“You do not seem to be the Altaïr I know.” He grumbled, his irritation loosening his tongue, and dipped his quill before poising it above his parchment.
“No, I am not.” Altaïr said, and then smiled briefly in recollection. Thirsty for a fight, for challenge, for respect and for reverence amongst his peers, Altaïr would have hesitated to help anyone other than himself, Al Mualim, Adha or a fair woman at market when a young adult. From there his arrogance grew, and, after he had lost Adha, consumed him.
“I have grown much since now.”
Malik rested the nib of his quill on the parchment, staining a black spot of ink that bled out. “You make no sense.”
There were the first foundations of the caustic tone Malik perfected by the age of twenty in that voice and it made Altaïr shiver pleasantly and ever so slightly. Looking at Malik he was once again shocked by how young he seemed. His arm was there and whole (though out of commission), the crease between his brow was softer, the skin beneath his eyes sagged slightly with a tiredness that came with night of study rather than being purpled with nightmares of loss, and he was clean-shaven, his sharp jaw not yet shadowed by a small and stark, black goatee. He was young and whole and gorgeous (much more than he had been at such an age, for he matured much quicker, despite his relative youth.)
“I did not aim to confuse. I must ask forgiveness.”
Malik held his gaze a little while longer and then scoffed and looked to where his quill rested, re-inking it before scratching down a quick, short sentence.
“You most certainly are not the Altaïr I know.” Malik mumbled to himself, his bow arched with surprise and a touch of disbelief, maybe even exasperation towards the young man of which he spoke.
Altaïr contented himself with brief silence, and then moved to the more comfortable rug and cushions beside the study table, lounging in the light cast through a small window. It was all an illusion. All the Piece of Eden had ever created was illusion. There was no way that this was real and the only way to break free of the illusion – or at least the way he had found when he was last trapped – was finding the 'key' that took him there in the first place. Meanwhile he would have to do all he could to remain calm, keep the illusion from clouding his mind and judgement, and keep mass attention away from him, lest things fall into chaos.
“You wear the Grand Master's robes.” Malik drawled, watching him from the very corner of his eye. “Why?”
Altaïr sighed and got himself comfortable. Should he tell the truth? He picked at the hem of his black outer robe.
“Because,” he started, and then pushed his hood back to reveal his face completely. “in the future I am the Grand Master and you are my closest friend, my right-hand man...”
Malik feigned disinterest and barely hid the exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“And my lover.” It was better to tell the truth than to spin a faulty lie. They clung to lies, ripping it apart. The Apple enjoyed exposing flawed logic and burrowing into his mind, scratching away at his largest insecurities. No, best to tell the truth which he knew and keep them as calm as possible than give them an opening.
Malik's quill broke and bent in his grip. A second to late for it to be anything but forced Malik gave a short bark of terse laughter. The tone wavered with uncertainty. He discarded his broken quill, worrying for the cost of having it replaced.
3; The soothe [2/?]
“You do not seem to be the Altaïr I know.” He grumbled, his irritation loosening his tongue, and dipped his quill before poising it above his parchment.
“No, I am not.” Altaïr said, and then smiled briefly in recollection. Thirsty for a fight, for challenge, for respect and for reverence amongst his peers, Altaïr would have hesitated to help anyone other than himself, Al Mualim, Adha or a fair woman at market when a young adult. From there his arrogance grew, and, after he had lost Adha, consumed him.
“I have grown much since now.”
Malik rested the nib of his quill on the parchment, staining a black spot of ink that bled out. “You make no sense.”
There were the first foundations of the caustic tone Malik perfected by the age of twenty in that voice and it made Altaïr shiver pleasantly and ever so slightly. Looking at Malik he was once again shocked by how young he seemed. His arm was there and whole (though out of commission), the crease between his brow was softer, the skin beneath his eyes sagged slightly with a tiredness that came with night of study rather than being purpled with nightmares of loss, and he was clean-shaven, his sharp jaw not yet shadowed by a small and stark, black goatee. He was young and whole and gorgeous (much more than he had been at such an age, for he matured much quicker, despite his relative youth.)
“I did not aim to confuse. I must ask forgiveness.”
Malik held his gaze a little while longer and then scoffed and looked to where his quill rested, re-inking it before scratching down a quick, short sentence.
“You most certainly are not the Altaïr I know.” Malik mumbled to himself, his bow arched with surprise and a touch of disbelief, maybe even exasperation towards the young man of which he spoke.
Altaïr contented himself with brief silence, and then moved to the more comfortable rug and cushions beside the study table, lounging in the light cast through a small window. It was all an illusion. All the Piece of Eden had ever created was illusion. There was no way that this was real and the only way to break free of the illusion – or at least the way he had found when he was last trapped – was finding the 'key' that took him there in the first place. Meanwhile he would have to do all he could to remain calm, keep the illusion from clouding his mind and judgement, and keep mass attention away from him, lest things fall into chaos.
“You wear the Grand Master's robes.” Malik drawled, watching him from the very corner of his eye. “Why?”
Altaïr sighed and got himself comfortable. Should he tell the truth? He picked at the hem of his black outer robe.
“Because,” he started, and then pushed his hood back to reveal his face completely. “in the future I am the Grand Master and you are my closest friend, my right-hand man...”
Malik feigned disinterest and barely hid the exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“And my lover.” It was better to tell the truth than to spin a faulty lie. They clung to lies, ripping it apart. The Apple enjoyed exposing flawed logic and burrowing into his mind, scratching away at his largest insecurities. No, best to tell the truth which he knew and keep them as calm as possible than give them an opening.
Malik's quill broke and bent in his grip. A second to late for it to be anything but forced Malik gave a short bark of terse laughter. The tone wavered with uncertainty. He discarded his broken quill, worrying for the cost of having it replaced.