The white faded slowly from his vision, cracking and splitting away like ice from a glacier, and falling away to reveal behind its brightness countless tomes and scrolls. The grand library seemed empty and dated. Altaïr could already count ten scrolls he had personally locked away, five that were much dustier than he had left them and four that were not in place on the shelves. This wasn't right. His eyes flickered over the small section of the room that he could see as he stood frozen in place. Natural light played on hide covers.
A heavy thump sounded behind him, to the right. In a fluid movement he pulled his sword from its sheath and twisted to face the source of the noise, blade held defensively to block oncoming attacks to his torso. One could never be too careful.
He recognised the face straight away.
A young, adolescent Malik blinked back at him, eyes darting from sword, to the scar bisecting his lips and then all over his robes, taking in the details of the sweeping Grand Master's cloak. One hand – his left – was stuck in a sling that drooped from his neck. The other attempted to curl around a thick scroll, which he had dropped to his feet. Dust settled in clouds on his boots.
Altaïr relaxed and slid his sword back into its sheath, the defensive stance of his body melting away.
“Safety and peace, Malik.”
“To you too, Altaïr.” Malik replied and tilted his head in acknowledgement, a distrustful frown creasing his brow above a hawkish nose. They stared at each other evenly, Altaïr assessing the situation he found himself in and Malik wondering how Altaïr managed to appear older and as Grand Master. Something was greatly amiss. He licked his lips, his hand curling tighter around the heavy scroll and itching to take hold of a weapon.
“Let me help.” Altaïr said, and moved forwards, hand outstretched and heading for the scroll. Malik shuffled back minutely, grip wavering, causing a minute pause in Altaïr's movement. When Malik stilled he moved forwards again and hefted the scroll up, holding it out as an offering. Cautiously it was taken from him and cradled on Malik's arm as if it were a newborn child. They stared at each other evenly, until with a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat, as if in acceptance of what he saw before him, the young Malik turned swept behind a bookcase. His right hand dragging over the dusty wood, the Grandmaster lingered and watched.
Tucked away in a small, quiet corner, Malik had been studying at a low table. He sat on a worn and stiff cushion that prompted correct posture, and yet hunched over a myriad of scrolls that he had collected from all over the library, and took notes in minuscule. Casting a trained eye over one of the scrolls that had been spread over the wooden table Altaïr recognised it for religious texts – ah, yes, hadn't Malik been going through a small spat of religious interest about the age of eighteen? Had he not spewed religious quotes, and quietly asserted to those he felt he could that Religion was not the true answer? How right he had been.
With a small sigh Malik had sat back down and was struggling to place to scroll so that he might read it. His quill fell to the floor and he hissed a curse, frustrated. Out of habit Altaïr stepped forwards and took the scroll away, opening the text and weighing it flat with an ornamentally carved rock. It had been Malik's favourite paperweight and had broken three months ago in an accident. As he traced a fragile limb of quartz Malik snatched up his quill.
3; The soothe [1/?]
A heavy thump sounded behind him, to the right. In a fluid movement he pulled his sword from its sheath and twisted to face the source of the noise, blade held defensively to block oncoming attacks to his torso. One could never be too careful.
He recognised the face straight away.
A young, adolescent Malik blinked back at him, eyes darting from sword, to the scar bisecting his lips and then all over his robes, taking in the details of the sweeping Grand Master's cloak. One hand – his left – was stuck in a sling that drooped from his neck. The other attempted to curl around a thick scroll, which he had dropped to his feet. Dust settled in clouds on his boots.
Altaïr relaxed and slid his sword back into its sheath, the defensive stance of his body melting away.
“Safety and peace, Malik.”
“To you too, Altaïr.” Malik replied and tilted his head in acknowledgement, a distrustful frown creasing his brow above a hawkish nose. They stared at each other evenly, Altaïr assessing the situation he found himself in and Malik wondering how Altaïr managed to appear older and as Grand Master. Something was greatly amiss. He licked his lips, his hand curling tighter around the heavy scroll and itching to take hold of a weapon.
“Let me help.” Altaïr said, and moved forwards, hand outstretched and heading for the scroll. Malik shuffled back minutely, grip wavering, causing a minute pause in Altaïr's movement. When Malik stilled he moved forwards again and hefted the scroll up, holding it out as an offering. Cautiously it was taken from him and cradled on Malik's arm as if it were a newborn child. They stared at each other evenly, until with a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat, as if in acceptance of what he saw before him, the young Malik turned swept behind a bookcase. His right hand dragging over the dusty wood, the Grandmaster lingered and watched.
Tucked away in a small, quiet corner, Malik had been studying at a low table. He sat on a worn and stiff cushion that prompted correct posture, and yet hunched over a myriad of scrolls that he had collected from all over the library, and took notes in minuscule. Casting a trained eye over one of the scrolls that had been spread over the wooden table Altaïr recognised it for religious texts – ah, yes, hadn't Malik been going through a small spat of religious interest about the age of eighteen? Had he not spewed religious quotes, and quietly asserted to those he felt he could that Religion was not the true answer? How right he had been.
With a small sigh Malik had sat back down and was struggling to place to scroll so that he might read it. His quill fell to the floor and he hissed a curse, frustrated. Out of habit Altaïr stepped forwards and took the scroll away, opening the text and weighing it flat with an ornamentally carved rock. It had been Malik's favourite paperweight and had broken three months ago in an accident. As he traced a fragile limb of quartz Malik snatched up his quill.