely to help, but there is a doctor not far from here that asks few questions, provided he is being paid accordingly. Altaïr leans back against the wall, thinking of closing his eyes for only a moment, just to catch his breath.
When he opens them again, the sky above him is dark. Altaïr blinks, disoriented; when he’d returned to the bureau it had barely been midday. He shifts, tries to sit up before his body reminds him of the wounds it has received earlier. With a muffled sound he sinks back against the wall.
He feels for his arm with his fingers, flinching in surprise when he touches cleanly wrapped bandages instead of the makeshift strips of cloth he’d used earlier. Someone has cleaned him up and stitched his wounds whilst he was asleep. Altaïr’s gaze flickers to the bureau, unsure of what happened. The noise from earlier had been enough to alert Malik, it seems; he comes outside bearing a small plate with a water pitcher and some dates and dry bread in his hand.
“You’re awake,” he states.
“An astute observation.”
Malik’s lips draw back in another snarl as his eyes blaze. He sets down the plate next to Altaïr, none too carefully, before turning on his heel and marching back into the bureau.
“Make sure that you recover quickly, novice,” he says without looking at Altaïr, each word slashing through the air like a knife. “The earlier you are well again, the earlier you can leave.”
Altaïr bites back a sharp retort. He just watches Malik retreat behind the large desk to his maps, wondering at what point exactly his absolute fury with the man has given way to vague desire to heal the wounds between them instead.
*
“Altaïr, you are wounded.” Malik’s hand is hovering over Altaïr’s battered body, clearly worried, but not quite touching yet. Every inch of Altaïr’s flesh seems to be hurting, although he can’t tell how much of it is from the magic of the Apple and how much is from Al Mualim’s beating.
“I will be fine.” Altaïr wants to slap Malik’s hand aside, but all he can manage is a weak movement instead that does nothing but bring their hands together. For a moment they remain in their positions, Altaïr’s little finger touching Malik’s thumb, before Malik withdraws. His eyes rove across Altaïr’s body, desperate to prove him wrong. Altaïr can feel the urge to step away welling up inside him, to close that shell again that he’s built around himself so carefully over the years. Once, before his arrogance had cost Malik a brother and arm, Malik had been the only one allowed inside; he doesn’t know whether they will ever be as comfortable with each other again, but the tiniest cracks have begun to form in the wall between them.
“When have these words ever been true?” There is a slight tinge of exasperation to Malik’s voice. “You know you cannot fool me.”
Altaïr sighs. “We don’t have time. Al Mualim might be dead, but we have to take care of our brothers. We cannot let the Brotherhood fracture.”
“The Brotherhood will not be served if you are dead,” Malik says, full of pragmatism. “And a few more moments will not make a difference.”
“There are others who need care more than me,” Altaïr insists. Malik only rolls his eyes in response. Since they were children, Malik is the only one who will simply stop replying if he considers his opponent’s point moot. Altaïr might be legendary for his stubbornness amongst the Brotherhood, but in this respect, at least, Malik has him beat. He finally relents, knowing that resisting will only delay them further.
Malik motions him to sit down on one of the benches in the garden. Even now, his hand is practised as he helps him take off his belts and weapons and runs his palm across Altaïr’s skin, fingers feeling for any more serious wounds. Although his touch is gentle, Altaïr flinches now and then when he comes across an especially sore part of his skin. His breath hitches when Malik touches his chest and Malik stops, fingers splayed across his sternum.
“Breathe, Altaïr,” he says softly. For a moment, he sounds exactly like the young man he was so many moons ago, when they would fall asleep nestled into each other, bodies still heated. The same intensity that had made them rivals in the training ring had bound them together in bed – not all of the scars on Altaïr’s body are the result of fighting or accidents.
“Malik…” His voice trails off as he meets his gaze, truly looks at him perhaps for the first time in years. He has never really noticed all the new lines that have appeared on Malik’s face since that fateful night in Solomon’s Temple. The boy he once was has long since been lost, buried together with Kadar. There are no words big enough to ever truly ask forgiveness for what Altaïr has taken from him.
Malik swallows, his eyes trained on Altaïr’s face. The moment between them lengthens before he looks away and back down at his chest again.
“Two of your ribs are broken.” His voice is rough around the edges. “The rest seems to be just bruising.” He doesn’t inquire about the details of the fight with Al Mualim and Altaïr is oddly grateful about it. A small part of him will always mourn for the mentor and father figure he has looked up to for most of his life.
“I will manage.” Altaïr winces as he helps Malik wind a few strips of cloth around his ribs to keep them in place.
“I have no doubt that you will, novice.” There is the slightest hint of a smile around Malik’s lips as he uses the now familiar insult. Altaïr snorts but doesn’t contradict him with a reminder of his restored status. From Malik, the word is now oddly endearing.
“Someone will have to tell our brothers in Jerusalem that Al Mualim is dead.” He stands up, trying to ignore the tendrils of pain softly curling around his flesh. “There is no one I would trust to belay this information more truthfully than you.”
Trust. So precious a word for a sentiment so difficult to gain.
Malik meets his eyes again, searching them for the truth behind his words. What he finds seems to satisfy him, as he nods before taking a step back.
“I will ride,” he says. He reaches out in Altaïr’s direction, the tips of his fingers brushing against his wrist for less than a moment. Altaïr twitches to return the touch, but Malik has turned around and is leaving before he can.
“Stay safe, Malik,” he calls after him. Return to me.
“And you, Altaïr,” Malik answers with a nod.
*
The years haven’t dulled Altaïr’s stubbornness or the sharpness of his gaze.
Malik is vividly reminded of as much when he looks up into Altaïr’s worried face, hovering somewhere above him.
“Malik.” He is shaking Malik’s shoulder ever so gently, but he is unable to hide the sense of urgency and fear in his voice. “Wake up.”
“’m awake,” Malik mumbles, trying to bat Altaïr’s hand away. Altaïr relents with the shaking, but his grip on Malik’s shoulder remains. Malik tries to move his head but gives up after a short moment when a sharp pain shoots through his skull. “What happened?”
He can remember going down to the market with Altaïr and Sef, to meet with some of the merchants and discuss the delivery for next month’s provisions to the fortress. There had been children running about, someone had barrelled into him and then-
“You were knocked over and hit your head on a table on the way down. Lie still.” Altaïr’s hand keeps him from moving when Malik tries to reach up to touch the back of his skull.
“A child knocked me over.” Malik is still trying to piece the events together. He can feel a faint blush of embarrassment rising in his cheeks. “A child.”
“Well.” The shadow of a laugh flickers across Altaïr’s face. “It was a rambunctious child. And you aren’t as young as you used to be.”
Malik only grunts in reply, hoping that the daggers he is glaring at Altaïr are enough to express his displeasure. As if the embarrassment of passing out because of a child isn’t enough, he is slowly becoming aware of the crowd around him, the whispers and concerned glances everyone is exchanging. If there is one thing he likes even less than having Altaïr hover above him like a worried motherhen, it’s being in the centre of everyone’s rather unwanted attention.
Thankfully, their doctor arrives in company of a slightly out-of-breath Sef moments later. Once he has determined that Malik hasn’t injured his neck and is well enough to make the short trip back home, Malik is finally allowed to move. Waiting for the doctor to clean and stitch the wound in a secluded corner of the market is torture, and by the end he is ready to rip off his entire scalp and be done with it. He listens with only half an ear as the doctor delivers detailed instructions to Altaïr on what should be done in the following days and what symptoms to look out for. The rest of his attention is taken up by trying to remain on his feet; he feels dizzy and the back of his head is uncomfortably sticky. He protests only weakly when Altaïr slings his remaining arm around his shoulder, helping him back into the fortress. They leave Sef behind at the market, to continue negotiations with the traders.
“Malik!” They have only just stepped through the doors of his living quarters when Maria’s voice rings out behind them. She’s still clad in her robes and covered in sweat and grime from the lessons she has been teaching the novices. “I heard about what happened. Are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine.” Malik waves off her concern, although he promptly negates the gesture by almost toppling over. Altaïr shoots him an angry glance before wordlessly pointing at his bed. His aggressive worrying is almost endearing.
“The doctor said no unnecessary movements for the next few days. And don’t fall asleep just yet.”
“Well, it seems that Altaïr has everything well under control.” Maria laughs, but is quick to step closer and help Malik get rid of his outer robes. Her touch is firm but gentle; it had taken her and Malik a while to get used to each other once Altaïr had made it clear that he was loath to relinquish his love for either of them. Now, however, the three of them are a practised unit, one that Malik never could have imagined in his wildest dreams as a boy.
Altaïr leaves to brew the tea that the doctor has given them for the powder for earlier. By now, the painkillers that he forced Malik to take have finally started working, and he is beginning to feel drowsy.
“Don’t let him sleep! He has to stay awake until at least tonight!” Altaïr calls out before leaving the room.
“He’s worried,” Maria says with a smile as she watches her husband’s retreating back.
“I know.” Malik sighs and leans back against the pillows they have stuffed between him and the wall. “I just wish he was less aggressive about it.”
“I remember the way he was when I was pregnant with Darim, yes.” Maria and Malik share a knowing little laugh. Altaïr had been the terror of the fortress for those few months, far more fussed than Maria, until Malik had purposely challenged him to enough sparring matches to exhaust even him. She reaches out and places her hand over his. “At least this means that I can be sure that he will take good care of you.”
“If he doesn’t smother me with his attention, I should be fine in a few days.”
“Good.” Maria nods. “It wouldn’t do for Masyaf to lose its finest librarian and swordfighter.”
“I believe the honour of best swordfighter still belongs to you.” Malik raises his brows. It is something that he and Maria have always enjoyed teasing Altaïr about – where he excels at unarmed combat and using the hidden blade, Malik and Maria have always had a slight edge on him with a sword. Even one-handed, Malik makes sure that it stays that way.
“Careful, Malik. With all this charm someone might be tempted to think that you have a heart after all.” Maria’s smile is wide, only growing wider when Malik huffs in outrage. He is well aware of his reputation, in particular amongst the novices.
They speak of more trivial things until Altaïr returns with a steaming cup in his hands. Malik drinks it all under his watchful eyes.
“You should return to your students,” Altaïr tells Maria. “Sef can handle the negotiations, and I have sent Darim to inspect the battlements in my stead. I will keep watch on Malik until this evening.” His tone brokers no argument.
“In that case…” Maria leans over and presses a quick kiss to Malik’s cheek. “Be sure not to die suddenly, Malik. I will see you tonight.”
“Don’t torture your students too much.” Malik laughs when Maria replies with nothing but an amused snort. She is gone not long after, leaving Altaïr alone with Malik.
He sighs and takes off his belts and outer robes, although he leaves both within grabbing reach should a sudden attack happen. Then he pulls up a chair next to Malik’s bed and settles into it. Malik knows from experience that Altaïr can remain perfectly still in the same position for hours and not speak a single word.
“I’ll be fine, Altaïr, really,” he says, trying to diffuse the tension he sees caught between his shoulders. Altaïr shifts slightly, his gaze travelling from the bandage around Malik’s head to his left shoulder
“You could have died.” The words come suddenly and quickly, like a small flood.
“From a child knocking into me? Don’t be ridiculous.” Malik laughs, but Altaïr doesn’t join in.
“You weren’t moving. There was blood.” He has never been great at putting his feeling into words, but Malik can look beyond the stunted sentences and see their true meaning.
“You, better than most, should know that death will find us eventually,” he says softly. Altaïr stiffens in his seat.
“I know. I have watched enough people die.” They both have. As time goes on, Malik finds that it never gets any easier to bury those he knows.
“It will be a long time yet before either of us leaves, I hope.” Malik reaches out to rest his fingertips on Altaïr’s hand, the same light touch that has accompanied them through the decades. It expresses everything he wants to say. Of course, there is no guarantee; illness, ill luck or a well-placed Templar knife could find them any day, especially as heads of the Brotherhood. But for now, it will have to be enough.
“Mhm.” Altaïr isn’t exactly mollified, but this isn’t a point that he wants to debate, Malik can see it as clear as day.
“Tell me of the newest recruits.” He hasn’t interacted much with them yet; these past few weeks Malik has been busy with administrative duties, with less time leftover for teaching.
“I cannot believe we were ever that young.” Altaïr crosses his arms in front of his chest. “They all seem so…fragile.”
“It hasn’t been that long, novice.” Malik cannot keep the smile off his face, especially when Altaïr sends a glare in his direction. “Tell me more.”
Altaïr knows well that Malik is only trying to distract him, but he takes pride in their newest recruits nonetheless. It isn’t hard for Malik to convince him to talk more about them. The afternoon slowly gives way to dusk, and eventually Maria, Sef and Darim join them. Malik finds himself marvelling at them as they sit around his bed and share stories filled with laughter; Altaïr in his seat, speaking little, but an almost imperceptible smile playing around his mouth as he looks at Malik and his family; Maria with a laugh that can make the walls shake and more lewd jokes than the rest of Masyaf combined; boisterous Darim who is so quick on his feet and quicker, even, with his sword; and shy Sef who, for all but his looks, could be Malik’s son with his love for books and studies and a patience that far surpasses that of both his mother and father.
It might not last forever, but for now, at least, they have found the one thing Malik thought he had lost forever, in the long ago days after Solomon’s Temple: happiness.