“Finally.” Rauf sighed, and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing the beads of sweat that had gathered there and soaked the wispy hairs by his temples. Malik gave a groan as, with a sting, the sleeve on his arm tore again. It was cut from him with a resigned whimper. “The steam will fill the room and before you know it you will be much better. That arm of yours will be as good as knew.”
“Excellent.” Altaïr had re-entered the room and was dragging his hood off, sweat already shining on his skin. “You can go now. I will watch over him.”
“I'm hungry.” Malik grumbled as Rauf stood and sluggishly moved to collect his things.
“And have someone bring up food from the kitchens.”
Malik thanked God, or some other variety of deity, and then cursed the fabric wrapped around his legs for being too thick and heavy in the heat and sticking to the sensitive skin behind his knees and on the sides of his thighs.
Rauf left as quickly as the stifling room would allow him as Altaïr stripped himself down, his face clearly showing his displeasure towards the dense hot air as he panted a little for breath.
“It's too hot.” Malik grouched and shifted in his bedroll, skin peeling away from drenched sheets before having to make contact again. “And I smell.”
“When your arm is complete, Malik, you can bathe.” Altaïr said patiently as he folded himself against the wall and blessed it for retaining some semblance of cool temperature.
“And show it off to the world?”
“If that is what you want, then yes.”
There was a long pause as Malik mulled over the idea of revealing his arm to the brotherhood. Would they all react as Rauf had? Or perhaps they would do differently? Shy away or poke and prod? Would they feel more comfortable around him now that he was whole?
When his arm was first removed and he made his first journey beyond his sick bed wherein he was thought to most likely die, he had been treated like the plague. It was a shame, a deep shame. The brotherhood, which he had thought to have been so accepting of all people should they hold the same ideals and goal, was now shunning him. He moved to Jerusalem and away from the staring eyes – eyes that he had known and had trusted – to stranger's gazes as soon as his wounds would allow him. Would he receive the same treatment, or would it be completely different?
How often did one lose an arm and live to tell the tale?
How often did one grow that arm back in the space of days? A week?
It was a miracle. The Apple had, once again, created a miracle.
He stared at his growing limb with an analytical eye, managing to trace the path of veins that stood outside the muscle mass, and a thought came to him through the haze of his mind as that skin visibly covered more and more of his arm.
“I did not pine for my arm, Altaïr. I just thought of it in passing when holding the Piece of Eden.” He looked up and rested his head back against the stiff pillows, watching the man pressed to the wall as it slowly gained a layer of condensation.
A glimmer in his lover's eyes told him that Altaïr was listening despite his lack of movement or sound.
“I felt plenty whole and plenty capable without it.”
“But you still wanted it.” I was a statement, not a question, and Malik did not nod his head because that would create a fold in his neck where the sweat would stick and his hair would soak itself further.
FILL [4.c/?]
“Excellent.” Altaïr had re-entered the room and was dragging his hood off, sweat already shining on his skin. “You can go now. I will watch over him.”
“I'm hungry.” Malik grumbled as Rauf stood and sluggishly moved to collect his things.
“And have someone bring up food from the kitchens.”
Malik thanked God, or some other variety of deity, and then cursed the fabric wrapped around his legs for being too thick and heavy in the heat and sticking to the sensitive skin behind his knees and on the sides of his thighs.
Rauf left as quickly as the stifling room would allow him as Altaïr stripped himself down, his face clearly showing his displeasure towards the dense hot air as he panted a little for breath.
“It's too hot.” Malik grouched and shifted in his bedroll, skin peeling away from drenched sheets before having to make contact again. “And I smell.”
“When your arm is complete, Malik, you can bathe.” Altaïr said patiently as he folded himself against the wall and blessed it for retaining some semblance of cool temperature.
“And show it off to the world?”
“If that is what you want, then yes.”
There was a long pause as Malik mulled over the idea of revealing his arm to the brotherhood. Would they all react as Rauf had? Or perhaps they would do differently? Shy away or poke and prod? Would they feel more comfortable around him now that he was whole?
When his arm was first removed and he made his first journey beyond his sick bed wherein he was thought to most likely die, he had been treated like the plague. It was a shame, a deep shame. The brotherhood, which he had thought to have been so accepting of all people should they hold the same ideals and goal, was now shunning him. He moved to Jerusalem and away from the staring eyes – eyes that he had known and had trusted – to stranger's gazes as soon as his wounds would allow him. Would he receive the same treatment, or would it be completely different?
How often did one lose an arm and live to tell the tale?
How often did one grow that arm back in the space of days? A week?
It was a miracle. The Apple had, once again, created a miracle.
He stared at his growing limb with an analytical eye, managing to trace the path of veins that stood outside the muscle mass, and a thought came to him through the haze of his mind as that skin visibly covered more and more of his arm.
“I did not pine for my arm, Altaïr. I just thought of it in passing when holding the Piece of Eden.” He looked up and rested his head back against the stiff pillows, watching the man pressed to the wall as it slowly gained a layer of condensation.
A glimmer in his lover's eyes told him that Altaïr was listening despite his lack of movement or sound.
“I felt plenty whole and plenty capable without it.”
“But you still wanted it.” I was a statement, not a question, and Malik did not nod his head because that would create a fold in his neck where the sweat would stick and his hair would soak itself further.