asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

We're about to reach the posting limit on pt.1&2, this is for those who wish to continue/write on prompts on both these parts.

Writers! It is your responsibility to link back to the original prompt.

There are no request in this part of the meme.

List of Kinks
(Livejorunal) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Discussion

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Prompt Here (http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=2850296#t2850296)

It had started out innocently enough. Just a touch and a question. He had seen Altaïr do it before and come back three times more knowledgeable and to just ask one question...It surely couldn't do him any harm. It wouldn't addict him to the power like it had so many others. Not with just once touch, surely.

Of course, as irony would have it, one questions quickly spiralled out of control.

Malik ghosted his fingertips over the Piece of Eden almost reverently, lips parted and breath bated. He knew that he shouldn't be there in the office. He knew that he shouldn't be touching it. But he was. And he had so many questions that he felt no one and nothing could answer except the sphere just beneath his hand, a hair's breadth away. One questions stood out amongst the others.

Gently Malik spread his fingers down the sphere until his palm touched the crown of the cold metal. A thrill went up his arm and spread rapidly over his body, manifesting in his eyes and tongue and encompassing his entire consciousness in the space of seconds. An empowering, ancient and mysterious energy ebbed through him as the ball began to glow dimly. He wet his lips nervously. One question.

“K-Kad-” He didn't even manage to stutter the rest out. A fierce surge took place, drawing his sight from the room in which he stood to his inner self. The truth struck into him with the brutality of an enemy's blade.

Kadar could neither be happy nor sad. He was dead.

Reality was disappointing and painful, but the knowledge had been so easy to obtain.

Malik shook himself from his stupor and looked to the ball again. Imagine what one could do with this. Control an army, feed a family for a lifetime, create or restore life, heal and absolve. Even regrow limbs.

The last thought had been fleeting. But at the moment it had fluttered through a sudden weight attached itself to his mind and slowed it down, dragging it back into sight. Regrow a limb.

His mind was pried open by pinprick sleeves of light, which burrowed and dug their way into his thoughts and desired. Malik's eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as he gasped at the alien intrusion.

Yes, regrow limbs. Regrow his arm. Be Altaïr's equal. Be a cripple no longer. He could climb and leap and dress and eat and train and live differently; with an ease currently absent. Imagine if he could grow it back.

He wanted to grow it back.

He could grow it back.

He would grow it back.

What remained of the bone in his left arm began to vibrate and hum in it's socket. Quickly and painfully it shot out of the scar tissue, forming the skeleton of his upper arm. He cried out. His elbow cracked into existence and then slowly the Ulna and Radius grew out of that and into a wrist. He chocked as muscle and veins and lymph wound around the new bones, clinging tightly and corded. It was excruciating. His grip on the Apple was hard enough to quake his right arm. Tears slipped from his eyes, lids scrunched tight. Metacarpals rolled out from carpals as tendons wrapped his elbow and cartilage cushioned his joints. He sobbed loudly. The Apple still in hand he fell to his knees. His innocent question had quickly turned in the wrong direction and was becoming the reason for one of the most painful experiences in his life. He skin peeled at the join and then began to inch as fresh, sensitive sheets down the new muscle. He screamed in agony.

The Piece of Eden was ripped from his grasp. A hand slapped at his cheek. But the skin continued to slide over his elbow and the pain was making him sick to his stomach. Couldn't they see it!? Couldn't they see the half-formed limb growing where there once was a gasping space!?

A slap of cold rushed over his face. He fell to his side as icy water seeped into the collar of his robes and dribble down his neck. The pain was gone, ghosted only by his memory of nails jutting from sensitive skin on his fingers. He gasped and rolled over, supporting himself on his right hand as he vomited onto the flagstone floor. A hand soothingly rubbed his back until he stopped retching and knelt there gasping for breath. Then it slid into his soaked hair and pulled him upright. He hissed in pain and flailed his arms.

“What did you do!? What did it show you!?”

Altaïr.

“Nothing!” He shouted back, hand hitting against the thick plated leather of Altaïr's belt and throat hoarse from screaming and crying and vomiting.

“What did it show you!?”

“My arm, my arm!”

The hand let go of his hair and he fell just shy of his sick, looking blearily up at Altaïr through teary eyes. He was shaking his head slowly, hood pulled down around his neck.

Malik looked at his left side.

All remained as it had before he had touched the apple. His shoulder curved into the beginnings of an arm and then left his robe sleeve hauntingly empty, the hem pinned up. His only hand flew to grope the nub disbelievingly. It had been there; he had felt it grow back!

“It was here! It was right here!”

“Malik...”

Malik tore off his robe and hauled himself to sit upright, staring at the lump of scarred tissue where his arm should have been and feeling himself begin to shake all over. He had lost it again. It had been right there!

“The piece of Eden – it plays tricks.” He could distantly hear Altaïr say as he ran his fingers over the thick and abnormal skin. He shook his head, muttering a mantra of 'no's. Altaïr's hand landed on his right shoulder, the touch attempting to calm him. “Please, Malik.”

But wait!

Malik ran his fingers over it again.

That bump. It was new.

He brought the stub up as if extending his arm, trying his best to catch sight of the growth. He ran his index finger over it again. It was white. Smooth. He tapped it with his fingernail to try and feel the bite but none came. He pressed and tugged at it eagerly. The joint of his shoulder to arm felt the movement.

It was bone.

Malik fainted.

Oh Malik~ ;-; Way to interrupt Altaïr! It could have (maybe) worked! But I sure hope Malik's wish comes true, he deserves it.

All will be revealed in time~

*flails* Oh my god, don't stop there! D: I think I've read this three times and I will probably read it a fourth and fifth while I wait impatiently for more. I can't wait!

It's-a-coming :)

Malik awoke in a bed, a thick headache coating his mind and filling his skull with a stubborn layer of fuzz that slowed it down, and his body covered in a thin blanket, breeches still on his legs but skin otherwise bare. A painful ache shuddered down his non-existent left arm as if he had pulled the muscles. He huffed a breath and groaned, turning his head to look at the space where his absent limb should have been in hope that it would remind him that pain there was impossible. It never worked, no matter how many times he relived that heady, blurry memory of the saw biting into his skin.

He yelled a vicious curse and heaved himself to the right, scrambling away from what he saw.

Beneath the thin sheet a clear outline of bones could be seen, spreading right the way into a wrist.

The door banged open, there was a flurry of movement and flowing robes. Hands pressed down on Malik's shoulders until he lay back down, still staring at the skeletal limb clinging to his ruined shoulder. Altaïr hovered above him, shushing him as Maria knelt on his other side saying, 'it's all right, Malik, it's all right.' He sucked in shaky breaths through his nose and hissed them out through his teeth, muscles tense and still ready to leap away.

“It was the Apple.” Altaïr said gently and placed a bare hand at the top of Malik's neck, thumb stroking along his jaw. “It's been growing whilst you were asleep.”

Malik continued to gaze wide-eyed and fear-stricken. Across his body Altaïr and Maria shared a furtive glance. A metacarpal slowly moved the blanket with it's snail's-pace growth.

“It's actually happening?” Malik eventually croaked out, disbelieving. Maria nodded earnestly and placed a hand gingerly over his growing fingers. He gasped shakily even though he couldn't feel her touch.

“Malik you must tell me how it is you got the Apple to restore your arm.” Altaïr said as he rearranged himself on the bed, and stroked along Malik's exposed collarbone, fingering a scar that dissected it on the right side. Inside Malik burned with shame. One question, eh? Wouldn't become addicted to the power, hm?

“Not now.” He mumbled, eyeing the silhouette of the five bones protruding from what would become the back of his hand.

“Mali-”

“Not now.” He repeated more firmly and wrenched his gaze away from his half-formed limb to meet Altaïr's eyes. His stare was returned evenly. Maria cleared her throat quietly.

“I have to get back to Yusef.” She said softly and moved her hand to press against Altaïr's forearm warningly before scrambling to her feet and walking back through the door she entered from. Her stomach curved with a second child. Altaïr's hand slid up Malik's stubbled neck.

“I'm keeping you in the nursery until I feel assured that you'll be okay. Yusef's cot has been moved into the room next door with Maria.” Altaïr said and sighed.

“I think I can manage on my own.” Malik grumbled just to be difficult.

“Can you move it?”

Malik looked towards the bare bones of his left arm and tried to move his wrist. It remained still and unyielding to his will.

“No.” He eventually replied. Altaïr sighed heavily again and Malik looked back to him, the sight of his arm nauseating. “But I can't stay here.”

Altaïr narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

Laying in bed, Malik rolled his eyes. “Because I do believe that I have encroached upon your marriage quite enough as it is. I don't want to be-” Altaïr pressed his hand over Malik's mouth, cutting him off.

“Maria and I are not married. And she entered into the Creed knowing of our relationship.” He leant down and kissed Malik's forehead. “She knows that my feelings for you will never venture into our bed and do not compromise my love for my family, and she knows that my love for my family will never compromise my feelings for you. You have so little faith.”

Malik bit at the soft flesh of Altaïr's hand sharply until he drew it away, grunting. “This is too close to your bed with her.”

They stared at each other for another moment, waiting for the other to back down.

“Do you need anything?” Altaïr eventually asked, ignoring Malik's comment. He rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

“Water, please.”

A small cup and large bowl of water was situated next to his head, which was propped up on a couple of stiff pillows.

“I am only caring for you.” Altaïr said gently and placed a miniature bell next to the water. “Ring if you need anything at all.”

When Malik closed his eyes to rest Altaïr left his side and the room, leaving the door ajar.

*

All day spent in bed was incredibly dull. The only excitement came in the panicked moments where the pain in his arm would become too great, but Malik quickly decided that he would rather be bored than experience that often and usually kept himself on a small dose of hashish oil to keep his mind slow and the pain numbed. He counted the flagstones stones piecing together the ceiling aloud to himself. Yusef burbled in the room next to his. Sometimes he cried.

By night time the bones of his arm had completely formed and he had succumbed to his morbid curiosity, pulling the blanket up to look at the bones lying there like a perfect anatomical representation, or some poor soul's abandoned and rotten body. Some invisible force kept them together. Even though he had picked up his forearm and waved it around slightly the small, delicate bones of his hand had somehow stayed intact and secure on the end, and the elbow restricted the movement as it would if wrapped in tendons. Malik hoped for a further development rather than a sudden halt in progression. He was quite sure that walking around with a skeleton arm dangling at his side was not going to make a good impression on the townspeople of Masyaf.

The ache in his arm was gone. Instead a bruising and sharper pain throbbed over the scar tissue where the flesh of his arm cut off and where the bone jutted out. Malik groped for the bell by his head and grasped it in a sloppy fist before ringing it. Yusef made a muffled sound of complaint. Maria entered, the baby suckling on her breast. Malik quickly averted his eyes.

“Some more oil, if you will.” He spoke, the snuffling and suckling noises louder now that he was aware of them.

“You haven't eaten since waking up. Would you like some broth?” Maria cradled her child and caressed his soft head with her thumb.

“And bread please, yes.”

She left the room. Malik heaved a sigh of relief.

It was somewhat awkward to be alone in her presence. Though with others around them they were perfectly cordial and at ease it seemed that when they were left with only each other's company that life suddenly became much harder. Malik did not resent her. He had gone past that. It was just a strange set up. How did one's somewhat-wife talk to one's somewhat-lover? Their main and obvious shared interest was in Altaïr, but to speak of him between them would have been a sure-fire road to heartbreak.

A twinge of pain disrupted Malik's musings and he looked to his uncovered arm. Blood had begun to drip down the bone and stain the pillowed rug beneath him. He swore and grasped for something to soak up the stain, shoving it beneath the bleed and then checking for the wound. His skin had peeled away to reveal a bloody mess of muscle and veins which had begun to wrap around his bone slowly and painfully. He groaned loudly and let his head fall back on the pillows heavily. A worry hit him. He could lose a lot of blood. He looked to the top of his arm again. The dribble of haemoglobin red, apart from standing out like a sore thumb against the white of his bone, was only thin. He breathed a sigh of relief, and then his breath hitched as another stinging sensation signified the tearing of his skin on the other side of his arm. He hissed and grimaced with pain.

Maria entered a moment later with a bowl of broth and chunk of bread in arms, kneeling next to Malik. She threw a long look to the exposed flesh creeping down his arm. It hadn't yet made a centimetre's progress.

“The oil first, then.”

Malik ate in silence, Maria having retired back into her own quarters. She was humming softly. Yusef seemed to be asleep. The fabric beneath his arm, which had turned out to be his dark scholar's robes, was now heavily stained. Blood dried on the surface of his humerus. With a deep breath after relieving himself into a chamberpot, Malik settled back into his bed, body aching with a mixture of tiredness and containing all too much unused energy and restlessness. The door to Maria's room from the corridor opened and closed quietly. In murmured conversation Malik could easily catch the baritone of Altaïr's voice. He waited almost impatiently for the man to enter into the room.

When he did he looked tired. More tired than usual. It was not so often that Malik saw him so late of an evening and in such light or under such circumstances. When Altaïr retired to their bed it was usually panting, moaning and groaning. The domesticity of the situation hit him quite unexpectedly. Altaïr collapsed at his bedside in a heap of robes and exhaustion, eyeing his unformed limb.

“It's growing quickly.” He remarked, and Malik managed to quirk a small smile.

“You will not have me in this bed for much longer.”

Eyes, though no doubt unfocussed and not entirely aware, travelled from fingertip to growing biceps with fierce concentration, tracking the trails of dripping blood in the last moment.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not so much now. The bleeding is slowing down.”

Altaïr licked his lips. “We will have to suspend it to stop the muscle from sticking to the fabric. And we must try to keep it clear of flies and disease.”

“Most definitely.” Malik yawned widely and a flicker of a smile crossed Altaïr's face before falling away once more.

“Everything will be okay. I assure you.” He said soberly. “I will sleep in the office tonight.”

Malik rolled his eyes and scoffed. “You will do no such thing. I am well aware that you usually sleep with Maria. I have no qualms with it.”

“No, Malik. I will sleep in my office tonight, because if it were not for this set up I would be lying with you.” Altaïr's expression flashed with a sudden heat and Malik swallowed thickly and drily. He nodded afterwards, mutely and not without irritation. It had surely been a week since he had last indulged and been indulged by Altaïr's presence at his side, and he strongly wished almost now more than ever that he had never touched that damned artefact in Altaïr's office.

“I will bring you breakfast in the morning and we can talk then. Remember that you can always ring for Maria should you need anything. I only hope that Yusef sleeps peacefully tonight.” With a tired smile, constrained lust now visible beneath it to Malik's trained eye, Altaïr excused himself, muttering a few words to Maria before leaving her as well. Malik extinguished the flame of his candle with a snuffer and hunkered down to sleep.

Not-Anon, I love your writing.
Here's eagerly waiting for more

I swear I replied to this, but apparently I didn't? (wut?)
Thank you very much for the compliments! I hopefully won't be swamped too much by work to be able to get more up!

A/N: Boring chapter ahead...

Despite the idea of suspending and isolating Malik's arm that had been spoken of last night in order to keep his open, prone muscle structure from being bared to the dangerous and disease-ridden world, Malik realised in the morning that he and Altaïr had underestimated the rate of growth his arm seemed to be progressing at. He awoke to Altaïr attempting and failing to subtly roll him over and peel the bloody mess of his arm from the sheets beneath him, swatting at flies as he did so.

He slurred a curse at the insects and swatted at them lazily, hissing in pain when Altaïr lay his forearm over his chest and eased the fabric away from it's place stuck to his elbow with a layer of coagulated and quickly drying blood.

“Good morning, Malik.” Altaïr mumbled as he brushed another fly from his messy arm and took up a wet cloth in hand. “It seems I will have to buy you a new robe after this.”

“One without blood stains?”

“One with two sleeves.” Altaïr gave him a knowing look as he gingerly pressed the cloth over the exposed muscle, which unnervingly jumped at the contact. Malik could feel it. He stared at the limb with mild surprise.

“I can do that.” He said, avoiding Altaïr's comment and holding out his right hand for the cloth.

“No, you can eat. I brought you your breakfast.” Malik glanced to his right. Falafel and pita with hummus. He shifted himself up into a slouched position against the pillows and wall and hit a fly away from the sesame-based dip before sluggishly beginning to eat, wincing when the cloth was pressed down too hard.

“...I didn't realise that...I mean-Have you always-” Altaïr took a deep breath and composed himself, “What did you ask the Piece of Eden?”

Malik's chewing slowed significantly, and then stopped, and he sniffed before swallowing thickly and coughing to clear his throat. “It was a fleeting thought, that's all. But the Piece of Eden latched onto it and wouldn't let it go.”

Altaïr washed the cloth of the blood it had collected. And watched Malik's face carefully. “You think about it often?”

“It's hard not to, Altaïr.”

Altaïr was dead silent when he manoeuvred Malik's arm and wiped from the armpit to elbow, fresh deep red muscle losing it's layer of blood. Meanwhile Malik pressed falafel into his mouth and sucked hummus from his fingers, stomach happy to receive food after the lack of it yesterday.

A hand strayed from the skinless flesh of his arm to his shoulder and squeezed briefly, blooming a heat and ache in Malik's chest in just the right amounts to coax out a smile around the pad of his thumb, teeth scraping over calloused flesh.

Altaïr finished cleaning Malik's arm in peace and quiet, careful of the muscle inching from elbow to wrist and mindful of the flaky divide between skin and no skin, where layers could fall away in an instant. By the time he was finished the water in the bowl was stained a brownish red and the cloth shared the same fate. Malik had polished off his food and flexed the bared muscles gingerly and cautiously, watching with fascination the way the flesh contracted and stretched.

“Within days you should be able to use it.” Altaïr said quietly as he too shared the simple joys of watching the new arm move and exist.

Malik grunted his agreement, pulling the limb up so that it would not lie on the bloody robes beneath him. He swatted at another fly. “How do we keep it up?”

“Tired?”

“The muscles are barely formed. They're tiny.” Malik gestured to them to prove his point. In comparison to most of the men in Masyaf and his right arm, the arm was a twig.

Altaïr smirked, a challenging glint to his eye. “Then we will have to train them.” Malik's stomach leapt at the thought, his heart beginning to pound faster at only the thought of being able to climb with ease once more, hold two blades at once, even wield a hidden blade. He broke into a grin at the thought, a softer expression flitting over Altaïr's features.

“Maria has gone to training and Yusef is being cared for by the wet-nurses in the gardens.” He let his hand rest suggestively on Malik's thigh. “We're alone.” Malik cast him a rather disapproving look. But he couldn't deny that the thought was tempting.

“Should she be swinging around a sword in the sun when she is pregnant?” He asked, pretending to ignore the hand smoothing up the blanket on his leg.

“Malik.” Altaïr said pointedly, and slid his hand higher up, closer to his groin.

“What are going it do to keep my arm up?” Malik said in the same pointed tone, attempting to stave off the blatant approach. Though Maria was not close it was still too close to their bed for his liking. He already felt as if he were intruding on their domestic lifestyle by staying in the nursery. Seeing Altaïr in situations he otherwise would not be privy to.

Altaïr sighed and squeezed the well formed thigh beneath his hand, bowing his head. “I suppose we could suspend it.”

“How would we manage that?”

Altaïr shrugged. “There might be a hook somewhere on the ceiling.”

They both searched the unlit and dirty stone above them for signs of something they could hook a tether of rope onto. There weren't any. But a long beam crossed from one wall to another, thick and sturdy.

One rope, two almost-falls, a dust shower, a bloody arm an half an hour later and Malik's arm was strung up by the wrist, dangling oddly, and he wiped the flesh of it's new layer of mess.

“Thank you.” He muttered, wringing out the cloth before returning it to his sticky limb. “Shouldn't you be leaving now? I'm quite sure that there is a mountain of paperwork for you to do. People to debrief. The usual Grand Master affair.”

Altaïr sighed heavily and dragged a cushion in from the bedroom, throwing it to the floor for him to sit on. “Until your guard gets here, no. I will not leave you unattended.” He stared transfixed as Malik carefully stroked the cloth on the inside of his elbow. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Not like the bones.” He lay the cloth to rest and leant back in his bed, stretching his legs restlessly.

“Good. Hopefully this means that the skin will be painless.”

“Here's hoping.”

This is creepy and wonderful at the same time and having done some research for skinning people (don't ask me why, I promise I'm not psychotic) just thinking about Malik with NO SKIN on his arm really freaks me out and I'm just totally floored and amazed I'm not turned off by this since usually I am.

Yeah. it's definitely a creepy thought, eh? I just couldn't have Malik regain an arm easily; that would be too kind on the man!

"Boring"? Nonsense! This is my lucky day/night/day! XD Of course it would take me so long to comment on Part 2 that you release more, but I'm not complaining.

Ooooh, where to begin. Well first of all, I'm completely grossed out by the description of Malik's arm but I love it. It's fascinating (in a weird way) and I'm a pansy when it comes to blood anyway, but it seemed very realistic to imagine it growing back this way instead of just *poof!* and then arm.

I also love how you're handling Altair/Maria along with Altair/Malik. It is just hitting all my buttons right now so I've very much looking forward to more. <3

I'll admit that I'm having way too much fun putting Malik through the painful experience of regrowing an arm, layer by layer.

Oh, good! I know that it seems to be more popular either having them all together or having Maria out of the picture, but I just couldn't see it that way...
Also, yet another way to torture Malik ahoy!!

Speaking of torture, by de-anoning you've put me in the cruel position of knowing which fills you're working on, and so I'm forced to decide whether to hope an update for this will come next, or an update for the Apple shenanigans. :< I want both!

Don't worry, both will be updated rather soon, I should hope.

Re: FILL [3.b/?]

(Anonymous) - 2011-06-17 13:32 (UTC) - Expand

It wasn't painless. In fact – Malik surmised as the paper thin layer dried and cracked and then peeled away yet again – it was agonising. He gnashed his teeth and growled again.

Maria had long left the room, Yusef held firmly to her bosom as she fled in search of help. Since the crack of dawn Malik had been cursing violently and dosing himself on hashish. His mind was sluggish, but he could still point out that when in air his skin was too dry and flaked away before truly covering well, and when submerged in water in would come off in slippery sheets. The painful process of growth would start all over again. Luckily it was quick. Very quick. In the three hours Malik had been awake he had managed to cover his arm in a thin sheet of skin to about his elbow 15 times before everything went pear-shaped.

Rauf, ex-weapons master and a trusted friend, after staring in absolute shock for the most part of an hour, now sat in the room with him administering the oil when needed, keeping a tabs on the growth of Malik's skin and making sure he ate and drank through the haze in his mind.

“Again?” He asked, peering at the bare flesh as the skin began to inch down once more, heavily damaged and frayed at the edge. He picked up the knife by his side and sighed, running it over the flame he had lit a while ago for this purpose. Malik hissed and then whined as the other crowded close, picked the layer of skin away from his muscles and easily cut away the damaged skin.

“We have to do something, Malik.” Rauf sighed and discarded the skin into the pot with a rather squeamish wriggle, wiping his hand on a cloth and a look of distaste. Steadily strips of skin were drying against the clay and petrifying. They would probably have to throw it out. There was no use in a bowl made of skin than there was an arm without any.

Malik gave a mumble of agreement as he scooped up in his right hand some water and trickled it sloppily over the rim of his flesh, water seeping into the damp cloths he rested his bare arm on. The water provided less friction and did not stick to his muscle so quickly. Altaïr had had to cut his arm down when the muscle began to climb over the rope as if to turn it into a part of his wrist. The thought of having a ring of rope under his flesh made Malik shudder.

“If only it wasn't such a dry day.” Rauf continued and frowned heavily. “It seems the only moisture is in the river. Or when the wife is cooking.” Lazily he picked up the rag which he had cleaned his hands with and ran it over his blade, dropping it to the ground when done and making a sound of contemplation. Malik lay back with his eyes closed. The fuzz in his head prevented him from thinking of any solutions himself and gave him an increasing sense of hopelessness and exasperation. Rauf fiddled with the rag in hand, brow furrowed deeply and then rising. His mouth opened and then closed to thin his lips. He thoroughly thought out his plan with a mixture of animated facial expressions and the occasional sound. It seemed like it might be daft at first, but the more he thought about it the more sense it made. He grinned at the cloth in hands.

“Malik?”

The man in question cracked open an eye to look at Rauf, grunting.

“I don't suppose that you could rid yourself of that blanket, could you? I must gather some things. Do not worry, however. I will be back soon.” He scrambled to his feet and stretched lavishly.

“I don't worry. Just as long as I'm out of this bed sooner than later.” Malik grumbled into the air and kicked violently at the thin sheet encasing his legs. It was nowhere near as much exercise as he craved but possibly the best amount he was going to get for days. In the warm air Malik wiggled his toes appreciatively and looked down at his legs, covered by breeches. They lay still before him, mocking and buzzing with unused energy. He wanted to go out. He was sick of these walls, sick of this room, sick of this bed and sick of this arm. The Apple was a cruel and disgusting artefact and Altaïr would do good not to touch it. Ever.

Malik glared at the ceiling, which was too much of a common sight for him now, and taunted him with its familiarity and its boundaries. The first thing he was going to do when his arm was fully functioning was train like a novice as he approached his first tournament; furiously, chaotically and without break until he was exhausted. They usually learnt after their first bad experience. But Malik craved that all encompassing and almost agonising tiredness. Craved the boneless feeling that came with hours of rigorous training. The ache the next day or perhaps the day after that. And he craved the outdoors – oh the outdoors! – and fresh air and the breeze and the sight of trees and green instead of grey grey grey and blue blue blue through the tiny window.

But when Rauf reappeared it seemed that he wasn't going to have that for a long time. In fact he was going to have less of it, if that was at all possible.

And if you were wondering, yes, it was possible, as proven when Rauf set down the supplies he was carrying in his arms and went to the gaping window to pull the shutters closed and lock them before stuffing the alcove with sheets. Malik whined as the natural light disappeared. A chuckle brought his attention to the door, in which Altaïr stood carrying a pail of water, a pail of coal and the apparatus to hang a pot over an open fire for cooking.

“Are you going to cook me now?” He grumbled, still not fully comprehending what was happening. Altaïr chuckled again and shook his head as he knelt beside Malik's bedside. His eyes homed in on the skin creeping down Malik's arm and the pot of dead skin with a frown.

“Are you feeling well?”

“Fabulous.” Malik groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “I need to go out. I hate this room. I hate you. I hate the Piece of Eden.”

Rauf was making a racket with the coal, tipping it out into the floor and scraping rocks to make a pit.

“It won't be too long now...”

He was lying. It was actually quite some time until Malik could relax, if you could call what he was doing 'relaxing'.

First there was the chocking smoke which forced the men to reopen the windows to air out the room. Cue the painful removal of skin times three. Then the fire was too strong. Two more skin layers gone. Then it was smothered and smoky again. Goodbye to four sleeves. Then, finally, Altaïr hung a pail of water over the fire and they all waited patiently for it to boil.

Actually that bit's a lie. Rauf paced and cut even more skin from Malik's arm and Altaïr was so restless that he went to find Maria and set up a room for her in another wing so that she, Yusef and their unborn child weren't at risk from the heat. And Malik sweltered lying in his bed and became acutely aware that he reeked and was reminded that being stuck to bedsheets with your own sweat was definitely not an enjoyable experience. By the time the water had begun to bubble and steam Malik was well and truly fed up.

“Finally.” Rauf sighed, and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing the beads of sweat that had gathered there and soaked the wispy hairs by his temples. Malik gave a groan as, with a sting, the sleeve on his arm tore again. It was cut from him with a resigned whimper. “The steam will fill the room and before you know it you will be much better. That arm of yours will be as good as knew.”

“Excellent.” Altaïr had re-entered the room and was dragging his hood off, sweat already shining on his skin. “You can go now. I will watch over him.”

“I'm hungry.” Malik grumbled as Rauf stood and sluggishly moved to collect his things.

“And have someone bring up food from the kitchens.”

Malik thanked God, or some other variety of deity, and then cursed the fabric wrapped around his legs for being too thick and heavy in the heat and sticking to the sensitive skin behind his knees and on the sides of his thighs.

Rauf left as quickly as the stifling room would allow him as Altaïr stripped himself down, his face clearly showing his displeasure towards the dense hot air as he panted a little for breath.

“It's too hot.” Malik grouched and shifted in his bedroll, skin peeling away from drenched sheets before having to make contact again. “And I smell.”

“When your arm is complete, Malik, you can bathe.” Altaïr said patiently as he folded himself against the wall and blessed it for retaining some semblance of cool temperature.

“And show it off to the world?”

“If that is what you want, then yes.”

There was a long pause as Malik mulled over the idea of revealing his arm to the brotherhood. Would they all react as Rauf had? Or perhaps they would do differently? Shy away or poke and prod? Would they feel more comfortable around him now that he was whole?

When his arm was first removed and he made his first journey beyond his sick bed wherein he was thought to most likely die, he had been treated like the plague. It was a shame, a deep shame. The brotherhood, which he had thought to have been so accepting of all people should they hold the same ideals and goal, was now shunning him. He moved to Jerusalem and away from the staring eyes – eyes that he had known and had trusted – to stranger's gazes as soon as his wounds would allow him. Would he receive the same treatment, or would it be completely different?

How often did one lose an arm and live to tell the tale?

How often did one grow that arm back in the space of days? A week?

It was a miracle. The Apple had, once again, created a miracle.

He stared at his growing limb with an analytical eye, managing to trace the path of veins that stood outside the muscle mass, and a thought came to him through the haze of his mind as that skin visibly covered more and more of his arm.

“I did not pine for my arm, Altaïr. I just thought of it in passing when holding the Piece of Eden.” He looked up and rested his head back against the stiff pillows, watching the man pressed to the wall as it slowly gained a layer of condensation.

A glimmer in his lover's eyes told him that Altaïr was listening despite his lack of movement or sound.

“I felt plenty whole and plenty capable without it.”

“But you still wanted it.” I was a statement, not a question, and Malik did not nod his head because that would create a fold in his neck where the sweat would stick and his hair would soak itself further.

“I wanted to feel like and equal.” He admitted to the ceiling, tearing away his eyes. There was no reply. For a long time they sat in silence, the skin of Malik's arm finally passing the point it usually broke at and continuing past his elbow undamaged. The door was knocked and Altaïr answered it to accept the rice and new pail of water handed to him. They ate in silence and topped up the water as it boiled away. And then as Malik pressed into his mouth a final scoop of rice Altaïr smiled and strapped on his hidden blade.

“You have better start training soon if you wish to beat me.” He said, a smile concealed in the corners of his mouth and challenge sparking vibrantly in his eyes.

*

By the evening the skin on Malik's arm had ripped twice but reached over his hand and was coating his thumb, working its way towards his fingers. Malik still itched with unused energy and he kicked his restless legs in place, occasionally snarling at them in frustration and working in a flurry of movement before calming again and dropping them back to the straw mattress. He watched Altaïr with a mixture of envy and hunger.

Altaïr had taken to training to pass the time. He had openly considered paperwork, though the papyrus would be hard to work with in the moist air and who would want to be hunched over in a tight and small ball when heat surrounded them so suffocatingly? The thought of working on the Apple had worked its way into his mind, but the thought of taking the artefact close to Malik had felt wrong and he no longer entertained it. So he trained with his hidden blade strapped to his arm, sword and sheath at his hip, dagger in its holster on his back. And he was bare but for the weapons and his loincloth.

He stabbed at the air mercilessly and Malik eyed the strain of his legs with barely contained excitement. The hashish in his system made him boneless but for his ever-moving legs.

With a twist Altaïr swept a blade up through the air in a graceful arc, flipped it in his grasp, and brought it down quickly and violently. The muscles in his arm bulged, his chest expanded and contracted with his breathing, his washboard stomach tensed and quivered. Even his legs tightened and bunched with the movement. Want stormed over Malik again, and this had been going on for hours. And yet, somewhere in his addled mind, there was still a reminder that the man before him slept with Maria only next door, that this was the room in which Yusef, his son, was born and nursed and that it would be wrong for them to indulge in any of the activities that sprung to mind when he watched Altaïr bend over slightly and the loincloth barely cover anything at all.

He swallowed thickly as his breeches seemed to tighten once more and he willed again that it leave. But this one seemed stubborn. After what had to have been over an hour of watching Altaïr train and denying himself even the full fantasies of what he could do it was about time that he got his comeuppance.

Skelegrow, AltMal

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