“I don't worry. Just as long as I'm out of this bed sooner than later.” Malik grumbled into the air and kicked violently at the thin sheet encasing his legs. It was nowhere near as much exercise as he craved but possibly the best amount he was going to get for days. In the warm air Malik wiggled his toes appreciatively and looked down at his legs, covered by breeches. They lay still before him, mocking and buzzing with unused energy. He wanted to go out. He was sick of these walls, sick of this room, sick of this bed and sick of this arm. The Apple was a cruel and disgusting artefact and Altaïr would do good not to touch it. Ever.
Malik glared at the ceiling, which was too much of a common sight for him now, and taunted him with its familiarity and its boundaries. The first thing he was going to do when his arm was fully functioning was train like a novice as he approached his first tournament; furiously, chaotically and without break until he was exhausted. They usually learnt after their first bad experience. But Malik craved that all encompassing and almost agonising tiredness. Craved the boneless feeling that came with hours of rigorous training. The ache the next day or perhaps the day after that. And he craved the outdoors – oh the outdoors! – and fresh air and the breeze and the sight of trees and green instead of grey grey grey and blue blue blue through the tiny window.
But when Rauf reappeared it seemed that he wasn't going to have that for a long time. In fact he was going to have less of it, if that was at all possible.
And if you were wondering, yes, it was possible, as proven when Rauf set down the supplies he was carrying in his arms and went to the gaping window to pull the shutters closed and lock them before stuffing the alcove with sheets. Malik whined as the natural light disappeared. A chuckle brought his attention to the door, in which Altaïr stood carrying a pail of water, a pail of coal and the apparatus to hang a pot over an open fire for cooking.
“Are you going to cook me now?” He grumbled, still not fully comprehending what was happening. Altaïr chuckled again and shook his head as he knelt beside Malik's bedside. His eyes homed in on the skin creeping down Malik's arm and the pot of dead skin with a frown.
“Are you feeling well?”
“Fabulous.” Malik groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “I need to go out. I hate this room. I hate you. I hate the Piece of Eden.”
Rauf was making a racket with the coal, tipping it out into the floor and scraping rocks to make a pit.
“It won't be too long now...”
He was lying. It was actually quite some time until Malik could relax, if you could call what he was doing 'relaxing'.
First there was the chocking smoke which forced the men to reopen the windows to air out the room. Cue the painful removal of skin times three. Then the fire was too strong. Two more skin layers gone. Then it was smothered and smoky again. Goodbye to four sleeves. Then, finally, Altaïr hung a pail of water over the fire and they all waited patiently for it to boil.
Actually that bit's a lie. Rauf paced and cut even more skin from Malik's arm and Altaïr was so restless that he went to find Maria and set up a room for her in another wing so that she, Yusef and their unborn child weren't at risk from the heat. And Malik sweltered lying in his bed and became acutely aware that he reeked and was reminded that being stuck to bedsheets with your own sweat was definitely not an enjoyable experience. By the time the water had begun to bubble and steam Malik was well and truly fed up.
FILL [4.b/?]
Malik glared at the ceiling, which was too much of a common sight for him now, and taunted him with its familiarity and its boundaries. The first thing he was going to do when his arm was fully functioning was train like a novice as he approached his first tournament; furiously, chaotically and without break until he was exhausted. They usually learnt after their first bad experience. But Malik craved that all encompassing and almost agonising tiredness. Craved the boneless feeling that came with hours of rigorous training. The ache the next day or perhaps the day after that. And he craved the outdoors – oh the outdoors! – and fresh air and the breeze and the sight of trees and green instead of grey grey grey and blue blue blue through the tiny window.
But when Rauf reappeared it seemed that he wasn't going to have that for a long time. In fact he was going to have less of it, if that was at all possible.
And if you were wondering, yes, it was possible, as proven when Rauf set down the supplies he was carrying in his arms and went to the gaping window to pull the shutters closed and lock them before stuffing the alcove with sheets. Malik whined as the natural light disappeared. A chuckle brought his attention to the door, in which Altaïr stood carrying a pail of water, a pail of coal and the apparatus to hang a pot over an open fire for cooking.
“Are you going to cook me now?” He grumbled, still not fully comprehending what was happening. Altaïr chuckled again and shook his head as he knelt beside Malik's bedside. His eyes homed in on the skin creeping down Malik's arm and the pot of dead skin with a frown.
“Are you feeling well?”
“Fabulous.” Malik groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “I need to go out. I hate this room. I hate you. I hate the Piece of Eden.”
Rauf was making a racket with the coal, tipping it out into the floor and scraping rocks to make a pit.
“It won't be too long now...”
He was lying. It was actually quite some time until Malik could relax, if you could call what he was doing 'relaxing'.
First there was the chocking smoke which forced the men to reopen the windows to air out the room. Cue the painful removal of skin times three. Then the fire was too strong. Two more skin layers gone. Then it was smothered and smoky again. Goodbye to four sleeves. Then, finally, Altaïr hung a pail of water over the fire and they all waited patiently for it to boil.
Actually that bit's a lie. Rauf paced and cut even more skin from Malik's arm and Altaïr was so restless that he went to find Maria and set up a room for her in another wing so that she, Yusef and their unborn child weren't at risk from the heat. And Malik sweltered lying in his bed and became acutely aware that he reeked and was reminded that being stuck to bedsheets with your own sweat was definitely not an enjoyable experience. By the time the water had begun to bubble and steam Malik was well and truly fed up.