Malik's fingers shook – all ten of them. They rattled together, the bone of his large knuckles clunking together. He stood, partially robed, stiff, and relatively clean, in the corridor of the Grand Master's quarters. Just behind him by an inch or so and to his left was the door to Maria's room and beyond her room was Yusef's nursery, returned to its original purpose now that Malik had happily left it behind.
Maria had turned bed-bound last night, her pregnancy not only hindering her movement but snapping her into a strange state in which in one moment she would be tender and joyous and the next she would be tense and demanding. It would not be too long before she would birth her second child. Malik had been told whilst he was pushing furnishings back into the nursery that Altaïr and Maria planned on naming the child Darim if male, and if female then Amina. He had then been told that Altaïr was a foolish pig who was incapable of doing anything other than work, eat and sleep, and been demanded of a bowl of dates.
He had been quite quick to ready himself for a trip out into Masyaf in search of the fruit.
It was due to a mixture of the excitement at being able to stretch his legs again – stretch his arms again – and a great fear of seeing her upset. Not only would it stretch the strained, alien relationship he held and shared with Altaïr and Maria to an awful point, but Maria herself could be frightening when upset. Frightening and irritating. Malik will never forget the week Altaïr spent avoiding Maria after Yusef's birth, chased away by yowled oaths of pain she had spat at him during her labour. Of course, once the Grand Master returned to her side he could barely get away.
Malik wet his lips and stretched his hands by his sides. The corridor was chilled and cast in shadow, hidden away from the choking outdoor heat. And silent. It was quite silent. Beyond the curtain at the far end of the hallway, however, the mumble of scholars and the distant crash of training blades could be heard. Perhaps Altaïr would make soft noises to himself as he scrawled his findings onto paper.
What would they make of him?
The question had Malik rooted to the spot and wide-eyed, his fingers jittery and heart in a similar state.
Would he ever be accepted again? Would there be a silence similar to to that which welcomed him after the removal of his arm descending upon each room or each street he walked into or down? Or instead would there be the exact opposite? Would he be welcomed once more as a whole man?
A loud bang caused him to jump in place and twist rapidly on the spot. The door to Maria's quarters juddered violently in it's frame.
“Dates!”
Her muffled, indignant shout was enough to force his legs into moving, taking him swiftly towards the public and open part of the fortress. Quite honestly the woman could grate on his nerves at times, though he supposed it was only right to pay her back for giving up her rooms for him.
Before he breached the entrance to the main hall Malik had a moment to compose himself, running his right hand through his hair and then his left – just because he could – pressing down the front of his tunic and correcting his posture into something much more regal. Something that commanded respect. His sleeveless tunic displayed his left arm proudly. He stepped into the well lit, familiar, and missed open hall.
No one noticed him. At least not until he descended two flights of stairs and stood facing the entrance of the hall, gaining the attention of various middle to old aged learned men and fresh-faced guards.
A spear clattered to the ground. Two mumbling scholars at the end of a bookcase fell silent. Malik rose his head high, chin defensively pointed, and strode with uncanny and nostalgic ease to the wide, open doors. There would be dates for sale in the market on the other side of Masyaf.
FILL [6.a/6]
Maria had turned bed-bound last night, her pregnancy not only hindering her movement but snapping her into a strange state in which in one moment she would be tender and joyous and the next she would be tense and demanding. It would not be too long before she would birth her second child. Malik had been told whilst he was pushing furnishings back into the nursery that Altaïr and Maria planned on naming the child Darim if male, and if female then Amina. He had then been told that Altaïr was a foolish pig who was incapable of doing anything other than work, eat and sleep, and been demanded of a bowl of dates.
He had been quite quick to ready himself for a trip out into Masyaf in search of the fruit.
It was due to a mixture of the excitement at being able to stretch his legs again – stretch his arms again – and a great fear of seeing her upset. Not only would it stretch the strained, alien relationship he held and shared with Altaïr and Maria to an awful point, but Maria herself could be frightening when upset. Frightening and irritating. Malik will never forget the week Altaïr spent avoiding Maria after Yusef's birth, chased away by yowled oaths of pain she had spat at him during her labour. Of course, once the Grand Master returned to her side he could barely get away.
Malik wet his lips and stretched his hands by his sides. The corridor was chilled and cast in shadow, hidden away from the choking outdoor heat. And silent. It was quite silent. Beyond the curtain at the far end of the hallway, however, the mumble of scholars and the distant crash of training blades could be heard. Perhaps Altaïr would make soft noises to himself as he scrawled his findings onto paper.
What would they make of him?
The question had Malik rooted to the spot and wide-eyed, his fingers jittery and heart in a similar state.
Would he ever be accepted again? Would there be a silence similar to to that which welcomed him after the removal of his arm descending upon each room or each street he walked into or down? Or instead would there be the exact opposite? Would he be welcomed once more as a whole man?
A loud bang caused him to jump in place and twist rapidly on the spot. The door to Maria's quarters juddered violently in it's frame.
“Dates!”
Her muffled, indignant shout was enough to force his legs into moving, taking him swiftly towards the public and open part of the fortress. Quite honestly the woman could grate on his nerves at times, though he supposed it was only right to pay her back for giving up her rooms for him.
Before he breached the entrance to the main hall Malik had a moment to compose himself, running his right hand through his hair and then his left – just because he could – pressing down the front of his tunic and correcting his posture into something much more regal. Something that commanded respect. His sleeveless tunic displayed his left arm proudly. He stepped into the well lit, familiar, and missed open hall.
No one noticed him. At least not until he descended two flights of stairs and stood facing the entrance of the hall, gaining the attention of various middle to old aged learned men and fresh-faced guards.
A spear clattered to the ground. Two mumbling scholars at the end of a bookcase fell silent. Malik rose his head high, chin defensively pointed, and strode with uncanny and nostalgic ease to the wide, open doors. There would be dates for sale in the market on the other side of Masyaf.