phew oh gosh, okay i'm still working on this; i had a small snag deciding where i was going to go with this story--but i have some parts in mind, and an ending, and it's looking like it's going to end up a bit long--i'm hoping to go through the entirety of getting the apple, etc, at the end, with maybe some epilogue-type snippets to finish it off--but that's mostly me chattering. on to the next part! cute preening-help! (also don't be fooled by the happy now; there's more bumps on the horizon--i still have to fill the 'wanting to remove the wings entirety' part) ---
The next day has Malik sending him off to check the pigeon coops where the birds used by the Order flock; Altair wonders if they will react poorly to his unfamiliarity or his new... state--and they do. Just not in the manner that he expects; the birds cower at his approach, sit as silent and as still as he's ever seen them, huddled in the back of their holes like so many mice. Removing messages from them is no hard task, even with his bulky robes (and it cannot be a hard task, for Malik, with one less arm than he possess, can manage it, do it every day, or several times a day), and Altair drops back down into the Bureau with a small bag filled with rolled parchment.
Malik is standing at the counter, cutting feathers for quills; on second glance, the feathers he's using are very familiar, and Altair asks as he sets the bag down, "Are those mine?"
The Dai gives him a flat sort of look and replies with, "You certainly didn't seem to have use of them anymore, as you left them scattered all over the cushions," which makes Altair scowl.
"That still does not mean that they are yours to use!"
"Then inform me before you lose them next time." Malik punctuates the statement with the knife he's using, chopping off the end of the feather weighed down in front of him.
Altair eyeballs the blade warily, then gives it up as a lost cause, retreating back to the courtyard. Malik can have his messages and his feathers; Altair isn't going to risk his neck fighting with him over them. There are easier battles to be had.
For that matter, Altair needs to begin collecting information--Majd's funeral is in half a week now, and solidifying his plan of action concerning his target needs to begin soon, wings or no.
Altair spreads them at the thought, shaking out the feathers, and then grimaces at the feeling; it's still strange. For all that he's accepted their existence (for the moment) and the futility of attempting to wish them away (for the moment), getting used to them being there is a work in progress. But, again, his mission does not wait for him, and he must begin where he left off.
He furls them again, adjusts his robes, and calls out to Malik, "If I were to hunt for information on Robert de Sable, where would I begin?"
"What is the point, if you intend to intercept him at the funeral?"
"In case things do not go to plan at it."
"What's that: a glimmer of foresight from you?" There was a pause, then, "Hunt for where his entourage rests at night. That is the only advice I may offer."
"Very well. I'll go listen then."
"Be careful! I do not want the streets to be full of words of an eagle brought down by steel. Such rumors only cause trouble for the rest of us."
Altair smirks to himself at the warning before clambering back out through the lattice.
---
That day bears no fruit, and Altair begins the next day with sword exercises; the flow and ebb of battle is returning to him, finally. It's still too slow for Altair's taste, but at least it is progress.
He's sweaty afterwards, flexes his shoulders as he ducks his head underneath the water in the fountain, then hisses at the feeling of feathers sticking to his skin. He twists his head to stare at his wings, twists further to see at his back, then sighs, grumbling to himself. He can't wash feathers, right? It doesn't work that way, if he can remember correctly. That's why eagles don't swim.
Right?
Hmmm.
Malik scuffs his foot as he comes out into the courtyard, and raises an eyebrow at him as Altair glances at him; he looks away after a moment and rolls his shoulders, feeling his wings attempt to flex before the feathers get too tacky and fail to separate. He hisses in annoyance at the sensation; just as he was starting to get used to the feelings of wings, he runs into this.
"Have you been preening?"
Altair's head snaps back to Malik at that, brow furrowed; the Dai shrugs at him in response.
"It's a fair question. You do know about preening, yes? What birds do with their feathers?"
Silence stretches between them, and Malik sighs at the sheepish sort of expression on Altair's face. "I had figured as much." He pushes off of the frame, gestures for the Assassin to sit down. "Pick a wing; I will help you with the other."
Altair considers resisting for a moment, before sheathing his sword and sitting, plopping down on the cushions next to the fountain; Malik sits himself behind him, and Altair feels his hand pull and open his wing, tugging it out so he can reach.
Fingers begin easing through his feathers, teasing out loose ones and bits of down, rearranging and aligning them comfortably; Altair resists the sudden urge to twitter at the pleasant sensation, the cessation of the discomfort that he'd been aware of but unable to pinpoint enough to alleviate--he blames being unfamiliar with his new appendages.
"Do you intend for me to do all the work, lazy novice?"
He jerks back into awareness, hisses and grumbles at Malik, before unfurling his other wing and bending it forward to comb his fingers through his feathers as well, attempting to imitate the motions Malik is making; he tosses the down and small feathers away from himself carelessly, rubs his fingers together at one point, peering at the powdery substance covering the tips. It does a fair job of absorbing the moisture from his exercising, clumps and falls away with each comb of his fingers, each swipe covering the feather once again with more powder, which eases the itch and discomfort.
Altair works his way up from the longest feathers back, attempts to reach further before jerking to a halt, arrested by the still-healing arrow injury on his upper arm; he growls in frustration, strains against it, before the back of Malik's hand impacts with the back of his skull, and he yelps.
"Wh--"
"Leave it alone; I can reach it. Collect the feathers you dropped instead."
He pulls Altair's wing back, buries his fingers in, and Altair collects the feathers that he can reach, puts it in a small pile before him, all the down and small ones, and Malik remarks as he rearranges, "With all the feathers that you leave around, I could stuff two more cushions."
Altair feels Malik's fingers skate over a patch where he'd torn out the feathers by the handful in the days after his waking again; they slow but do not stop, and Altair appreciates the lack of verbal acknowledgement, knowing that Malik had passed by more on the other wing. The Dai just rearranges his feathers over the empty space, skates his fingertips over the faint, rough stubble of where the feathers will grow back in, before pulling away and standing to dunk his hand into the fountain, rinsing away the powder that his efforts have gathered; Altair spreads his wings, ruffles the feathers to make them stand on-end, fluffing them up, rattles them, before folding them again.
"Better?"
"Better."
Malik collects the dropped feathers into a corner of his robe, holds it out for Altair's pile, and retreats into in the interior room of the Bureau again, calling back to him, "We eat in an hour."
Altair resists the urge to smile, reveling instead in the soft, rather warm feeling of contentment that remained.
---
also, thank you OP; everyone's comments encourage me greatly! ;v;
you can't take the sky from me [6/?]
---
The next day has Malik sending him off to check the pigeon coops where the birds used by the Order flock; Altair wonders if they will react poorly to his unfamiliarity or his new... state--and they do. Just not in the manner that he expects; the birds cower at his approach, sit as silent and as still as he's ever seen them, huddled in the back of their holes like so many mice. Removing messages from them is no hard task, even with his bulky robes (and it cannot be a hard task, for Malik, with one less arm than he possess, can manage it, do it every day, or several times a day), and Altair drops back down into the Bureau with a small bag filled with rolled parchment.
Malik is standing at the counter, cutting feathers for quills; on second glance, the feathers he's using are very familiar, and Altair asks as he sets the bag down, "Are those mine?"
The Dai gives him a flat sort of look and replies with, "You certainly didn't seem to have use of them anymore, as you left them scattered all over the cushions," which makes Altair scowl.
"That still does not mean that they are yours to use!"
"Then inform me before you lose them next time." Malik punctuates the statement with the knife he's using, chopping off the end of the feather weighed down in front of him.
Altair eyeballs the blade warily, then gives it up as a lost cause, retreating back to the courtyard. Malik can have his messages and his feathers; Altair isn't going to risk his neck fighting with him over them. There are easier battles to be had.
For that matter, Altair needs to begin collecting information--Majd's funeral is in half a week now, and solidifying his plan of action concerning his target needs to begin soon, wings or no.
Altair spreads them at the thought, shaking out the feathers, and then grimaces at the feeling; it's still strange. For all that he's accepted their existence (for the moment) and the futility of attempting to wish them away (for the moment), getting used to them being there is a work in progress. But, again, his mission does not wait for him, and he must begin where he left off.
He furls them again, adjusts his robes, and calls out to Malik, "If I were to hunt for information on Robert de Sable, where would I begin?"
"What is the point, if you intend to intercept him at the funeral?"
"In case things do not go to plan at it."
"What's that: a glimmer of foresight from you?" There was a pause, then, "Hunt for where his entourage rests at night. That is the only advice I may offer."
"Very well. I'll go listen then."
"Be careful! I do not want the streets to be full of words of an eagle brought down by steel. Such rumors only cause trouble for the rest of us."
Altair smirks to himself at the warning before clambering back out through the lattice.
That day bears no fruit, and Altair begins the next day with sword exercises; the flow and ebb of battle is returning to him, finally. It's still too slow for Altair's taste, but at least it is progress.
He's sweaty afterwards, flexes his shoulders as he ducks his head underneath the water in the fountain, then hisses at the feeling of feathers sticking to his skin. He twists his head to stare at his wings, twists further to see at his back, then sighs, grumbling to himself. He can't wash feathers, right? It doesn't work that way, if he can remember correctly. That's why eagles don't swim.
Right?
Hmmm.
Malik scuffs his foot as he comes out into the courtyard, and raises an eyebrow at him as Altair glances at him; he looks away after a moment and rolls his shoulders, feeling his wings attempt to flex before the feathers get too tacky and fail to separate. He hisses in annoyance at the sensation; just as he was starting to get used to the feelings of wings, he runs into this.
"Have you been preening?"
Altair's head snaps back to Malik at that, brow furrowed; the Dai shrugs at him in response.
"It's a fair question. You do know about preening, yes? What birds do with their feathers?"
Silence stretches between them, and Malik sighs at the sheepish sort of expression on Altair's face. "I had figured as much." He pushes off of the frame, gestures for the Assassin to sit down. "Pick a wing; I will help you with the other."
Altair considers resisting for a moment, before sheathing his sword and sitting, plopping down on the cushions next to the fountain; Malik sits himself behind him, and Altair feels his hand pull and open his wing, tugging it out so he can reach.
Fingers begin easing through his feathers, teasing out loose ones and bits of down, rearranging and aligning them comfortably; Altair resists the sudden urge to twitter at the pleasant sensation, the cessation of the discomfort that he'd been aware of but unable to pinpoint enough to alleviate--he blames being unfamiliar with his new appendages.
"Do you intend for me to do all the work, lazy novice?"
He jerks back into awareness, hisses and grumbles at Malik, before unfurling his other wing and bending it forward to comb his fingers through his feathers as well, attempting to imitate the motions Malik is making; he tosses the down and small feathers away from himself carelessly, rubs his fingers together at one point, peering at the powdery substance covering the tips. It does a fair job of absorbing the moisture from his exercising, clumps and falls away with each comb of his fingers, each swipe covering the feather once again with more powder, which eases the itch and discomfort.
Altair works his way up from the longest feathers back, attempts to reach further before jerking to a halt, arrested by the still-healing arrow injury on his upper arm; he growls in frustration, strains against it, before the back of Malik's hand impacts with the back of his skull, and he yelps.
"Wh--"
"Leave it alone; I can reach it. Collect the feathers you dropped instead."
He pulls Altair's wing back, buries his fingers in, and Altair collects the feathers that he can reach, puts it in a small pile before him, all the down and small ones, and Malik remarks as he rearranges, "With all the feathers that you leave around, I could stuff two more cushions."
Altair feels Malik's fingers skate over a patch where he'd torn out the feathers by the handful in the days after his waking again; they slow but do not stop, and Altair appreciates the lack of verbal acknowledgement, knowing that Malik had passed by more on the other wing. The Dai just rearranges his feathers over the empty space, skates his fingertips over the faint, rough stubble of where the feathers will grow back in, before pulling away and standing to dunk his hand into the fountain, rinsing away the powder that his efforts have gathered; Altair spreads his wings, ruffles the feathers to make them stand on-end, fluffing them up, rattles them, before folding them again.
"Better?"
"Better."
Malik collects the dropped feathers into a corner of his robe, holds it out for Altair's pile, and retreats into in the interior room of the Bureau again, calling back to him, "We eat in an hour."
Altair resists the urge to smile, reveling instead in the soft, rather warm feeling of contentment that remained.
---
also, thank you OP; everyone's comments encourage me greatly! ;v;