My God this is taking a long to write! I hope I can quench thirst by giving you a part of this long long chapter!
Malik swept his eyes over the figure before him and immediately recognised them for who they were. Altaïr. But he was younger. Much younger. His face and body were fresh and for the most part unscathed. The stubble on his face was still fuzzy and patchy. The scar dissecting his lips was a fresh pink signifying its youth. What can only be months ago this young Altaïr had been smashed in the face by the hilt of an enemy's sword.
Malik and Altaïr stared at each other from across the length of the small room.
“Who are you?” Altaïr finally spat, adjusting his grip on the knife.
“Safety and Peace.” Malik answered, choosing to be entertained by Altaïr's ignorance rather than offended and hoping that the familiar greeting would calm the abrupt tension between them.
“That isn't an answer.” Altaïr growled, and glanced to where Malik's left arm should have been. Malik decided that the tension wasn't going to go away that quickly, then. Judging by Altaïr's young age he was likely to still own the brashness that had managed to force him up the fighting ranks, and the distrust of all who wielded blades against him that had turned him into the perfect weapon to be used by Al Mualim. And anyway, it has been all too long since he had managed to have a good physical brawl with Altaïr, the Apple having turned him into a tired and stubborn man.
“You're right; it isn't, Altaïr.”
Altaïr's hold on his knife slackened momentarily at the shock of hearing his name and Malik pounced, swiping at the young man's feet with a kick and swinging at Altaïr's shoulder simultaneously. The swipe was easily blocked, but Altaïr stumbled when toughened leather hit his ankles and Malik forced the boy to the wall behind him, their blade grinding together in the space between their necks.
“Distracted? A novice's mistake.” Malik breathed into his face, and watched as Altaïr's expression twisted with anger and felt the rawness of the emotion in his next lunge, forcing him backwards. He stumbled slightly despite himself and only just managed to block a fierce swing at his disadvantaged left side. They parried quick and precise blows, Malik recovering with haste from his mistake, before an opening was revealed and Malik swept to Altaïr's right and span around 180 degrees to face his back. The edge of his dagger pressed lightly at Altaïr's neck and his elbow jammed between the adolescent's shoulder blades as he swung them both around so that Altaïr was pressed to the wall, breathing heavily and frozen at the touch of metal on his vulnerable neck. They recovered their breath.
Slowly Malik eased some of the pressure he was using to grin Altaïr into the wall, warningly pressing the blade against his delicate flesh. He dragged it feather light and fleeting until the tip rested warningly at the back of his neck just above the nape. He eyes mapped out the expanse of flesh that made Altaïr's back. It looked so clear. Gone were the whip scars he had gained at 20. Gone was the burn from the explosion in Damascus. Gone was the long, jagged scar of a dagger curling from beneath his armpit to the centre of his back, which had taken months to heal properly as he had continued to rip the stitches out. Or rather not 'gone' but not yet there.
“What are you, some cowardly Templar? Afraid to even wear your own colours? Come to kill me in my bed after walking amongst my brothers?” Altaïr hissed into the stone wall, frame tense and ready to spring into another attack.
Malik snorted a little. He had no idea at all, had he?
2; The wound [2/?]
Malik swept his eyes over the figure before him and immediately recognised them for who they were. Altaïr. But he was younger. Much younger. His face and body were fresh and for the most part unscathed. The stubble on his face was still fuzzy and patchy. The scar dissecting his lips was a fresh pink signifying its youth. What can only be months ago this young Altaïr had been smashed in the face by the hilt of an enemy's sword.
Malik and Altaïr stared at each other from across the length of the small room.
“Who are you?” Altaïr finally spat, adjusting his grip on the knife.
“Safety and Peace.” Malik answered, choosing to be entertained by Altaïr's ignorance rather than offended and hoping that the familiar greeting would calm the abrupt tension between them.
“That isn't an answer.” Altaïr growled, and glanced to where Malik's left arm should have been. Malik decided that the tension wasn't going to go away that quickly, then. Judging by Altaïr's young age he was likely to still own the brashness that had managed to force him up the fighting ranks, and the distrust of all who wielded blades against him that had turned him into the perfect weapon to be used by Al Mualim. And anyway, it has been all too long since he had managed to have a good physical brawl with Altaïr, the Apple having turned him into a tired and stubborn man.
“You're right; it isn't, Altaïr.”
Altaïr's hold on his knife slackened momentarily at the shock of hearing his name and Malik pounced, swiping at the young man's feet with a kick and swinging at Altaïr's shoulder simultaneously. The swipe was easily blocked, but Altaïr stumbled when toughened leather hit his ankles and Malik forced the boy to the wall behind him, their blade grinding together in the space between their necks.
“Distracted? A novice's mistake.” Malik breathed into his face, and watched as Altaïr's expression twisted with anger and felt the rawness of the emotion in his next lunge, forcing him backwards. He stumbled slightly despite himself and only just managed to block a fierce swing at his disadvantaged left side. They parried quick and precise blows, Malik recovering with haste from his mistake, before an opening was revealed and Malik swept to Altaïr's right and span around 180 degrees to face his back. The edge of his dagger pressed lightly at Altaïr's neck and his elbow jammed between the adolescent's shoulder blades as he swung them both around so that Altaïr was pressed to the wall, breathing heavily and frozen at the touch of metal on his vulnerable neck. They recovered their breath.
Slowly Malik eased some of the pressure he was using to grin Altaïr into the wall, warningly pressing the blade against his delicate flesh. He dragged it feather light and fleeting until the tip rested warningly at the back of his neck just above the nape. He eyes mapped out the expanse of flesh that made Altaïr's back. It looked so clear. Gone were the whip scars he had gained at 20. Gone was the burn from the explosion in Damascus. Gone was the long, jagged scar of a dagger curling from beneath his armpit to the centre of his back, which had taken months to heal properly as he had continued to rip the stitches out. Or rather not 'gone' but not yet there.
“What are you, some cowardly Templar? Afraid to even wear your own colours? Come to kill me in my bed after walking amongst my brothers?” Altaïr hissed into the stone wall, frame tense and ready to spring into another attack.
Malik snorted a little. He had no idea at all, had he?