“Black,” Malik replied flatly, giving Altair a rough shove out of habit. He did not elaborate or gloat, but glanced at Altair, brow furrowed as if looking for something that he had little hope was there to begin with. “And I thought I saw you, too, but I have my doubts.”
“Disappointed I’d still be alive?” Altair asked, though he was more interested in his future-self than Malik’s opinion. “What color were my robes?”
Malik remained tightlipped before dropping the hand from his shoulder to curl it upon the grass. He opened his mouth, half a syllable already formed when a laugh sounded behind them, followed by a pair of hushed voices.
They exchanged a glance, eyes darting to the jasmine bushes, and in an unspoken agreement, scrambled behind the thicket, pushing the vines and leaves so that they draped over them like a green and white-speckled blanket. Altair couldn’t explain the need to hide like this, or their unwillingness to be discovered when hardly anyone could blame them (or even believe them). All he knew was that they weren’t supposed to be here—in this spot, in this time—and maybe Malik felt the same way, closing his hand around Altair’s wrist once more to pull him further back.
As the voices grew louder, Altair saw the flutter of black fabric, lined with red and a white-patterned design at the feet, a Grandmaster’s robe. His thoughts went to Al Mualim, assuming that their master was conversing with another dai, but as the two figures came into view, slightly obscured behind the white petals of flowers, Altair saw that it was not Al Mualim at all. This Grandmaster was far too young, with calloused hands that were not yet withered with age and a strong gait that was too restless to mirror Al Mualim’s own stately footsteps. The dai with him was also strange, if only for the familiar way he walked and gestured, playfully shoving the Grandmaster with one hand, while the other-
-well, there was no other hand, but the dai was leaning in close to the Grandmaster, saying something that did not reach Altair’s ears, but made the Grandmaster duck his head, the hood of his robe hiding his expression.
The grip on Altair’s wrist tightened, almost painfully, and he heard the absence of Malik’s breath, could feel the other freeze up so that not even the tiniest rustle sounded between them. Altair risked pulling his arm back, and noticed how Malik seemed entranced by the scene taking place before them. Light filtered in through the leaves and he saw the anger surface in Malik’s eyes again; trailing behind it was a flicker of disappointment. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from Altair’s wrist and went to clutch at his left forearm, drawing the grey sleeve in a tight bind.
The dai laughed again, more like a scoff than a chuckle, and Altair abruptly understood, because it was that wry laugh he was so accustomed to, even before the Grandmaster took hold of the dai’s shoulders and said, “Malik,” in a growl that sent a chill down Altair’s spine— that was his voice, low and dangerous and full of command.
Despite everything, a surge of pride washed over Altair, making him giddy and unable to suppress his grin. It was him wearing the Grandmaster’s robes, tall and fitting, him grabbing onto the older Malik’s arm without a word of protest from the dai, who only looked at the Grandmaster with something that might have been respect, not like the Malik Altair knew now, with all his exasperated retorts and smacks to the head.
The future was a good one, he concluded smugly, even though Malik would somehow lose his left arm; at least he would become a dai, and Altair would become Grandmaster.
As if reading his thoughts, Malik reached over and flicked his ear without looking. Altair bit down a curse, clapping his hand over his stinging ear before mouthing, ‘what?’
Malik ignored him, still watching as the Grandmaster and dai continued to talk. Their heads angled in certain ways that were puzzling, right up until the dai fisted the front of the Grandmaster’s robes to yank him close, pressing their lips together with a grin.
Tomorrow Was Not Dull [3/?]
“Disappointed I’d still be alive?” Altair asked, though he was more interested in his future-self than Malik’s opinion. “What color were my robes?”
Malik remained tightlipped before dropping the hand from his shoulder to curl it upon the grass. He opened his mouth, half a syllable already formed when a laugh sounded behind them, followed by a pair of hushed voices.
They exchanged a glance, eyes darting to the jasmine bushes, and in an unspoken agreement, scrambled behind the thicket, pushing the vines and leaves so that they draped over them like a green and white-speckled blanket. Altair couldn’t explain the need to hide like this, or their unwillingness to be discovered when hardly anyone could blame them (or even believe them). All he knew was that they weren’t supposed to be here—in this spot, in this time—and maybe Malik felt the same way, closing his hand around Altair’s wrist once more to pull him further back.
As the voices grew louder, Altair saw the flutter of black fabric, lined with red and a white-patterned design at the feet, a Grandmaster’s robe. His thoughts went to Al Mualim, assuming that their master was conversing with another dai, but as the two figures came into view, slightly obscured behind the white petals of flowers, Altair saw that it was not Al Mualim at all. This Grandmaster was far too young, with calloused hands that were not yet withered with age and a strong gait that was too restless to mirror Al Mualim’s own stately footsteps. The dai with him was also strange, if only for the familiar way he walked and gestured, playfully shoving the Grandmaster with one hand, while the other-
-well, there was no other hand, but the dai was leaning in close to the Grandmaster, saying something that did not reach Altair’s ears, but made the Grandmaster duck his head, the hood of his robe hiding his expression.
The grip on Altair’s wrist tightened, almost painfully, and he heard the absence of Malik’s breath, could feel the other freeze up so that not even the tiniest rustle sounded between them. Altair risked pulling his arm back, and noticed how Malik seemed entranced by the scene taking place before them. Light filtered in through the leaves and he saw the anger surface in Malik’s eyes again; trailing behind it was a flicker of disappointment. Slowly, his fingers uncurled from Altair’s wrist and went to clutch at his left forearm, drawing the grey sleeve in a tight bind.
The dai laughed again, more like a scoff than a chuckle, and Altair abruptly understood, because it was that wry laugh he was so accustomed to, even before the Grandmaster took hold of the dai’s shoulders and said, “Malik,” in a growl that sent a chill down Altair’s spine— that was his voice, low and dangerous and full of command.
Despite everything, a surge of pride washed over Altair, making him giddy and unable to suppress his grin. It was him wearing the Grandmaster’s robes, tall and fitting, him grabbing onto the older Malik’s arm without a word of protest from the dai, who only looked at the Grandmaster with something that might have been respect, not like the Malik Altair knew now, with all his exasperated retorts and smacks to the head.
The future was a good one, he concluded smugly, even though Malik would somehow lose his left arm; at least he would become a dai, and Altair would become Grandmaster.
As if reading his thoughts, Malik reached over and flicked his ear without looking. Altair bit down a curse, clapping his hand over his stinging ear before mouthing, ‘what?’
Malik ignored him, still watching as the Grandmaster and dai continued to talk. Their heads angled in certain ways that were puzzling, right up until the dai fisted the front of the Grandmaster’s robes to yank him close, pressing their lips together with a grin.