“No such thing, novice.” He replied, and moved the dagger down the back. He wondered, if he made a scar, would he see it again when he went back to current day Masyaf? The thought was tempting, but foolish and possessive. Altaïr would no doubt not approve, here in front of him and there as Grand Master. He drew the knife away from the flesh as if to dampen the temptation. In an instant the young assassin twisted like a flame and hit a blow to his ear, thankfully without a weapon. Malik swore violently and leapt back as Altaïr swung in a wide arc, slicing through the air his chest had occupied. Malik veered to the right in a stumble, hip banging into the plain wooden desk and scraping the legs across the floor slightly before it hit the wall behind. Malik brought his blade up to block an attack as his ear throbbed hotly and painfully. He groaned through clenched teeth. A clumsy slash at the joint where arm met shoulder allowed him to knock the knife from Altaïr's hands and to the floor.
Altaïr sprung back confused as Malik threw his own weapon in the same direction and then flung himself at the young man, pressing them both to the opposite wall. A knee bruised his hip and he let out a huff of air. Hands hit at his sides and back. In what escalated to blind panic Altaïr's blows had become sloppy and unrefined. Malik managed to use his writhing to his advantage and press Altaïr's front to the wall and pin his hands behind his back. In his grasp Altaïr continued to pant, snarl and struggle.
“Always so determined, Altaïr. So ready to throw yourself wildly into the situation at hand.” Malik mumbled behind Altaïr's squirming form. “Hardly the best of traits. You should know the limits of your capabilities.”
Altaïr hissed and thrashed, Malik's grip tightening in compensation. “In a fair fight I could easily beat you; a cripple.”
Malik blinked slowly, brushing the insult aside. Altaïr, he knew, would one day change. He still tightened his grip on this Altaïr, though, grinding his wrists together. “What is unfair about this fight?”
“You steal into my room with god's speed and stealth, call me by my first name and refuse to tell me yours, tease me and string me along in some game. You could have killed me yet instead you discard your weapon.”
Malik felt bitter mirth bubble up within his stomach. The number of times that he had awoken to Altaïr in his room in a cold sweat, mumbling to himself some insanity the Apple had pressed upon him, held knowledge above his head and teased him with snippets of truth – but of course Nothing is True, and so why should he 'burden' Malik with such terrible knowledge? – were too many to count. This was merely catching up on such times with a ten year head start to Malik.
He leant in closer and rested his lips on the shell of Altaïr's ear, forcing the young man to grind his cheek further into the stone wall, his jaw clenching. “Now where is the fun in killing you?” He sighed and made to explain himself further; that he did not aim to torture or hurt Altaïr in any way, but Altaïr kicked up between his legs fiercely. His thighs clamped together lightning fast on the ankle, preventing the heel from slamming up into it's destined point. For one terrifying moment his stomach disappeared into his ribcage and he thought that he had lost his advantage, but Altaïr struggled once more and attempted to wrench his foot from between Malik's legs without success and it settled back into place. He laughed breathlessly with relief.
2; The wound [3/?]
Altaïr sprung back confused as Malik threw his own weapon in the same direction and then flung himself at the young man, pressing them both to the opposite wall. A knee bruised his hip and he let out a huff of air. Hands hit at his sides and back. In what escalated to blind panic Altaïr's blows had become sloppy and unrefined. Malik managed to use his writhing to his advantage and press Altaïr's front to the wall and pin his hands behind his back. In his grasp Altaïr continued to pant, snarl and struggle.
“Always so determined, Altaïr. So ready to throw yourself wildly into the situation at hand.” Malik mumbled behind Altaïr's squirming form. “Hardly the best of traits. You should know the limits of your capabilities.”
Altaïr hissed and thrashed, Malik's grip tightening in compensation. “In a fair fight I could easily beat you; a cripple.”
Malik blinked slowly, brushing the insult aside. Altaïr, he knew, would one day change. He still tightened his grip on this Altaïr, though, grinding his wrists together. “What is unfair about this fight?”
“You steal into my room with god's speed and stealth, call me by my first name and refuse to tell me yours, tease me and string me along in some game. You could have killed me yet instead you discard your weapon.”
Malik felt bitter mirth bubble up within his stomach. The number of times that he had awoken to Altaïr in his room in a cold sweat, mumbling to himself some insanity the Apple had pressed upon him, held knowledge above his head and teased him with snippets of truth – but of course Nothing is True, and so why should he 'burden' Malik with such terrible knowledge? – were too many to count. This was merely catching up on such times with a ten year head start to Malik.
He leant in closer and rested his lips on the shell of Altaïr's ear, forcing the young man to grind his cheek further into the stone wall, his jaw clenching. “Now where is the fun in killing you?” He sighed and made to explain himself further; that he did not aim to torture or hurt Altaïr in any way, but Altaïr kicked up between his legs fiercely. His thighs clamped together lightning fast on the ankle, preventing the heel from slamming up into it's destined point. For one terrifying moment his stomach disappeared into his ribcage and he thought that he had lost his advantage, but Altaïr struggled once more and attempted to wrench his foot from between Malik's legs without success and it settled back into place. He laughed breathlessly with relief.