Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.6
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≈ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

≈ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

≈ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

≈ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

≈ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

≈ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

≈ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
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Sequel Part 1

[(Anonymous)]

Damn character limit. Fair warning: I lost control of this story about one quarter in. Sorry.

The map stolen from de Sablé’s room indicates the castle is somewhere south of Damascus. Now that he knows where he is, he could go back directly to Masyaf. Al Mualim should be told of his escape as soon as possible.

He’ll stop by Damascus before. It will lengthen his trip, but in the end it will lessen his burden.

The Templars haven’t given chase. Altaïr was probably too far by the time his disappearance was noticed. It might also be that they couldn’t find him; he used less traveled paths rather than the main roads.

Entering Damascus isn’t difficult, but walking its streets is. Being a lone omega is risky; most don’t dare. The robes the Assassins wear are designed for subtlety, for blending in, but when every gust of wind carries his scent, he can’t help but attract the attention of merchants and workers who wouldn’t give him a second glance otherwise. Guards are worse. Most of them are alphas, and they’re used to people surrendering to them. The roofs are far easier.

If the Rafiq of Damascus is surprised to see him drop through his roof, he hides it behind his usual demeanor: “Altaïr! How nice to see you, friend! I should have known stories of your demise were greatly exaggerated. The great Altaïr would not fall under a couple of Templars’ swords. What bring you to my bureau?” The smoke coming from the burning incense, flowing through the air, only masks his scent from afar; as Altaïr reaches him, he catches on. His face falls a little, becomes serious; it’s the face of someone who won’t ask but knows much. “I shall have what you need in a few hours.” Rafiq are aware of their city’s underbelly like no one else. Suppressants won’t be hard to find for him. “Do you require any other treatment?”

“No, I am fine. Do not worry.”

“Stay here, friend. Rest until I return.”

He does. The pillows he lies on, the smoke reaching every corner of the room, the sun hitting his face; everything is familiar and safe. He falls asleep easily.

________________

The trip back to Masyaf is smoother. He procures a horse and uses the main road. He revels in his restored anonymity, to the observer just one more beta in an ocean of others, nothing to be concerned about.

He’s recognized when he reaches the outskirts of the town. His absence was remarked, his return even more so. People lower their voices when he passes. They share glances. They don’t talk to him, nor should they. Altaïr must report to Al Mualim before anything else.

Rauf hails him. “Altaïr! You’ve returned! We thought you dead.”

“I am still alive, but I must talk to the Master.”

“Yes, of course.” Rauf wants to say more, but this isn’t the time and they both know it.

Altaïr spots Abbas and evades him. He has no patience for his insults and insinuations today.

He’s quickly ushered to the Mentor’s side as soon as he enters the Fortress. Al Mualim rarely lets his emotions on display, but his evident concern warms Altaïr. It reminds him that not every alpha is an enemy.

He can’t lie to Al Mualim. He lets clinical words describe what happened to him without lingering on it. Al Mualim deplores Robert de Sablé’s continued existence, but never as much as Altaïr himself. He updates him on the Solomon’s Temple mission: Malik and Kadar both safe, the Apple theirs. A weight he hadn’t been conscious of disappears. The mission was a success. It wasn’t in vain. He almost stumbles as the tension leaves him. Al Mualim notices and releases him to his rest, but not without ordering him to visit Salim immediately.

It isn’t a visit he wants to make, but he would never skip it.

He thanks the Mentor and departs to find Salim’s workshop. He enters the room, where Salim is currently mixing a remedy or another. There is no one else. At least in this he is lucky. “Salim, a word.”

The healer jumps, so focused he missed his arrival. A smile appears on his face when he recognizes him. “Altaïr! You’re alive!”

“Yes, but this isn’t a courtesy call.”

Salim frowns. “What is it? Where you tortured? Where are the wounds? Show me!”

“No, I am healthy, but I’ll need... something else.”

Altaïr isn’t the first to come to Salim for such things, and he won’t be the last. He sighs and locks the room, usually left open. For Assassins, privacy isn’t a common luxury. “Tell me what happened.”

The second retelling, even curter than the first, isn’t easier. At the end, Salim knows what to do. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a splattering of herbs, with firm instructions about when to take them and how often, and a standing order to come back as soon as possible should they prove unsuccessful at preventing the pregnancy.

Altaïr doubts it will be necessary. Salim is a master of his craft.

He leaves the workshop, the herbs safely kept in a pouch next to the rest of the suppressants, intend on finding his room. He’ll confront his brothers tomorrow.

He should have known he wouldn’t be given this choice. He spots Malik as soon as he crosses the threshold of his chamber, sitting on his chair like it’s his right. It comes back to him in a flash, the fantasies he’d entertained while under the heat’s hold, Malik taking him. He pushes everything aside. Altaïr can’t handle Malik right now. He’ll deflect. “Al Mualim told me you had been promoted. Congratulations on completing the mission.”

Malik startles. Whatever he was expecting Altaïr to say, this wasn’t it. He starts a sentence, stops, starts again. “Thank you.” The silence hangs between them. “I saw what you did. You saved Kadar. He’d be dead if you hadn’t shielded him. Even if your impatience caused the attack in the first place, I guess the Templars amply punished you for it.”

Altaïr feels himself tense. Malik shouldn’t know. There are no marks on him, Altaïr made sure of it.

It’s Malik’s expression that reveals the truth. There’s no judgement, no pity. Malik thinks he’s been incarcerated, maybe interrogated rather forcefully, but he looks fine and so he must be. Altaïr relaxes. This he can deal with. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. How is Kadar?”

“He’s well. He was worried about you. Make sure to visit him tomorrow.”

He’ll end up lashing at Malik if this continues. He always rubs him the wrong way. “Don’t order me around. You might have been promoted, but I still outrank you.”

Malik visibly restrains himself. “I can see you’re tired. I’m leaving for tonight, but don’t think this is the end of this.” He raises himself up, walk through the door, but turns before closing it. “Just take care of yourself, would you? Can’t have the great Master Assassin defeated by carelessness.”

“Yes, Malik, I will. Go.”

“Fine, fine, I’m leaving.” The door closes, rather more violently than it needs to.

Altaïr goes to bed in blessed solitude.

________________

The Fortress is oppressive. Altaïr has to deal with furtive glances, whispers following his steps, well-meaning friends commiserating. There is crass speculation, but nothing as bad as it would have been if he’s came back without suppressants. Speculation would have been replaced by certainty. He’d have been shunned, like his defilement could spread. Some have suffered it before. It is one of the risks of their business.

He’s respected. He came back suppressed and safe. His brothers and sisters will talk, but this is all they will do.

He finds Kadar in the garden, chatting with a few other omegas. They disperse once they see him, leaving the two of them alone, but they linger not too far from them. For all talk of equality, most high-ranked assassins are alphas, with a few betas here and there. Altaïr is the only Master Assassin in Masyaf who is also an omega. Many envy him his success or hope to emulate him.

Kadar embraces him with too much eagerness. “Altaïr! You really are safe! Brother told me so, but he can be obtuse sometimes. Thank you so much for saving me! I will repay this debt, I promise.” Altaïr lets Kadar prattle on. It’s soothing.

Seeing they won’t get anything special from him, the other omegas still hanging nearby leave. Kadar stops babbling as soon as they’re out of earshot. “What really happened, Altaïr? They did not manage to capture you and then throw you in a cell to rot until you ran.” Trust Kadar not to be fooled by the airs he puts on.

“They destroyed my suppressants.” Kadar won’t need to know more. It’s a possibility all omegas learn to live with.

“Did you kill them?”

“No.”

“Did you get Robert de Sablé?”

He waits a second too late before answering. Kadar catches on. “What is it? What did he do? Oh.” He leans on him and takes his hand, wordless gestures of solidarity. “He’ll pay. The Order is after him, it’s only a matter of time before another opportunity arises. We’ll succeed this time.” He says it with such conviction, Altaïr almost believes him to be capable of it.

“Don’t tell Malik.”

“I would never! He might take it upon himself to avenge your virtue.” Kadar speaks that sentence with all seriousness it deserves: while rolling his eyes, mimicking Malik’s self-righteousness with more enthusiasm than talent. “Maybe it would be the shock he’d need to start his courtship.” He instantly turns contrite. “I’m sorry; alphas probably are the last subject you’re interested in.”

He’d much prefer listening to Kadar rambling about his favorite unlikely theory that Malik and he are meant to be than facing his pity. “Don’t apologise. I’m fine.”

Kadar just gives him a look. He’s obviously not convinced. He squeezes his hand. “Just… tell me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

How weak he must look that Kadar, still almost a novice, believes he needs to be babied? “I don’t need your concern. Worry about yourself. You let yourself open back there. You need more training.”

Kadar allows the distraction. They don’t talk about it again.