Prompt link: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=3529976#t3529976 Prompt: Malik is a merman who is in love with the mortal Altair. AN: Ooh, boy. It has been a while, has it? I've gotten the original posted fic tweaked and edited, though if there are still mistakes that'll be on me, not the two lovely betas i've roped into it. ------
It starts with a storm.
The water rolls with a flurry of air and bubbles that would suffocate a mer if he or she is too careless. Malik never intends to see what he does, but he happens to turn his gaze upwards to the sight of the dark shadow of a ship, coming dangerously close to the sharp reefs where he sometimes visits to gather fish and clams, and occasionally the trinkets from bodies of dead, half eaten sailors.
He is almost eager to have the ship crash into the hills of coral. Malik knows what the humans carry with them—fascinating things like metals and gems and spices, items not found anywhere within the ocean—though it’s the steel that Malik loves collecting. The precious metal fetches a high price in the market, and if he ever has the chance to talk with a human, he would surely ask how they are made, hard and sharp and nearly unbreakable, nothing like glass at all.
Malik tails the ship as closely as possible, still keeping low and away from the reef. Lightning flashes and he can make out the outline of sails, already yearning to feel the strange fabric in his hands. He has read once that the cloth is made from cotton, and that it sprouts from the ground like seagrass and kelp. Such a baffling place the world above must be, he thinks, craning his neck to look up.
There is another flash of lightning and Malik catches a glimpse of a small shadow falling into the sea. It is a human, but humans are forever falling into the ocean, so Malik doesn’t think to pay it any attention until he sees the glint of metal strapped to the human’s hip.
Judging from the panicked way the human’s limbs are flailing, it doesn’t have long to live, and Malik, ever practical, swims towards it.
In hindsight, it would have been a better idea to at least wait for the human to expire before trying to wrench the sword away. All it does is send mixed messages, and it’s rather hard to communicate with a drowning human underwater, especially when the human is incoherent with fear and doesn’t know any better than to wrap it’s arms and—ugh, legs—around Malik’s torso. Malik shouts, angry, and tries to pull away.
For a second, the human stills, startled, and looks at him.
Many things happen after that. Things like a hand on the back of Malik’s head, clinging and desperate, the sliver of golden eyes before they squeeze back shut, and muffled words that take the form of bubbles, but Malik can hear each plea that tickles by his ear, fleeting and growing weaker by the moment.
Malik doesn’t intend to save the human, but he does, though he has to knock it over the head first to stop the stupid thing from struggling. Above them the storm rages on and there are many times when Malik starts to think the human is not worth the trouble, dragging and pulling and trying to keep its head above the water. It becomes even more difficult as the water starts to become shallow and Malik has to flop awkwardly on the beach, his tail thrashing in frustration since his arms are full of unconscious human.
The air makes him feel lightheaded, but Malik sits up to check the rise and fall of the man’s chest, amused to find that humans and mer are oddly similar in some ways. He looks into the pale face, noting the scar on its lips, the strands of hair slicked from its forehead, and almost wishes he could see more of the strange golden eyes.
“I saved your life, so it is only fair that I am rewarded,” Malik says instead, tilting his head at the curious sound of his voice, how sharp and clear it is, like a blade.
And it all ends on the shore, with the sun shining against his back and the sword in his hand.
+++
The fish tell him that there is a man who stands by the pier, dropping copper coins into the water.
They are annoyed because they have no use for copper and they’d rather have breadcrumbs or slop and dirty swill to nibble on. Malik only listens because they mention the man has golden eyes.
He only follows them because he wants the coins.
And he only stays beneath the pier, hidden and quiet, because the man with the golden eyes speaks to the ocean like a crazy person.
The man says, “My master tells me I should be grateful that the spirits of the sea seem to favor me.”
A coin plops into the water, and Malik waits for it to sink all the way to the floor before picking it up. Meanwhile, the human recites a prayer of some sort, dull and monotonous like memorized lines from a text he has only learned to appease his master. The moment he is finished, his words become colored with sarcasm and arrogance.
“So, merciful sea spirits, I offer you four—no, five copper coins in thanks. May I never have the misfortune to be swept away by your waves again,” he drawls, and tosses a small pouch into the water.
This, Malik darts out for, snatching the pouch and retreating back to the shadows of the pier. He tugs it open, looking at the copper coins; they are small and round, but beautiful in the palm of his hand. The man starts to walk away, wooden boards creaking despite the lightness of his steps.
Malik doesn’t know the worth of five copper coins on land, but they are precious underwater. He digs through the pouch he carries, fingers tangling with the string of glass beads he keeps as a decorative charm. The glass comes from the volcano that bubbles and steams in the deepest part of the ocean, so maybe it might be something special to humans. In any case, a part of him just wants to prove the man wrong—Malik might not be a sea spirit, but the human seems to think that it was only luck that has saved him the night of the storm.
Peeking above the murky water, he squints at the man’s retreating back and tosses the charm.
Malik’s aim is horrible—he forgets that air is thinner than water—and the charm hits the human on the head. He ducks back down, torn between mortification and having to stifle his snickering at the man’s yelp of surprise.
He doesn’t end up staying, as the human grows suspicious enough to start peering into the water, but the weight of the coins feel pleasant in Malik’s hand, even long after he dives back into the depths where the sunlight can’t touch him.
+++
Malik visits the pier for the second day in the row. Somehow, he is unsurprised to find the man there.
The man doesn’t say his prayer of thanks, but he drops a small knife, silver and shining, into the water.
Malik searches through his pouch again and waits until the human looks away so that he could slip his own blade, made from blue coral, through the cracks of the wooden beams. Its jagged edges scrape loudly on the wood, causing the human to turn quickly.
The man gets on all fours, trying to see through the cracks, but Malik is long gone by then, clutching the silver knife with a grin that doesn’t fade for a long while.
+++
On the third day, the human leaves out a necklace with a single pearl, sounding smug about how he has managed to obtain it from a thief. (And he adamant in telling Malik—or the sea spirit, really—that he has had no luck in finding its owner, and that the pearl is better off back in the sea.)
Malik scoffs from his spot in the shadows, leaning against the mossy support beams. He throws pebbles when the man is not looking, and is pleased to find that his aim has gotten much better.
+++
The next day the human drops tiny parcels of spices and tea from a place called China. They blossom and bloom in the water, leaving behind an earthy, pleasant scent.
Malik places a cup, carved from the white bone of a whale with patterned edges of waves, on the far edge of the pier for the man—whose eyes have gotten far too swift as of late—and watches, this time, as the man kneels to pick it up with a smile.
+++
The fifth day—a dagger, inlaid with gold veins and purely ornamental. The hilt may be pretty, but the blade is too weak to be used in battles, the man says, as if he wants to explain the expensive gift. The human is a warrior, a fighter, and Malik feels himself draw closer, internally, despite that he keeps perfectly still beneath the water.
All he has in return is a little glass figurine of a flower—hardly adequate for a fighter—but next time he visits, he’ll be prepared.
+++
A week later, the man gives Malik his name.
Malik doesn’t answer, and only begins to see how far he has fallen.
+++
Kadar says, “You’ve been visiting the harbor again. It’s that human, isn’t it?”
His gaze shifts to the sword resting in Malik’s hands and flickers to the other foreign trinkets scattered around the cavern. Unlike all the other times he has said this, his voice takes on an accusatory tone, hurt and not able to understand what the realm of air and sun has to offer, the mysterious beauty it holds—things like fire and clouds and the strange invisible force that pulls you down to the ground. The human plays a part in it, yes, but it is not the only thing that captivates Malik about the world above.
He lifts his head from the bed of coral, feeling the shudder of sea anemones as they retreat back into themselves. Kadar stares back at him, mouth drawn into an unhappy line. For a moment, Malik considers lying, not to ease his brother’s worries, but to prevent him from asking anymore than he should, because they both know that the answer will always be the same.
“If you had been there, maybe you would see,” he says, giving the sword a practiced swing; the metal is all too heavy in the water, and the momentum drives him back, pulling at his arm like a graceless, retreating wave.
Kadar says something in return, but Malik is too busy wondering what it would be like if he could wield the sword in air, with Altair at his side, guiding him through the motions.
+++
The next gift Malik receives from the world above is not from Altair, but from the sky.
It splashes into the water, round and golden, and distracts Malik from visiting the pier that day. He holds out his hand, curious, and stares as it glows with a light of its own.
“I am called the Apple,” the sphere says in a voice that reminds him of rolling thunder.
He can feel its power, heavy and oppressing. It should scare him, but Malik finds himself entranced, and quickly takes the Apple into his cavern, glad that Kadar is out for the day.
In the darkness, the Apple promises him a wish, though it reads his heart and knows what Malik desires.
“If it is your wish to become human, I shall grant it,” it tells him, “but only if the conditions are met.”
“What do you require?”
“Your arm.”
Malik frowns, suspicious. “An arm does not equal two legs.”
The Apple shimmers, almost as if it was laughing. It clarifies, “Your arm and your blood.”
“How much blood?”
“Your smallest blood,” the Apple says, much too cryptic—but Malik is already thinking of fires and metals and the wind on his face. Blood is a paltry payment. The Apple shimmers again.
“If you can find a person who loves the sea as much as you love the land within a moon’s cycle, and seal the spell with a shared breath of air and water, a human you will remain. But you cannot tell anyone of your true nature, or else your throat will close and turn against you; I will make sure of that.”
Malik can feel himself trembling. He wants this, wants despite the price.
“Yes,” he breaths, just as Kadar drifts into the cavern, eyes wide.
“Malik—“
He drops the Apple, shouting, but it’s all too late.
+++
Malik washes up on the shore, coughing and thrashing. The air is too light and comes in too quickly to fill in his new lungs, only to rush out again when he tries to stifle his sobs. He cannot wipe his tears because his single hand is gripping on a sword—Altair’s—and how he manages to keep it, when he cannot even keep his brother, is nearly laughable if it isn’t for the pain.
His legs are bare, scraped raw and bleeding from when he drags himself over the sand, which feels unnatural and sharp against the skin. Malik knows he should stand, or at least try to, but he’s hurting all over.
“Hey, that’s my sword.”
Altair is there, suddenly, towering over him with a scowl. His movements are precise and forceful, using the heel of his boot to nudge Malik over. This isn’t the same man who has spent hours talking to the sea, though Malik can smell the spices from the pouch at Altair’s hip—and maybe he had been on his way to the pier, or was coming back from it, disappointed and angry that the sea spirit did not show up.
Malik tries to explain, but his throat closes and he gags, just like the Apple promises.
“Oh,” Altair says, sounding surprised. “Did your ship sink? Or did you fall off it?” Even his worried expression looks condescending.
Malik wants nothing more than to strike him and blame him for everything.
“You,” he cries, and swings the sword at the man’s throat, but, as always on land, his aim is off and Malik can’t keep to his feet on the uneven sand. He wobbles, and the sword buries itself into the ground.
“Are you insane?” Altair asks, unimpressed. He hasn’t moved from his spot, and that enrages Malik even further.
He is helpless and everything just hurts so much. Malik tries to attack him again, but Altair moves with a grace that Malik has only seen underwater, flowing and smooth, and twists his arm so that the sword falls from his hand.
“I should kill you,” Altair growls, placing his palm under Malik’s chin—it is only later that Malik realizes the missing finger and hidden blade at his forearm—and pushes forward. “But you are lucky my master does not allow me to kill an innocent, if you are indeed innocent, and… what are you doing?”
Malik is not yet used to his new legs, so he grips Altair’s shoulder with his arm and leans against him, propping his chin on Altair’s palm.
“I can’t stand,” he hisses, hating this weakness, however new it is to him.
Altair’s hand twitches, his fingers brushing over Malik’s cheek, before it draws away. There is pity in his eyes. Malik stumbles, but Altair brings himself closer, cautious, and puts Malik’s arm over his shoulders to hold him up.
“Where did you come from?” he demands, kneeling to retrieve his sword.
The quick movement makes Malik dizzy, and he realizes how tired he is. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is an incoherent gurgle until he coughs and says, “I cannot tell you.”
Altair frowns, but he starts to walk; Malik watches his feet, observing how they move. The first step they take together, Malik nearly trips and Altair has to pull him back up.
“Are you injured?” he asks, but when he checks Malik’s legs he only finds tiny cuts and bruises.
“I can’t walk,” Malik says, exasperated that he has to repeat himself, and that he can’t explain why. “But I will learn.”
Altair throws him an odd look.
“What’s your name?”
“Malik,” he says, and is surprised that he can.
“I am Altair.”
I know, Malik wants to say, but walking is difficult and Altair does not seem to mind the silence.
He doesn’t ask where they are going, but he looks over his shoulder to watch the ocean disappear from sight, taking the last of the sun’s waning glow with it. Tonight will be moonless, Malik thinks numbly, and turns away to see the world of humans and air and fire spread out before him.
The Moon and the Tide [1/?]
Prompt: Malik is a merman who is in love with the mortal Altair.
AN: Ooh, boy. It has been a while, has it? I've gotten the original posted fic tweaked and edited, though if there are still mistakes that'll be on me, not the two lovely betas i've roped into it.
------
It starts with a storm.
The water rolls with a flurry of air and bubbles that would suffocate a mer if he or she is too careless. Malik never intends to see what he does, but he happens to turn his gaze upwards to the sight of the dark shadow of a ship, coming dangerously close to the sharp reefs where he sometimes visits to gather fish and clams, and occasionally the trinkets from bodies of dead, half eaten sailors.
He is almost eager to have the ship crash into the hills of coral. Malik knows what the humans carry with them—fascinating things like metals and gems and spices, items not found anywhere within the ocean—though it’s the steel that Malik loves collecting. The precious metal fetches a high price in the market, and if he ever has the chance to talk with a human, he would surely ask how they are made, hard and sharp and nearly unbreakable, nothing like glass at all.
Malik tails the ship as closely as possible, still keeping low and away from the reef. Lightning flashes and he can make out the outline of sails, already yearning to feel the strange fabric in his hands. He has read once that the cloth is made from cotton, and that it sprouts from the ground like seagrass and kelp. Such a baffling place the world above must be, he thinks, craning his neck to look up.
There is another flash of lightning and Malik catches a glimpse of a small shadow falling into the sea. It is a human, but humans are forever falling into the ocean, so Malik doesn’t think to pay it any attention until he sees the glint of metal strapped to the human’s hip.
Judging from the panicked way the human’s limbs are flailing, it doesn’t have long to live, and Malik, ever practical, swims towards it.
In hindsight, it would have been a better idea to at least wait for the human to expire before trying to wrench the sword away. All it does is send mixed messages, and it’s rather hard to communicate with a drowning human underwater, especially when the human is incoherent with fear and doesn’t know any better than to wrap it’s arms and—ugh, legs—around Malik’s torso. Malik shouts, angry, and tries to pull away.
For a second, the human stills, startled, and looks at him.
Many things happen after that. Things like a hand on the back of Malik’s head, clinging and desperate, the sliver of golden eyes before they squeeze back shut, and muffled words that take the form of bubbles, but Malik can hear each plea that tickles by his ear, fleeting and growing weaker by the moment.
Malik doesn’t intend to save the human, but he does, though he has to knock it over the head first to stop the stupid thing from struggling. Above them the storm rages on and there are many times when Malik starts to think the human is not worth the trouble, dragging and pulling and trying to keep its head above the water. It becomes even more difficult as the water starts to become shallow and Malik has to flop awkwardly on the beach, his tail thrashing in frustration since his arms are full of unconscious human.
The air makes him feel lightheaded, but Malik sits up to check the rise and fall of the man’s chest, amused to find that humans and mer are oddly similar in some ways. He looks into the pale face, noting the scar on its lips, the strands of hair slicked from its forehead, and almost wishes he could see more of the strange golden eyes.
“I saved your life, so it is only fair that I am rewarded,” Malik says instead, tilting his head at the curious sound of his voice, how sharp and clear it is, like a blade.
And it all ends on the shore, with the sun shining against his back and the sword in his hand.
The fish tell him that there is a man who stands by the pier, dropping copper coins into the water.
They are annoyed because they have no use for copper and they’d rather have breadcrumbs or slop and dirty swill to nibble on. Malik only listens because they mention the man has golden eyes.
He only follows them because he wants the coins.
And he only stays beneath the pier, hidden and quiet, because the man with the golden eyes speaks to the ocean like a crazy person.
The man says, “My master tells me I should be grateful that the spirits of the sea seem to favor me.”
A coin plops into the water, and Malik waits for it to sink all the way to the floor before picking it up. Meanwhile, the human recites a prayer of some sort, dull and monotonous like memorized lines from a text he has only learned to appease his master. The moment he is finished, his words become colored with sarcasm and arrogance.
“So, merciful sea spirits, I offer you four—no, five copper coins in thanks. May I never have the misfortune to be swept away by your waves again,” he drawls, and tosses a small pouch into the water.
This, Malik darts out for, snatching the pouch and retreating back to the shadows of the pier. He tugs it open, looking at the copper coins; they are small and round, but beautiful in the palm of his hand. The man starts to walk away, wooden boards creaking despite the lightness of his steps.
Malik doesn’t know the worth of five copper coins on land, but they are precious underwater. He digs through the pouch he carries, fingers tangling with the string of glass beads he keeps as a decorative charm. The glass comes from the volcano that bubbles and steams in the deepest part of the ocean, so maybe it might be something special to humans. In any case, a part of him just wants to prove the man wrong—Malik might not be a sea spirit, but the human seems to think that it was only luck that has saved him the night of the storm.
Peeking above the murky water, he squints at the man’s retreating back and tosses the charm.
Malik’s aim is horrible—he forgets that air is thinner than water—and the charm hits the human on the head. He ducks back down, torn between mortification and having to stifle his snickering at the man’s yelp of surprise.
He doesn’t end up staying, as the human grows suspicious enough to start peering into the water, but the weight of the coins feel pleasant in Malik’s hand, even long after he dives back into the depths where the sunlight can’t touch him.
Malik visits the pier for the second day in the row. Somehow, he is unsurprised to find the man there.
The man doesn’t say his prayer of thanks, but he drops a small knife, silver and shining, into the water.
Malik searches through his pouch again and waits until the human looks away so that he could slip his own blade, made from blue coral, through the cracks of the wooden beams. Its jagged edges scrape loudly on the wood, causing the human to turn quickly.
The man gets on all fours, trying to see through the cracks, but Malik is long gone by then, clutching the silver knife with a grin that doesn’t fade for a long while.
On the third day, the human leaves out a necklace with a single pearl, sounding smug about how he has managed to obtain it from a thief. (And he adamant in telling Malik—or the sea spirit, really—that he has had no luck in finding its owner, and that the pearl is better off back in the sea.)
Malik scoffs from his spot in the shadows, leaning against the mossy support beams. He throws pebbles when the man is not looking, and is pleased to find that his aim has gotten much better.
The next day the human drops tiny parcels of spices and tea from a place called China. They blossom and bloom in the water, leaving behind an earthy, pleasant scent.
Malik places a cup, carved from the white bone of a whale with patterned edges of waves, on the far edge of the pier for the man—whose eyes have gotten far too swift as of late—and watches, this time, as the man kneels to pick it up with a smile.
The fifth day—a dagger, inlaid with gold veins and purely ornamental. The hilt may be pretty, but the blade is too weak to be used in battles, the man says, as if he wants to explain the expensive gift. The human is a warrior, a fighter, and Malik feels himself draw closer, internally, despite that he keeps perfectly still beneath the water.
All he has in return is a little glass figurine of a flower—hardly adequate for a fighter—but next time he visits, he’ll be prepared.
A week later, the man gives Malik his name.
Malik doesn’t answer, and only begins to see how far he has fallen.
Kadar says, “You’ve been visiting the harbor again. It’s that human, isn’t it?”
His gaze shifts to the sword resting in Malik’s hands and flickers to the other foreign trinkets scattered around the cavern. Unlike all the other times he has said this, his voice takes on an accusatory tone, hurt and not able to understand what the realm of air and sun has to offer, the mysterious beauty it holds—things like fire and clouds and the strange invisible force that pulls you down to the ground. The human plays a part in it, yes, but it is not the only thing that captivates Malik about the world above.
He lifts his head from the bed of coral, feeling the shudder of sea anemones as they retreat back into themselves. Kadar stares back at him, mouth drawn into an unhappy line. For a moment, Malik considers lying, not to ease his brother’s worries, but to prevent him from asking anymore than he should, because they both know that the answer will always be the same.
“If you had been there, maybe you would see,” he says, giving the sword a practiced swing; the metal is all too heavy in the water, and the momentum drives him back, pulling at his arm like a graceless, retreating wave.
Kadar says something in return, but Malik is too busy wondering what it would be like if he could wield the sword in air, with Altair at his side, guiding him through the motions.
The next gift Malik receives from the world above is not from Altair, but from the sky.
It splashes into the water, round and golden, and distracts Malik from visiting the pier that day. He holds out his hand, curious, and stares as it glows with a light of its own.
“I am called the Apple,” the sphere says in a voice that reminds him of rolling thunder.
He can feel its power, heavy and oppressing. It should scare him, but Malik finds himself entranced, and quickly takes the Apple into his cavern, glad that Kadar is out for the day.
In the darkness, the Apple promises him a wish, though it reads his heart and knows what Malik desires.
“If it is your wish to become human, I shall grant it,” it tells him, “but only if the conditions are met.”
“What do you require?”
“Your arm.”
Malik frowns, suspicious. “An arm does not equal two legs.”
The Apple shimmers, almost as if it was laughing. It clarifies, “Your arm and your blood.”
“How much blood?”
“Your smallest blood,” the Apple says, much too cryptic—but Malik is already thinking of fires and metals and the wind on his face. Blood is a paltry payment. The Apple shimmers again.
“If you can find a person who loves the sea as much as you love the land within a moon’s cycle, and seal the spell with a shared breath of air and water, a human you will remain. But you cannot tell anyone of your true nature, or else your throat will close and turn against you; I will make sure of that.”
Malik can feel himself trembling. He wants this, wants despite the price.
“Yes,” he breaths, just as Kadar drifts into the cavern, eyes wide.
“Malik—“
He drops the Apple, shouting, but it’s all too late.
Malik washes up on the shore, coughing and thrashing. The air is too light and comes in too quickly to fill in his new lungs, only to rush out again when he tries to stifle his sobs. He cannot wipe his tears because his single hand is gripping on a sword—Altair’s—and how he manages to keep it, when he cannot even keep his brother, is nearly laughable if it isn’t for the pain.
His legs are bare, scraped raw and bleeding from when he drags himself over the sand, which feels unnatural and sharp against the skin. Malik knows he should stand, or at least try to, but he’s hurting all over.
“Hey, that’s my sword.”
Altair is there, suddenly, towering over him with a scowl. His movements are precise and forceful, using the heel of his boot to nudge Malik over. This isn’t the same man who has spent hours talking to the sea, though Malik can smell the spices from the pouch at Altair’s hip—and maybe he had been on his way to the pier, or was coming back from it, disappointed and angry that the sea spirit did not show up.
Malik tries to explain, but his throat closes and he gags, just like the Apple promises.
“Oh,” Altair says, sounding surprised. “Did your ship sink? Or did you fall off it?” Even his worried expression looks condescending.
Malik wants nothing more than to strike him and blame him for everything.
“You,” he cries, and swings the sword at the man’s throat, but, as always on land, his aim is off and Malik can’t keep to his feet on the uneven sand. He wobbles, and the sword buries itself into the ground.
“Are you insane?” Altair asks, unimpressed. He hasn’t moved from his spot, and that enrages Malik even further.
He is helpless and everything just hurts so much. Malik tries to attack him again, but Altair moves with a grace that Malik has only seen underwater, flowing and smooth, and twists his arm so that the sword falls from his hand.
“I should kill you,” Altair growls, placing his palm under Malik’s chin—it is only later that Malik realizes the missing finger and hidden blade at his forearm—and pushes forward. “But you are lucky my master does not allow me to kill an innocent, if you are indeed innocent, and… what are you doing?”
Malik is not yet used to his new legs, so he grips Altair’s shoulder with his arm and leans against him, propping his chin on Altair’s palm.
“I can’t stand,” he hisses, hating this weakness, however new it is to him.
Altair’s hand twitches, his fingers brushing over Malik’s cheek, before it draws away. There is pity in his eyes. Malik stumbles, but Altair brings himself closer, cautious, and puts Malik’s arm over his shoulders to hold him up.
“Where did you come from?” he demands, kneeling to retrieve his sword.
The quick movement makes Malik dizzy, and he realizes how tired he is. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is an incoherent gurgle until he coughs and says, “I cannot tell you.”
Altair frowns, but he starts to walk; Malik watches his feet, observing how they move. The first step they take together, Malik nearly trips and Altair has to pull him back up.
“Are you injured?” he asks, but when he checks Malik’s legs he only finds tiny cuts and bruises.
“I can’t walk,” Malik says, exasperated that he has to repeat himself, and that he can’t explain why. “But I will learn.”
Altair throws him an odd look.
“What’s your name?”
“Malik,” he says, and is surprised that he can.
“I am Altair.”
I know, Malik wants to say, but walking is difficult and Altair does not seem to mind the silence.
He doesn’t ask where they are going, but he looks over his shoulder to watch the ocean disappear from sight, taking the last of the sun’s waning glow with it. Tonight will be moonless, Malik thinks numbly, and turns away to see the world of humans and air and fire spread out before him.