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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Part 1
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Altair & Malik as kids
(Anonymous) 2013-01-17 07:43 pm (UTC)(link)ANON LOVES OP
(Anonymous) 2013-01-17 11:05 pm (UTC)(link)Dammit I want to do this but I have so many other commitments...
I will definitely write something for this, though. If other writer!anons want to join in, please go ahead!
Altair/Malik: Tastes Like Sharp Steel (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-18 06:35 pm (UTC)(link)“Have you done it?“
Altair looked up from the whetstone, at Malik first, then at his dagger. There was still a slight dent on the sharp side where it met stone today. He’d forgotten to polish it, too. The other kids washed theirs when they were swimming in the river, but he never went.
“Done what?” Altair asked. With a few quick steps, Malik was next to him and sat, his scrawny legs folded under him. A bit of dried blood clung to his lip. “What’s that from?” Altair said, not waiting for the answer to his first question. He pointed at Malik’s face.
Raising his hand, the other boy frowned. “Oh. Abbas got me with his wooden sword.”
“You must be faster. He has much longer legs than you,” Altair said. Cool wind came in through the window. The brown linen of his shirt was rough as he pulled it against his body. “And you can’t bite it or you’ll open it again.”
“I’m not biting it.”
“You are too. You always do.”
“Shut up. Let me finish,” Malik said. “Have you kissed anyone?”
“Oh, that.” Altair rolled his eyes. Really hard. Ahmet did that when they started squabbling, right before he would force them all to run three laps in the inner courtyard, up and down the stairs. Altair now copied it since he wanted to make sure to show Malik he wasn’t that childish.
He didn’t even know who had started it. Probably brother Imen and sister Raniya since they were always holding hands under the table at meals. They were older, though, Imen ten and Raniya eleven. But suddenly everyone wanted to kiss.
“No.”
“Don’t you want to?”
When Malik moved, the dagger pushed under the leather cord around his hip flashed in the lamplight. The edge was thin and smooth.
“I think it’s silly,” Altair said, lifting his chin. But Malik’s dagger soon recaptured his interest.
“Why doesn’t mine look like that?”
Malik shrugged his bony shoulders. “You’re doing the sharpening wrong.”
“Show me.”
With a gesture, Malik bade Altair to lean his knife back on the whetstone. He put his hand on top of Altair’s, pressing it against the cold steel so it was at a low angle to the hard surface, not quite flush against it.
“Have you kissed anyone?” Altair asked, suddenly, and didn’t really know why. Malik looked up and lifted his hand again.
“Sameer said that Widad wants to kiss me. I think that is gross, though. I do not know her at all.”
“Do you have to know someone to kiss them?”
“I suppose. In the village, aside from family, they just kiss friends and who they’re married to.”
Altair nodded his head, slowly. It made sense.
“I kiss Kadar, but I don’t think that counts. He’s my brother.”
“And he’s a baby,” Altair agreed as Malik’s pressure on his hand increased again. Kadar was three years old and seen from Altair’s ripe old age of seven, that was way too young to be a suitable partner for a real kiss the way the novices did it now. Everyone kissed babies, after all, especially cute ones like Kadar.
There was another cold gust of wind, ruffling Malik’s hair. It was getting too long and Ahmet would surely get on his case to cut it soon. He had little curls when his hair was that length, though, and Altair thought that was nice.
Malik’s thin spider fingers curled around his own. “Don’t pull it back and forth. Always go in one direction.”
Their hands moved together to the hard, raspy sound of steel against stone, their shoulders pressing close. Altair gave him a glance.
“We could kiss,” he decided, adding all information in his head: “We’re not related and we know each other.”
Altair/Malik: Tastes Like Sharp Steel (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-18 06:46 pm (UTC)(link)Altair straightened up and looked at Malik very gravely. The other boy stared straight at him. His lips were slightly parted, but he seemed just as hesitant as Altair. They sat for a few long seconds in serene silence. Finally, Altair brought his head forward, accidentally knocking their teeth together.
They staid like this, though, mouth pressed to mouth. It was kind of wet. He felt Malik’s breath on his face. His mouth was half open, so Altair tried to push his tongue in the way some kids did, though he hadn’t seen two men do that, ever. It was even stranger now because he could actually taste that Malik had bitten his lip even as they talked because there was blood in his mouth. Malik’s tongue pushed back, trying to get him out, or perhaps do the same to Altair in revenge. Then Malik snickered and drew away.
“It’s weird.”
Altair nodded, relieved and a bit perplexed at adults and their strange ways, not for the first time in his life. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grabbed the handle of his dagger once more, sucking at his own tongue to get metallic taste of his first kiss off it. Now he could say he had done it if anyone asked. And it wasn’t so bad with Malik. Strange, but not gross.
“The blade is too flat against the whetstone,” Altair commented, looking back down on his dagger, his mind jumping to the next task, now that this one was accomplished.
“Not, it’s not. It has to be so that you can just barely put your finger under it. Else you’re making it more blunt instead of sharper.”
Altair opened his mouth to protest, but he didn’t, then. His friend was usually right when it came to blades.
“How do you know?”
“I asked Haidar who makes the weapons, for when I get to fight with a real sword.”
Altair glanced at Malik’s thin arm. “You won’t be a good sword fighter. You’re too small, and too slight beside. Ahmet says you should work on your throwing knives more.”
“Can too! I will grow!”
“Sure you will.”
Malik gave him a dark look. Just when he was about to yell, Altair leaned forward kissed him again, just briefly pushing their lips together. Then he laughed at Malik’s disgusted expression. He jumped up before the other could swat at him.
“Come, let’s go to the sleeping chambers or Mahir will scream at us again. You’ll help me sharpen my dagger tomorrow.”
“I won’t help you at all anymore,” Malik said as he got to his bare feet and ran after Altair, out of the room and down the stone stairs; but Altair just smiled because he knew Malik always would.
Not OP
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 03:10 am (UTC)(link)Not!OP
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 06:28 pm (UTC)(link)This is OP!
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 06:48 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Altair/Malik: Tastes Like Sharp Steel (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 09:44 pm (UTC)(link)Eternity in the Hands (1)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 12:04 am (UTC)(link)Abbun / Umma = Father / Mother
Abbuni / Ummi = My Father / My Mother
Abu __ = Father of __ (Used as a title)
Sayyid = Sir
~ x ~
When Altair and Malik first met, they were far too young to walk and had to be carried on the shoulders of their fathers. Umar and his friend Faheem Al-Sayf were strolling the gardens of Masyaf, as was their habit on lazy afternoons without much to do. This time, however, the two assassins decided to bring their sons out for some fresh air and sightseeing. Secretly they both wanted to brag about their own sons to each other, but they hid it well under a guise of mutual appreciation.
As the heat of the dry season encroached upon Masyaf with long and tenacious limbs, the glossy leaves of the shrubs and bushes were powdered with white dust. Sour orange trees from northeastern Iran paraded their fruit which swayed back and forth, tempting. It was a moment to be bottled and kept in a box.
“Your son will be a fine assassin,” said Umar to Faheem, who only laughed. Faheem’s son Malik was straddling his neck and gripping his father’s short cropped hair with an unnaturally strong grip. He pressed his chubby little feet onto his father’s chest like he was spurring on a horse. Altair, on the other hand, balanced himself on his father’s shoulders miraculously with both his hands jammed into his mouth. He stared with distracted wonder at all the colors and smells around him, and looked everywhere but at Malik.
“Your son will be better,” Faheem countered, though both men knew that it was only out of politeness.
“And to think… in a few years’ time they will become recruits, if Allah wills, then initiates… then in the blink of an eye, they’ll be killing men.”
The two assassins paused, thinking on this weighty idea. Malik hiccupped and a thin string of saliva dropped from his lips down to Faheem’s nose. Umar saw this and burst into laughter, making Altair jolt up and down on his shoulders. Faheem also laughed, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand and rolling his eyes. Altair, however, was jarred by the laughter which he did not understand. No, only he could make his father laugh! This was not fair! He finally looked at the other boy who was at the moment staring directly at him, so smugly.
Altair took his hands out of his mouth, shiny with his own saliva, and reached out. He touched Malik’s chubby face with his own chubby hand. Then he poked him in the eye and Malik shrieked and Faheem was shouting and all of a sudden his world was turned upside down and Umar was admonishing him and he was being hit on the bottom but at the same time Umar was smiling and so he didn’t understand-
Malik’s first impression of Altair was not very good. Altair did not very much like Malik either, since he could make Umar laugh and only Altair was allowed to do that.
~ x ~
Three years later, Altair and Malik were old enough to run and tumble, and spent every wondrous day exploring Masyaf’s fortress and garden. They, sometimes accompanied by Abbas, found all the hidden crannies and unused rooms and made up elaborate stories to explain their existence. They found hidden treasures wherever they went… like that snapped branch under a bush in the garden that was surely Moses’ own stick! Altair and Abbas made good friends, but since Umar and Faheem were often together, so Altair and Malik made fast friends naturally as well. Well, they were friend-rivals actually, just like their fathers. Today Altair and Malik were sitting in the garden courtyard, ignoring all the beautiful women fluttering about in their silks. They were mirages, colourful things to look at but they had no significance to the young boys. They were by the stone fountain, sitting quietly and waiting for their fathers’ meetings to adjourn so they could go home and have dinner.
Altair was always the more introverted one, who was content with listening to the water’s bubbling and occupied himself with sensory pleasures. Malik, however, became immensely bored very quickly and needed to find some attention or surely he would die!
“Abbuni says I came from ummi's belly.”
Altair was scratching the image of a bird onto the stone with a wet stick when he heard this, and he only shrugged. “That’s not possible. Your father is lying.”
Malik stopped picking at the reed he’d found on the ground and gasped- “what!”
“My father,” the other boy explained with all the pride in the world, “says he built me out of the earth and soil. And my father is stronger than yours so he must be right.”
Horrified by Altair’s blatant disrespect for his father, Malik ran at Altair screaming and knocked him to the ground. The two boys fought and wrestled and bit at each other until Umar and Faheem came across them- “Ay! Altair! Malik! Stop this!”
Both boys’ limbs went dumb and they separated shyly from each other, almost sheepishly. “Sorry, abbun,” said Altair very softly, but his endearing act was not about to work on Umar today. He’d just come out of a secret meeting with Faheem, Al Mualim, and the other key members of the Order. Disturbances in the Seljuk and Ayyubid empires called on their forces- there were more men to kill, and missions would resume immediately. Umar and Faheem were about to leave their sons for days at a time, and so it would not do to have them fight against each other!
Normally they were too busy to deal with these tantrums and left the boys to scuff it out and make up as children always did. But this time Umar looked to Faheem and a silent agreement was made. He squatted so that he was at eye level with Altair and Malik, and asked them very gently what was happening.
“I said I came from my mother's belly,” Malik piped up, to which Altair immediately cut in, “and I said he was lying because you told me, abbun, that you made me from the earth.”
Faheem shifted on his feet, torn. Umar turned his head and their eyes met- Faheem’s was apologetic. Poor Umar, whose wife died at childbirth. Poor Altair, who never knew his mother! Of course it made perfect sense that Umar would dismiss the role of the woman altogether when explaining his origin from Altair. Trying to take the focus off the fact that Altair had no mother’s belly to speak of, Faheem tried to get at the root of the issue. “Alright, so why were the two of you fighting?”
His son pointed at Umar’s son. “He said Abbu Altair was stronger than you so he must be right and I got angry because… because you’re my father and you’re strong too.”
Ah. Faheem covered his mouth with his hand, stunned that Altair had said such a thing. Children normally parroted their parents, so did this mean Umar secretly had little respect for him? Was Umar talking about Faheem’s weaknesses when left in the company of his son?
“That’s not very nice,” Umar berated his boy, “and I will have you know that my friend Faheem is as strong, if not stronger, than I!”
“Yes abbun,” Altair surrendered cleanly, a perfect picture of demureness in his father’s presence. He turned to Faheem and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Abu Malik. And Malik, too, I’m sorry.”
Faheem cleared his throat with some difficulty, and touched Malik`s head. “So what will you say to that?”
“I accept your apology,” Malik said, and then saw that his father was not pleased and quickly corrected himself- “I- I’m sorry too.”
“Good!” breathed Umar, and rose to leave until the boys again stopped him.
“Wait! Then… who is right? Where did we come from?”
The two master assassins stared at each other and balked- they didn’t want to talk to their children about such a topic at such a young age. Quickly, some other myth had to be found. “Oh, I know.” Faheem rubbed his hands together, then clapped to get the boys’ attention. “Both of you heard right, but you both heard incomplete pieces of the same story.” Umar shot him a terrified look, but Faheem continued, “see…Allah created every moving thing from water. He fashioned men out of clay, produced you from the earth like a vegetable growth. That, Altair, is what you heard.”
Catching on that Faheem was reciting the verses of the Qur’an, Umar reluctantly presented what Faheem was hinting at. “And Malik, after Allah fashioned you out of clay, he made you in the belly of your mother, in darkness.”
Malik almost got it, according to the halfway enlightened look on his face. “So… he baked me in my mother? Like bread in an oven?”
“Yes!” Faheem cried with overdone joy, “you’ve got it, my boy! Good! I am proud! Now come with me and let’s go home…” He gripped Malik’s hand and nearly dragged him away from the earth shattering explosion he knew was just moments away… He looked back just once, shooting his friend Umar an apologetic glance before he continued on his way, son in tow.
Umar was beginning to sweat. Altair’s mind was working, his little jaw chewing on the thought before spitting it back out again- “but… where is my mother?”
“I…” the assassin stumbled over his words, “your mother gave all she had for you, and she is with Allah now in Heaven.”
“Do you miss her?”
His heart clenched. Tears welled up in Umar’s eyes; tears which would never be shed. He took a deep breath- yes, yes he missed his wife dearly. He loved her to love’s extreme, almost as much as he loved Allah. But to his son, he would not relay his suffering. “No, Altair. To miss her means to want her here with me, and she is happier where she is now in Heaven.” He would give anything to have her back.
“Okay,” said Altair. “Then if she is happy, I won’t miss her either.”
Umar dropped to his knees and drew Altair into the tightest embrace he’d ever given. He didn’t care about appearances at this point- if some concubine saw him and laughed, then so be it! Altair squirmed against his broad chest before awkwardly embracing him back as best as he was able with his lanky arms. Umar loved this boy with his vast honey-brown eyes, so unimaginably wise at his wee age. “Oh Altair,” he cried, his voice breaking and that first tear breaking the dam of his eyelids for the first time in years. “You are the light of my life.”
~ x ~
Eternity in the Hands (2)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 12:11 am (UTC)(link)Another three years later, and Umar could no longer keep Altair in the house. The children lived in houses in the village, as did the assassins’ wives, and they went to school at the Fortress. Later they would all go to live there once they came of age and became initiates. Altair often went to play at Malik’s house because Malik’s mother had a baby in her, and Altair had never seen anything like it. After his classes (learning to read and write, mostly), Umar allowed Altair to go play at Malik’s house, and sometimes Malik came to play at their house. Most often than not, all three were together at Abbas’ house where they pulled all sorts of shenanigans and tricks. Abbas’ house was closer to the market, which provided a healthy and constantly rotating number of specimens for the boys to test out their latest prank. Malik’s house had his mother Fatimah, who had such enormous culinary talent that Umar imagined Faheem stole her straight out of some Emperor’s kitchen. There was nothing at Altair’s house except a master assassin who was not very funny, nor was he a good cook, nor was he a very patient teacher.
Sometimes Umar genuinely believed he failed as a father. He was in his yard swinging his sword at a practice dummy when he heard Malik’s shrill voice carrying over his fence, “Abu Altair! Abu Altair!” As he’d come to expect the constant interruptions, Umar sheathed his sword and crossed his arms over his chest while Malik tumbled into his yard. Abbas followed soon after, and both of them heaved for breath. They looked ridiculous- Malik was wearing some sort of white lungi shift that he might have made himself, especially looking at the way it dangled off his thin frame. Abbas was bare-chested and was only in his underwear. The most ridiculous part of it all was that they were both wearing turbans too big for either of them…
“Malik, Abbas,” Umar growled low on his throat, “did you steal from the market stalls?”
“I- I…” Malik wrung his hands and looked to Abbas, who shrugged and would not meet his eyes.
“Where is my son?”
“I don’t know!” Abbas cried, “we lost him!”
Umar roared like a lion, and both boys nearly soiled themselves. “What do you mean, you lost him?” To show how angry he was, he put his hand on the hilt of his sword as if to draw it and slice the boys’ heads off!
Immediately Malik and Abbas began speaking simultaneously over each other, denouncing each other’s claims and arguing differing points. Umar watched this with a sense of quiet amazement and a fair amount of amusement. He was not really angry. Altair was not actually lost. In fact, Altair came home half an hour ago because he was hungry, and had ate and was currently napping somewhere. Umar took this as an opportunity to teach the boys an important life lesson.
“Allah took Altair because you stole wares from honest merchants,” he told them, and watched Malik nearly fall over in fear.
“Will Allah hurt him?” He whispered, to which Umar only shook his head very slowly.
“Allah in His unfathomable Mercy will not harm Altair, but he will only give Altair back if you return what you have stolen.” He patted Malik’s head with his left hand, and then set his right hand on Abbas’ crown. “Both of you.”
The two boys stammered, “w-we will!” and ran off with blinding speed back towards to markets, jumping over fences and nearly bumping into passer-bys as they went. They were a mini dervish hitting the markets of Masyaf, dodging frightened chickens and ducking out of the way of rattling oxcarts. Finally they found the stall from which they’d stolen their clothes, and realized if they gave back their clothes they would return almost completely naked. They thought it would be fun at first to take off their own clothes and put on these garments on sale, and then walk away like they were adults. But now they were back and their old clothes were nowhere to be found!
“I don’t want to go home naked,” Abbas complained, biting his lip and making a big fuss out of himself.
Malik did not want to be naked either, but he thought of Altair being lost somewhere because of him and his eyes welled up. “I want Altair back!”
“But we’d be naked! My abbun says it is bad to be naked…”
“Altair!” Malik shouted at Abbas, “I want Altair back!” And with that, he stripped the lungi off of himself and walked up to the stand, completely naked. The vendor, who was drawing on a pipe and not paying attention, balked when this small boy came forward with a piece of his wares in his hand. The pipe fell from his mouth and dropped into his long and bushy beard, spilling a bit of white ash into it. “Ay!” he cried when Malik dragged the lungi from the ground onto his sales table, “Ay! Where did you get that!?”
“I stole it,” Malik stated bravely, “and if I give it back Allah will give me back my friend.” He reached towards his head, and then his tiny eyes widened. “No… the turban!” It must have fallen off!
“I have it,” another voice came forth, and- O Allah, it was another naked boy. The vendor shut his eyes very tightly and opened them back up again, but the two boys were still there. Some of the marketgoers had stopped to stare at the odd sight, and the vendor was keen on not making a scene. It appeared quite obvious from afar that the vendor was bullying these poor street urchin boys into giving up their only pieces of clothing! What sacrilege, and the judgment was clear as day in the scowls on the onlookers’ faces. The vendor panicked and frankly told the boys they could keep the lungi and the two turbans for all he cared.
Malik and Abbas returned to Umar’s house dejected and confused. They found the master assassin resting under a tree in his yard, and told him what had just happened.
Umar waited until they had finished before he started grinning in earnest. “Then why are the two of you naked?”
“We gave the clothes to that poor woman that lives outside the gate of the fortress,” Malik said, looking down at the ground. Abbas kept shooting disgusted glares at him, and then finally he could not contain himself.
“Malik you idiot, what is she going to do with two turbans and a lungi?”
Hearing this, Malik’s demure attitude shifted immediately and he was fired up again. He attempted to swing a fist at Abbas. “Shut up you bum goat!”
“Both of you shut up!” came a muffled voice from above, and Malik and Abbas abruptly fell silent. “I’m trying to sleep!”
“…Altair?”
Umar smiled from ear to ear, and surreptitiously slipped back into the shade and relative calm of his house. Outside he heard the Malik and Abbas celebrating, shouting things like “Allah has delivered Altair back to us! Altair fell from the sky and landed in a tree! Praise be to Allah! God is Great! Allahu Akbhar!”
Altair peeked out from between the foliage in the trees and honestly had no clue what was going on, but he enjoyed being the center of attention so he said nothing. After a while he noticed Abbas and Malik were naked, and asked them if they’d in fact stolen from that old vendor.
“Yes,” Malik admitted, blushing red to his ears. “And Allah took you away because we did, so we gave it back.” He smiled brightly at Altair, opening his arms wide as if he wanted to embrace him. “So now you are here! We saved you, Altair!”
“Well…” Altair’s face disappeared back behind a thick layer of glossy leaves and reappeared again. “Allah has something for you as well.” He dropped then all the pieces of clothing belonging to Malik and Abbas originally. While Malik and Abbas were busy stealing from the vendor’s stand, Altair took their clothes so they would not get dirty on the ground. Then he got hungry and headed home in a daze, forgetting that he was still holding onto the clothes until he got home. He had hoped Malik and Abbas would not be angry…
“Aie!” Malik and Abbas both caught their clothes like they were blessings from heaven. “Allahu Akbhar! God is Great! He has given us Altair and our clothes back!”
From inside the house, Umar shook his head in wonder. From that day on, his yard would be considered holy by the three boys. They went on pretend pilgrimages to the tree where Altair apparently fell when Allah dropped him from the sky. They pretended they were Prophets and made elaborate speeches under the tree. They worshipped the tree like it was Moses’ bush, bringing it offerings. One time Malik even dragged his father Faheem to the supposed Holy Tree to show him where Altair fell. Malik suggested –no, he demanded- that his brother be born under this tree!
“Well,” Umar mused to Faheem, who was so confused and stunned that he could not keep his mouth closed, “it seems Abbas has got the market at his door, you’ve got a master chef in your kitchen, and I’ve got a Holy Tree in my yard.”
~ x ~
Eternity in the Hands (3)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 12:16 am (UTC)(link)After Umar was killed two years later, Faheem volunteered to take Altair into his household. His wife argued that their home was too full already- Kadar was taking a lot of space, and then there was Malik, who was a king in his own right. Altair would topple the precarious family dynamic they’d spent so many years perfecting- no, it was too dangerous.
So Malik sought out Altair in Al Mualim’s sitting room, all alone as always. Now not even Abbas shared his company- Altair shut everyone out completely like a scrim had fallen over his very spirit. They were only eleven years old. Malik heard the soft sobbing even in the hall, and his own stomach dropped.
“Altair?”
“Go away,” lamented the miserable voice behind the door, “and don’t come back!”
“It’s me, Malik!”
“I know who you were. Go play with someone else.”
“But… I’m not here to play.”
Slowly, the door opened. Altair’s eyes were red and his nose was puffy. He did not meet Malik’s gaze, just opened the door and drifted away. Al Mualim took over his care after Umar’s death, but it was clear to Malik nonetheless that his friend had neither ate nor slept properly since. The sitting room was a simple affair, with wooden footstools and a string hammock sharing the space with a simple table on which several scrawled-on pieces of parchment were scattered. Malik recognized it as their homework from yesterday’s history lesson. On the side of that was a tray holding a piece of bread and a bowl of curried beans, completely untouched. Seeing Malik’s frown, Altair sniffed and crossed his arms defensively. “I don’t want to hear your pity or your judgment.”
“Why haven’t you eaten anything?” Malik was not trying to feel superior- there was no sense of superiority or ego to be had in a situation as this. While they constantly fought and competed against each other at one time, now Malik was simply concerned for his friend. Now without his father at his side, Malik felt awkward and vulnerable.
Altair shrugged, “I didn’t like it.” He sat down at the table and picked up a quill, but he wasn’t motivated to write either. Despondent, he set down the quill again and sighed. “Malik, what am I going to do?”
And Malik really did not know what to do. He was eleven and did not know how to solve these sorts of problems. He was eleven, and had never known any boy like Altair, who’d suffered one devastating blow after another. But maybe… “Can I get you something?”
The other boy scoffed, “yeah. A cup of snow, maybe.”
“Okay.”
“What?” He dropped his quill and jumped out of his seat. “Malik! What-” but he was too late, and Malik was gone. “What are you going to do, Malik?!?” Altair yelled into the empty hall, “you don’t have enough money to buy snow! Don’t you understand sarcasm, idiot?”
But Malik did not understand sarcasm, and he was already hurtling his way down the halls, jumping off staircases, and running towards his house as fast as his legs could carry him. If a cup of ice was what Altair needed to cheer up, so be it! He was determined to somehow fill his friend’s request on his own, so when he arrived at home he was quiet so as not to wake his mother and brother from their afternoon naps. In a chest under his cot was a bit of money that he’d saved up over the years, whether by finding it in the streets or by receiving them as gifts. He only had a couple of silver and copper coins, but he hoped this would be enough. He dropped the coins in a muslin pouch and hopped off towards the market.
As he neared, he had to shout to make himself known to not be trampled by the goats, sheep, and cattle being driven to market. Carts loaded with timber and crates of chickens ruled the streets, but Malik nimbly picked his way towards the market’s trading centre where he knew the water vendors set up their stands. Masyaf was not a very rich place by any standards, but where there were people there was always thirst. Finding the merchant was not difficult- he was a slender man with a braided beard, sitting in the shade of a brilliant silk pavilion adorned with classical poetry in flowing calligraphy. He was perhaps the richest man here, and it was all from selling water. Jugs of it lined his stalls, and there among the various containers sat a great wooden box lined with jewels and lacquered to a polished shine. Snow.
The boy approached gracelessly, “Sayyid, sayyid!”
The vendor glanced down on Malik and then tried to ignore him. He was a man of business, and had greater things to attend to than some poor thirsty child. But Malik was insistent, and kept calling him and jumping around and making such a fuss that at last Imad had had enough- “what do you want?!” he cried, throwing up his hands in exasperation.
“Sayyid,” Malik began, taking out the pouch that hung at his waist and dumping all its contents on the table, “I have here some money for a cup of snow.”
Imad looked at the sparse number of coins on the table and scoffed. “You little maggot, that bit of coin won’t get you a cup of juice, nevermind snow.”
Devastation, sheer panic- a cold sweat broke out over the boy’s skin. Malik stammered, “what…”
Slowly and cruelly, Imad counted each coin. “Four fulus, copper coins, no longer in circulation… a silver dinar… That’s it. I can sell you a cup of water at this price… maybe with a bit of lemon or orange juice mixed in, but never snow.” He sat back on his seat and crossed his arms. “You’re out of luck, boy.”
“But but… I need snow… Please, sayyid, kind sir. Please have mercy.” Malik got down on his bare knees and prostrated himself in front of the vendor.
Imad jumped up and waved his hands- “no no no! Do not do this, stand up!” If there was one thing he hated, it was a child calling upon God for charity. He ran to the other side of the stand and helped Malik up, mindful of the slight scene the boy was causing. He ushered him back behind the stand, under the shade of the pavilion’s canopy, and asked him why he needed snow.
“Is it to impress a pretty girl?”
“No,” replied Malik, who was so desperate he was starting to tear up. He opened his mouth to speak, then considered his words: should he lie? Should he make up some elaborate story about a starving family and appeal to this man’s sense of charity? But no, there was no way to justify why he needed snow but to tell the truth. “My friend lost his mother when he was born, and now he’s lost his father. He’s all alone, sayyid, and all he wants is a cup of snow.”
The two statements did not seem to make sense to Imad. “Why does your friend want snow?”
“I- I don’t know… But he’s been so sad, it makes me sad. Sayyid, these coins are all I have.” Malik motioned to the pieces on the table. “Please, sir, just a cup of snow.”
Imad stroked his beard and considered the strange situation. “I could sell you a bit of snow if you’d come work for me. Do some labour, maybe.”
“What will you have me do?”
“What can you do?”
“I can read and write, I can…”
“Hold,” Imad put up his hand, “you can read? And write?”
“Yes, sayyid. I learned from my master in the fortress.”
His eyes went wide- “You are with the hashashin?”
Malik grinned widely and puffed up his chest, eager always to gloat. “I am son of Faheem Al-Sayf, master assassin!”
Imad froze in his seat, and then got up. He made his way straight towards the chest of snow at the back of his pavilion and undid the clasps. He took a brass goblet from the side and scooped a cup filled with pristine snow from a faraway mountain. “Here,” he held it out to Malik, who was so stunned he couldn’t move. “Take it and go, just leave.” He wanted nothing to do with the son of a master assassin! Bah, who would have known?
Malik thanked him profusely, “you are too kind, sayyid. Allah blesses you and I will tell my father about your charity!”
“No no no.” Imad pushed the goblet into Malik’s dirty hands and waved him away. “Don’t tell your father about me, just give this to your friend and let’s be done with it. Hurry, before it melts!”
So with the cup of snow in his hands, Malik ran as fast as he could towards Masyaf fortress. He had to take care not to bump into anyone on the way, but no matter how careful he was, the snow got less and less in the goblet. His hands were numb from holding it, but Malik was now so close! Malik screwed his eyes closed against the stinging in his hands and ran faster than he ever did before.
But by the time he reached Al Mualim’s sitting room, the goblet of snow was no more. What was originally a full cup of fluffy white snow had turned into barely half a cup of normal water. Devastation did not cover what Malik felt at that moment. He’d spent all his money and tried so hard… but… still he’d failed Altair. He stood there in front of that closed door, wondering how he could face his friend now. Was it better, then, to just turn around and walk away so no one would ever know of his failure?
Before he could make a choice, that door opened and Altair gasped- “Malik?” Altair was just about to go wander around the garden, hoping the beauty of the flowers there could overcome the bitterness inside. He was not expecting to see Malik standing outside his door with a cup of water in his hands. “What’s going on?”
“I… I got you a cup of snow, but…” his lower lip quivered. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Altair chortled good-naturedly, “you lie.” He was flattered that Malik tried to make him feel better, though. He never pinned Malik as the sort of friend who really did care, and definitely not to this extent.
But the other boy did not laugh in return. He was solemn, and appeared utterly desolate. “No, I really… I really got the snow…”
Altair reached for the goblet and Malik passed it on. It was freezing cold! “Malik, you…” He held the cup in wonder, admiring the beautiful engraving on it- Persian designs. This cup belonged to the water vendor in the market. And it was so cold… colder than anything Altair had ever felt, even colder than that pan Umar accidentally set out that night in the winter. There was no doubt in his mind now that the clear water in this cup had once been snow. “How did you…? Malik, did you steal this?”
Affronted that his friend would accuse him of stealing, Malik shook his head violently. “No! I gave him all the coins I saved up and the vendor was charitable… so I guess it was enough.” He was ready for a cutting remark, maybe a jab on his failure, so Malik was definitely not expecting Altair to come barrelling into him. With the cup still in his hand, Altair wrapped both arms tight around Malik’s frame and squeezed.
“Oh Malik, thank you thank you thank you.”
“I… you…” Malik couldn’t breathe, and it was not just because of the tight embrace. He felt a splatter of hot liquid on his neck where Altair rested his chin. Eventually Malik convinced his arms to move and they wound their way up Altair’s back. His nose, too, began to sting and it wasn’t long before Malik was also shedding silent tears. It had been weeks, but Altair was still in deep mourning over the death of his father. Malik, on the other hand, was stunned since Altair never showed such a physical display of affection towards him. If it were anyone else, Malik would have pushed them away and made fun of them, but for Altair to do this was like hearing Al Mualim tell a joke. A melancholic joy took over Malik, and he squeezed back.
“It’s okay, Altair. You’ll be alright.”
Altair pulled away and pressed a kiss to Malik’s cheek, which made the other boy blush all the way up to his hairline. “Do you want to drink this with me?” he swirled the cup of melted snow.
“Okay.”
They shared the drink, two sips each. It was completely anti-climactic to see the water that had brought them together suddenly go away so quickly. But in the end, it was not the snow that was important, but rather the binding friendship the act of bringing it had sealed.
Malik took the first step. “Come to my house for supper?” He reached out his hand.
Altair smiled shyly and agreed. He took Malik’s hand and then yelped- “Ay! Cold!”
~ x ~
Eternity in the Hands (4) [End]
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 12:23 am (UTC)(link)When Altair and Malik first met, they were far too young to walk and had to be carried on the shoulders of their fathers. By the time they became recruits, they were twelve years old and neither of them had fathers to carry them. They lived in Masyaf’s fortress and trained there- weapons, geography, warfare, ideology, language, maths and sciences… Nothing was barred to the young men except perhaps friendship.
The recruits held their heads down and worked to carve their own daggers out of horn and wood. Their instructor watched over them, ensuring that each boy knew the procedure proper. These weapons were not to be used for assassination of course, but simply to teach the boys to respect their real blades which they would get years later. These would be practice blades for training. “Who is your best friend, Altair? Me or Abbas?”
“You.”
“That simple?”
“Yes. Abbas hates me now, you know that. You are all I have.” Not once did Altair even look up from his work. “Who is your best friend? Me or Kadar?”
“Kadar is my brother! Obviously I like you more.”
Their muffled chuckles drew the attention of their instructor, who shouted at them to be quiet. Altair made a low whistling sound. Malik sniffled to show he was listening. Altair whispered, “you want to go explore the fortress dungeon afterwards? While I was locked up there with Abbas I found a secret passageway.”
“Is Abbas coming?” Malik mouthed back.
“Not asking him. What about Kadar and Amad?”
“Not asking any of them.” The message was clear. “Let’s go to the village after and find the Holy Tree in your yard, too.”
The memory sparked a light in Altair’s eyes, and he nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
The boys, now nearly young men, smiled conspiratorially at each other and turned away as soon as they felt their instructor’s gaze on them. For now, they looked on the half-formed and mutilated daggers in their laps and felt as though they had all the time in the world. If forever had a form, it would be a brass goblet. Altair and Malik decided to keep the goblet. They had wrapped it up in cloth and stowed it away in a secret cache in Al Mualim’s sitting room. It was the only place where it could be safe, since those of the Order could keep no possessions. It was their secret. And as long as they knew it was there, they held eternity in their hands.
~ x ~
About ten years later, the Grand Master of the Assassin Order delivered a gift to the Dai of Jerusalem. Malik undid the pouch with nimble but impatient fingers, and promptly erupted into tears. He reached in and held eternity in his one remaining hand and cried and cried and cried. How silly. When he woke up this morning, he would not have guessed something so absurd such as this could befall upon him. By this one moment, his calm and collected morning was ruined, as was the promise of a blissfully uneventful day.
“Will you come to Masyaf and be my advisor?” Altair lowered his eyes out of respect at the blatant display of raw emotion. He had expected something like this. That goblet was a relic of yesterday, of a time when they were young and aimless and stupid with all the hopes and dreams of the world. Altair had a similar reaction when he came across it while clearing out Al Mualim’s old sitting room.
“W-what about Abdul? Or Sarim?” Malik wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve, overcome with both joy and profound nostalgia. He’d forgotten all about this goblet. They were no longer children. They stood on their own two feet (even though one of them had but one arm), and knew exactly how they were put on this earth. Now the question was not “how was I born?” but “how will I die?” and “why am I here?”. Now after all the trials Altair and Malik had endured, this worthless piece of brass was absolutely everything. Malik was going to treasure it forever, but for now… “Abdul a-and Sarim are certainly more capable t-than I.”
Altair only smiled sweetly and offered Malik a kerchief on which to blow his nose. “Not asking any of them. Let’s go to the village after and find the Holy Tree in my yard, too.”
The adjacent memories slammed into Malik like a punch to the face. He was torn between the need to cry harder and the overwhelming desire to laugh.
“Okay,” he said, taking the cloth and wiping away the liquid remnants of yesterday. “Let’s do it.”
~ x ~
End
~ x ~
I'd appreciate any thoughts or feedback. I wanted to show pieces of Altair and Malik's childhood, whether it be funny or embarrassing or just plain deep. And a lot of people forget that they had parents at one point, so I sort of wanted to bring them out too. I didn't include any slashy implications at all like the other writer!anon did (even though slash is totally my thing hehe), and hopefully OP still likes. :)
Anon 1
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 05:46 am (UTC)(link)Anyway, this is really cute. <3 I love how it ties into their adult life in the end.
Re: Eternity in the Hands (4) [End]
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 09:00 pm (UTC)(link)This is beautiful.
Re: Eternity in the Hands (4) [End]
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 10:24 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Eternity in the Hands (4) [End]