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Malik rode through the village of Masyaf leisurely despite the chilly air that continued biting at his face since he had begun his journey earlier that week. He had no idea what the exact reason his presence here was requested for, but in his last letter Altaïr had insisted he return when time permitted, and so he obeyed.
It was midday and snowing now, and many of the townspeople that commonly milled about retreated to the warmth of their homes. Those that were around to notice him smiled, and as he neared the castle more of his fellow assassins appeared and bowed respectfully with their fists at their chests as he passed.
It had been many months since his last visit to the assassin’s headquarters. With balance having been restored to the brotherhood, at least for the time being, there was little need for him to stay and aide in convincing their brothers of the events that led up to Al-Mualim’s death and the motive behind it, though he would forever remain a consultant through the letters that came almost daily to his bureau where he resumed his duties as a Dai. And unknown to anyone but he and Altaïr, he would forever remain one of very few with total access to the new Grand Master’s body and, more importantly, his heart.
As he approached the gates two young assassin boys came forward to assist him, but he rebuked them with his usual sourness and dismounted easily on his own.
“I am not an invalid, novices, only missing an arm. Where is Altaïr?”
“The Grand Master is in the gardens awaiting you,” one of them responded while the other tended to his horse.
Malik moved past them without another word and entered the great, echoing fortress. Even during the dead of winter the assassins kept up their training with the same intensity and enthusiasm, and as he moved further forward on the curling hill to the castle he kept his eye on the practice ring, scrutinizing whoever was sparring. These two were good – very good, he thought – and it made him remember his own days there. One fight in particular against Altaïr the prodigy, no less, had earned him his renown for sword combat, though many considered those days to be long gone with the loss of his arm. He would have loved to show them how wrong they were.
The inside of the castle remained as busy yet orderly as ever, mostly with novices quietly making their way to and from the library and the infirmary. Malik was greeted with the same respect as he crossed the hall and ascended the stairway.
Outside, the courtesans, dressed in far less enticing attire for this time of year, paid him no mind while he strolled to the lower area of the gardens in search of Altaïr. He began to really wonder now what was going on, why Altair had decided to meet him so casually while at the same time urging him to arrive as soon as he could. He briefly thought there may have been an important loss, the death of another loved one, but then why the secrecy?
Malik’s questions were answered soon after he spotted Altaïr standing alone with his hood pulled down for once and facing away from the castle to gaze over the edge of the gardens. He almost didn’t recognize his friend standing in the long, black Grand Master’s robes he’d adopted, but when Altaïr turned his head to glance at him there was no mistaking the scarred lip and piercing amber eyes. And he smiled. Perhaps it wasn’t bad news after all.
“Malik,” he said softly. Altaïr turned more fully toward him now, and Malik finally noticed the bundle he held carefully in his arms, coverings the same dark black as his robes. It stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Altaïr,” he replied, trying and failing to mimic the way the other assassins bowed to him. He had a hard time pinning down the emotion that came over him, but he decided it was something akin to dread.
The bundle squirmed in his arms and made a sort of mewling noise. Altaïr gave it a quick bounce and a smile, then met Malik’s eyes, beckoning him forward for a better view.
Malik came forward reluctantly, making sure to keep his composure. His heart contracted as he realized what this was all about –
Altaïr had become a father.
He knew it would have to happen someday. He’d received a letter when Altaïr and Maria were married in Limassol and knew the feelings he had for her were real despite how much he’d pretended it was only another passing fling. Even the gossip he’d heard from the assassins that visited his bureau, news of Altaïr’s return to Masyaf with a very pregnant Maria, he had simply written off as rumors. He knew Altaïr, and he himself one day as well, was obligated to produce a child. But seeing the fruit of their love was still not something he was prepared for, and so jealousy ripped through him like knives.
The bundle squirmed again when Altaïr peeled the fabric back, seeming to turn away from Malik as he looked on at its face. He knew it was likely only a reaction to the sudden cold, but something in the movement already made him feel as if the child rejected him.
Altaïr’s smile fell. He could see the pain written all over the poor man however hard he was trying to conceal it and endeavored to speak as gently as possible.
“A boy,” he said.
Malik nodded.
“Strong and fast like his father, I hope.”
“He is a little young to learn yet, but I have no doubts,” he responded happily.
“And his name?”
“Darim.”
Malik nodded again. He tried hard to show happiness for his lover – and really, he was happy for him somewhere in his heart – but the hurt was also undeniable. Somehow over the years he had fooled himself into thinking he would be the only one to ever be so close to Altaïr, that his time spent with Maria had only been a show put on so that no one would become suspicious of his more secret affairs, but this living bond between the man he cared so deeply for and the woman he hardly knew had crushed that unrealistic delusion completely.
“Malik,” he said, and the dark-haired man finally met his eyes. Altaïr set his jaw as he gazed at him, formulating the next words carefully in his mind.
“I cannot say what you are feeling is wrong, but…” and already he faltered and started over.
“I know what I have done to you is cruel, forcing you to compete for my attention now. I am selfish for this, and it amazes me that you haven’t been broken because of it. I am truly unworthy of the love you have shown me.” He reached out with his left hand and squeezed Malik’s shoulder.
Malik looked away. He wasn’t sure if this was an apology or the end of their relationship or maybe both, but it was not what he wanted to hear, none of it. Already he was wishing he could have stayed in Jerusalem and avoided this meeting altogether.
“You really are,” he responded acidly.
“Don’t,” Altaïr said, touching his jaw and forcing him to meet his gaze once more. “What I have with her will never be what I share with you, Malik. You were my first and have taught me of many things that no other would even begin to understand. I am patient and far wiser because of you.”
“But I cannot give you this…happiness, Altaïr,” he said, gesturing to the child in his arms.
“No, you can’t,” he agreed. “And neither can I to you. And however skilled an assassin I may be, I cannot be in two places at once, and not seeing either of you for months at a time would be difficult – and it was difficult, not being with you, habibi, please believe me. The reason–”
Darim’s mewling cut in and he paused to properly cover the child again, rocking him gently and speaking softly to coax him into a more calm state. As he watched this, something inside Malik fluttered and he almost enjoyed the sight of Altaïr with a child. Maybe this didn’t have to be a bad thing.
Altaïr continued.
“The reason I asked you to return was not only to introduce you to my son, but to ask if you would stay in Masyaf again, perhaps as a sort of permanent advisor.”
They kept silent and staring at each other for a little too long after he said these words, watching the snow fall gently in the space between them. It was Malik’s choice to go back to Jerusalem after some semblance of order had been restored to the brotherhood, feeling somewhat restless and out of place in Masyaf after so many months mostly alone in his bureau even as much as he valued being in the company of his brothers.
And Malik’s heart still ached from the news of this new life quite literally in Altaïr’s hands. He already felt as if the boy wouldn’t like him, and he wondered especially if he would be able to reign in his jealousy each time he was inevitably forced to catch Altaïr interacting with Maria in ways he previously thought were only kept between the two men. But then he imagined himself in Maria’s place, being able to visit with his lover far more often than he was now, and his duty as a consultant, as Altaïr mentioned, would be made infinitely easier and more efficient.
“And remove the finest Dai in all Syria from his duties?”
Altaïr smiled openly at that, thanking whatever deity that Malik had relaxed enough for humor.
“We have no shortage of men to select from who could take over for you in Jerusalem, I promise. We will get started looking for a replacement today, even.” With one swift glance over their shoulders, he pulled Malik toward him and kissed him deeply, knowing there was no way his request would be denied as much as Malik would no doubt fight it.
Malik’s first instinct was to push him away for fear of getting caught, but it had been so long since their last intimate moment, and the situation surrounding them now was almost enough to push him to tears, though now they would be somewhat happier ones. He wrapped his arm around Altaïr’s waist, however was careful not to crush the small creature between them, and kissed him back intensely.
It didn’t end until a soft voice came nearby. They separated almost immediately, and upon recognizing Maria they both were struck with silent guilt, looking anywhere but at each other.
“You are most unworthy, I think, to have such an understanding wife.” She stood with her arms crossed, looking at them more like two rotten young boys rather than adults having a very real affair.
Altaïr was first to speak, or rather sputter out some hasty response.
“Maria–“ was all he could manage.
She waved her hand and shook her head, ignoring whatever her husband had to say, and moved closer to them. Her gaze was fixed directly on Malik, and for an impossibly rare moment in his life he felt as small as a mouse.
“You must be Malik Al-Sayf, the man Altaïr spoke so reverently of on our journey home from Cyprus.”
“I am,” he answered, setting his face to something that he hoped passed for stoic.
“And you must know who I am now.”
“Of course.”
Maria eyed him for a moment before turning her gaze to Altaïr, who seemed to shrink upon meeting it. She smiled softly.
“I wish you two would stop hiding behind those masks of yours. It’s failing miserably anyway.”
Altaïr frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You are both so worried, and yet you try to disguise it. It’s amazing, really. Fearless in the face of death, yet when you are caught misbehaving you act as if the Brotherhood itself has crumbled – although I might understand in this case why. I will tell you again that you are very fortunate to have married me and not a lesser woman.” Her look fell fondly upon Malik again. “Your secret is safe with me.”
The men glanced at each other, not really knowing how else to respond. It took Malik a moment to gather himself and give a proper reply.
“You do not know how much this means. And I agree with you – Altaïr is very fortunate to have found such a remarkable woman.”
Maria smiled again.
“But you are special too, otherwise you would not still be here. He may have thought he was hiding it very well,” she said, throwing a knowing look at Altaïr, “but I knew from the admiration in his tone as he spoke of you that there was something more to his feelings. And you should know that we have discussed this already, you returning to Masyaf. I am more than happy to have another pair of hands I can trust to help raise our son.”
Malik blanched at the last few words, and as if on cue, Darim began to cry in his father’s arms. The bundle shifted and squirmed until the fabric covering his face was pushed forward – demanding, as a child would, to be the center of attention.
Altaïr didn’t seem very phased by his son’s behavior.
“Did…you want to…?” He raised Darim toward Malik, offering the baby to him.
Malik went a shade paler. He’d never even held his own brother as a child, let alone one that he was unfamiliar with, but denying his friend seemed too inappropriate for the situation. He made a cradle with his arm and Altaïr carefully transferred the bundle into it. Darim continued his little squeals but grew quiet as he seemed to realize he was now in the care of someone new.
“This was not part of the deal,” Malik muttered, though his statement lacked conviction. He gazed steadily at the child, whose eyes were open and more interested in his surroundings than the person holding him.
“There might have been one part that I left out,” Altaïr replied. “Somehow I don’t think you mind all that much.” He casually put his arm around Maria’s waist and waited for Malik’s inevitable comeback.
He finally tore his eyes from the baby and shared a look with the Grand Master and his wife. However, instead of countering with words, he made a gesture.
Malik smiled for the first time that week.