“I wanted to feel like and equal.” He admitted to the ceiling, tearing away his eyes. There was no reply. For a long time they sat in silence, the skin of Malik's arm finally passing the point it usually broke at and continuing past his elbow undamaged. The door was knocked and Altaïr answered it to accept the rice and new pail of water handed to him. They ate in silence and topped up the water as it boiled away. And then as Malik pressed into his mouth a final scoop of rice Altaïr smiled and strapped on his hidden blade.
“You have better start training soon if you wish to beat me.” He said, a smile concealed in the corners of his mouth and challenge sparking vibrantly in his eyes.
*
By the evening the skin on Malik's arm had ripped twice but reached over his hand and was coating his thumb, working its way towards his fingers. Malik still itched with unused energy and he kicked his restless legs in place, occasionally snarling at them in frustration and working in a flurry of movement before calming again and dropping them back to the straw mattress. He watched Altaïr with a mixture of envy and hunger.
Altaïr had taken to training to pass the time. He had openly considered paperwork, though the papyrus would be hard to work with in the moist air and who would want to be hunched over in a tight and small ball when heat surrounded them so suffocatingly? The thought of working on the Apple had worked its way into his mind, but the thought of taking the artefact close to Malik had felt wrong and he no longer entertained it. So he trained with his hidden blade strapped to his arm, sword and sheath at his hip, dagger in its holster on his back. And he was bare but for the weapons and his loincloth.
He stabbed at the air mercilessly and Malik eyed the strain of his legs with barely contained excitement. The hashish in his system made him boneless but for his ever-moving legs.
With a twist Altaïr swept a blade up through the air in a graceful arc, flipped it in his grasp, and brought it down quickly and violently. The muscles in his arm bulged, his chest expanded and contracted with his breathing, his washboard stomach tensed and quivered. Even his legs tightened and bunched with the movement. Want stormed over Malik again, and this had been going on for hours. And yet, somewhere in his addled mind, there was still a reminder that the man before him slept with Maria only next door, that this was the room in which Yusef, his son, was born and nursed and that it would be wrong for them to indulge in any of the activities that sprung to mind when he watched Altaïr bend over slightly and the loincloth barely cover anything at all.
He swallowed thickly as his breeches seemed to tighten once more and he willed again that it leave. But this one seemed stubborn. After what had to have been over an hour of watching Altaïr train and denying himself even the full fantasies of what he could do it was about time that he got his comeuppance.
FILL [4.d/?]
“You have better start training soon if you wish to beat me.” He said, a smile concealed in the corners of his mouth and challenge sparking vibrantly in his eyes.
*
By the evening the skin on Malik's arm had ripped twice but reached over his hand and was coating his thumb, working its way towards his fingers. Malik still itched with unused energy and he kicked his restless legs in place, occasionally snarling at them in frustration and working in a flurry of movement before calming again and dropping them back to the straw mattress. He watched Altaïr with a mixture of envy and hunger.
Altaïr had taken to training to pass the time. He had openly considered paperwork, though the papyrus would be hard to work with in the moist air and who would want to be hunched over in a tight and small ball when heat surrounded them so suffocatingly? The thought of working on the Apple had worked its way into his mind, but the thought of taking the artefact close to Malik had felt wrong and he no longer entertained it. So he trained with his hidden blade strapped to his arm, sword and sheath at his hip, dagger in its holster on his back. And he was bare but for the weapons and his loincloth.
He stabbed at the air mercilessly and Malik eyed the strain of his legs with barely contained excitement. The hashish in his system made him boneless but for his ever-moving legs.
With a twist Altaïr swept a blade up through the air in a graceful arc, flipped it in his grasp, and brought it down quickly and violently. The muscles in his arm bulged, his chest expanded and contracted with his breathing, his washboard stomach tensed and quivered. Even his legs tightened and bunched with the movement. Want stormed over Malik again, and this had been going on for hours. And yet, somewhere in his addled mind, there was still a reminder that the man before him slept with Maria only next door, that this was the room in which Yusef, his son, was born and nursed and that it would be wrong for them to indulge in any of the activities that sprung to mind when he watched Altaïr bend over slightly and the loincloth barely cover anything at all.
He swallowed thickly as his breeches seemed to tighten once more and he willed again that it leave. But this one seemed stubborn. After what had to have been over an hour of watching Altaïr train and denying himself even the full fantasies of what he could do it was about time that he got his comeuppance.