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The clash of swords was not an unfamiliar sound to Altair. It was not unloved by him, either. He was much better at taking lives than anything else by far, and while holding an ink-dipped feather to parchment was becoming easier, the hilt of the sword was always preferable.
It was four days after they have left Jerusalem after a short investigation about the templars, Malik by his side, both riding with their heads low. From afar, one might think them as lepers or heretic scholars exiled from their city.
Not the Saracens however, after crossing swords with the brotherhood more than enough times. A single 'assassins!' came from the nearby compound and in a few moments Malik and Altair were forced to dodge arrows and deflect the first blades of men with a look of hatred and determination in their eyes.
One by one, the Saracens fell, rolling on the ground after either Malik or Altair kicked them off the sword skewing their guts and chests. No scorching anger was a match for a lifetime worth of skill.
That did not mean the battle was easy, by any means. Altair felt his lungs burning, each breath filling him with stinging, ice-cold fire, his fingers fixated around the leather-bound hilt of his sword so hard he doubted his ability to ever open his palm again.
That was when the sky opened, raining heavy, angry drops at them. The blood staining Altair, Malik and the Saracens was washing away in dark rivers, red mixing with muddy brown earth.
Altair tripped, his boot skidding on a flat stone turned slippery by the rain, and felt a sharp sting slashing up his side. A blade aimed for his back, now deviated from its course. Luckily, it hurt little more than his skin.
Malik was doing much worse. The man had numerous cuts- some from blows he did not manage to deflect, some from well-aimed arrows.
He was panting, stumbling forwards in an attempt to deliver a deadly blow and falling short. He was by no means bad in battle, hell, he could still take down most of the assassins in ranks below his own (or at least below the rank he used to have before the temple of Solomon. Sometimes, he still referred to himself as that instead of 'dai'). Years of mostly stationary work had had their toll even on the tenacious Malik, it seemed.
Altair rushed to his side, blocking the man who was about to hack his head off with a heavy sword, then pushing him back. The base of his palm pressed to the Saracen's collar, finding a tender spot of skin between layers of tough leather.
The sound of the hidden blade springing from place and lodging deep inside the man's flesh was muffled by the rain falling around them.
Altair retracted the blade, averting his face to not let the spray of blood hit his eyes when the Saracen, still standing, grappled at his neck, trying to press his dirty palms to the bleeding and groaning like an old ship struggling against the waves.
Altair rushed to Malik's side, stopping in front of him with three men running towards them. Malik attempted to stand up and pick his sword. It kept slipping through his shaky fingers, making him cry out in frustration.
Three men were no challenge for Altair, usually. Now, with his arms and thighs weakened by battle, they seemed much more intimidating. The archers stationed on the rooftops, no matter how addled by the heavy rain, were a concern as well.
Altair deflected the first swing of sword, a shock that felt like it could crack bone spreading from his wrists to shoulders and chest. The second blow made him stumble back before he could push it to the side. He was not sure he could withstand a third. Malik was still on his knees, struggling to get on his two feet.
"Retreat! Men! Our tents are collapsing! Retreat!" the third blow came, knocking the sword away from his hand. Only one man remained now, his two companions rushing back to camp as soon as they were called.
He took a few steps back. The Saracen seemed to ignore the command, determined to take the assassin's life. A vile, victorious smile was spread on the man's lips, his bushy eyebrows pinched together and eyes narrowed when he realized that Altair could not hold on more that two more lunges, at most, before his limbs would refuse him when he tried to dodge.
With weak fingers, Altair curled his hand around a lump of mud, throwing it at the man's face.
It was barely enough to cause any damage, but it was enough to give Altair a small window of time in which he slammed his body against the Saracen's and tackled him to the ground, cupping his jaw before triggering his blade.
Altair crawled away, reaching Malik on all fours.
"We need to... We need to get to the horses," Altair coughed, collecting his discarded sword and sheathing it before helping himself up.
Malik draped one arm around Altair's shoulder and pulled himself up, panting and nodding.
The horses were nearby, having been chased off the clearing where the battle happened to the side of a rocky canyon.
Altair helped Malik climb up first, watching the man shove both feet into his saddle and slump forward. He climbed next, kicking his stallion's flank half-heartedly, stirring him into a light trot.
The ground was slick and muddy, slowing the horses as they went. Luckily, the heavy downpour meant no archers either.
Altair felt soaked and miserable, but strength was gradually returning to his aching muscles. They were close to assassin territory now, Altair could see the towers with red and white flags swinging around in the wind. They almost looked like unfortunate laundry left to dry in the wrong time.
"There is an empty tower ahead... We should wait the rain," Malik muttered next to him, gesturing at a round building a few hundreds of steps away, half ruined from a recent siege. Its walls were perforated with holes the size of a man, but the ceiling could still provide them refuge from the storm.
Altair nodded and kicked his horse once more, making it trot inside the ruined building in a lively pace.
Once in, Malik practically collapsed off his horse.
Altair followed suit and moved to the other side of the tower from where they had left their horses, inspecting a pile of dry hay. Luck was on their side, it seemed. The whole place was filled with bits of wood broken from the support beams, probably the result of trebuchet-flung boulders wrecking through the walls.
Altair collected a few while Malik arranged bits of hay for him to start the fire.
Less than ten minutes later, flames of red and yellow were already licking at the pile of wood and dry grass.
"We're alive," Malik barely had time to exhale before Altair pushed him against a wall, teeth knocking against teeth in a clumsy and desperate kiss, followed by a low and lingering moan.
Malik yelled a protest into Altair's mouth and flailed his one arm in the air, but made no attempt to push the man back.
It was awkward, not at all like the tales of magical sparks and heat pooling in his belly that Altair had heard when growing up.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat down near the fire. Malik did the same, seemingly ignoring what had just happened.
It suited Altair just fine. The kiss of relief was, he figured, a silly mistake born of desperation and not out of sheer joy the man most precious to him was still alive.
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When he was a child, tales of the great assassins were kneaded into his mind like oil into dough, filling it with richness. Al Mualim once told him that those who are full of wisdom and kind of heart are like fruit- full of both fragrance and flavor. Those who only posses kindness were like salt- for they have flavor alone, those gifted with wisdom are like flowers, their words spreading like a sweet scent in the wind. Those who had neither were the dirt beneath one's boots.
When he thought of Malik, he thought of sage- a bitter cure, with brittle stings on the outside. He had both wisdom and kindness, but took a tenacious and brave soul to uncover them beneath layers of hurtful remarks and seemingly never ending barriers meant to keep just about everyone out.
The man was sleeping not too far from him while he kept watch, poking the small fire that they had with a young twig.
He'd tried to kiss him three days ago, after the attack at the Saracen compound. Malik shrugged it off, dismissing the act as foolishness and refusing to talk about it, yet Altair could feel the other man’s gaze burning into his back each time it was turned towards him. Whether it was of disdain or attraction, he did not know.
He buried the twig deep into the fire and listened to the constant crackle of wood. A cloudless night allowed him to gaze at the stars, hunting for Orion and the great eagle in the dark sky.
A rustle behind him made him twist his back and ready his blade. He lowered it a moment later, once he saw it was Malik shifting awake, his fingers relaxed.
"Why do you not sleep?" he asked quietly, half-turning to face the other man.
"Thoughts trouble my mind, brother," Malik rubbed his eyes and sat down next to Altair.
"About the Templar presence in Jerusalem?" he guessed.
Malik shook his head. "The Templars will always be there, hiding among the crusaders like vipers in the grass," he waved his hand in dismissal. "They are not on my mind."
"What is it then? Be out with it, brother," Altair urged him, his fingers crushing the dry grass near his boot, tearing it out with its hard, dry root. He needed something to concentrate on other than the sense of pending dread. If Malik wanted to discuss their kiss, Altair was not sure if he was willing to comply.
"You are. Your lips," Malik confessed after a short silence.
Altair stiffened, his fingers pinching the yellow-brown blades until his knuckles turned white.
"I cannot chase it out. The memory haunts me," Malik's eyes were trained on the fire. "Was it a mistake, committed in the heat of the moment, or was it a blessing?"
Altair wished he still had his hood on. "It was no mistake. Not for me,” he had thought about it during the long hours while he watched their camp when Malik slept, before they swapped and had the former rafiq take his turn.
At first, he tried to reason with himself, convince his mind the kiss was nothing worth fraying his nerves over. The lie of those thoughts felt like a layer of grime sticking to his skin. With that, came the realization that the kiss meant much more.
In the last year, Malik had grown to be the man closest to him. He grieved the death of a leader, a mentor and a traitor with him and kept Altair’s secrets hidden from greedy hands seeking to usurp his position.
Behind locked doors, with countless notes and maps on a wooden table and the mixing scent of Malik’s sweetened sage tea and burning oil from the lamps, Altair learned to trust him and to appreciate his ability to pause and mull over his thoughts before rushing to conclusions.
It was then when he noticed how captivating Malik was, with his fingers, no longer calloused by the hilt of a sword but rather stained with ink, following the lines of a map; imagined how it would feel to have them trace up his spine and neck before settling on his cheek and letting Altair lean his heavy head into the warm palm.
He saw himself spending nights pressed close to the dai’s back, breathing in his skin and sipping on the warmth of his body. How Malik would lazily turn around and tuck Altair’s head under his chin like a child and urge him to sleep, rubbing his back to soothe looming doubts.
Those fragments of imaginary evenings were both solace and pain to Altair, who felt lonelier the more time he spent with the man.
Malik dipped his head, leaning his forehead against Altair's temple. His lips were pinched into a thin line. "Let me pay you back for it."
With one hand, he cupped Altair's cheek, turning his head to press their lips together.
The first time Altair and Malik shared a kiss, it was forceful and urgent, impatient and confused- just as Altair could often be. They were both after battle, white and blue robes soaked with blood that soon washed into large coppery stains in the rain. Rushing their horses through muddy roads, they fled into a nearby tower for cover, panting and grateful to be alive. That was when Altair had pressed Malik against a wall, joining their lips and moaning in what he hoped was relief.
The second time was thought out and subtle, but it left both just as breathless. Malik's lips were softer than what Altair had remembered; they were full, covering his own completely. Malik was studying him, tasting and feeling, memorizing every dip and bump while his hand- gentle and firm, Kept Altair's jaw in place.
When Malik broke the kiss, it was the second time Altair wished he had his hood on. He felt like a fifteen year old boy having his first kiss, not a grown man and the grandmaster of the assassins. If he looked half as baffled as he felt, Malik was ought to have a good laugh.
"Altair, when we reach Masyaf again, come to my room comes evening. I will give you another," Malik spoke close to his ear, his palm never leaving Altair's cheek until he finally slipped back to his sleeping mat.
Altair did not nod, nor did he spoke in agreement. Both knew that once they reached Masyaf, Altair would show up in Malik's chambers each evening without fail.
For now however, he settled with sitting just a bit closer to Malik when he slept, and pulling the blanket tighter around him in the cold night.