Altaïr had been taken aback; Malik had seen that in the faintly furrowed brow and the almost-tilt of his head. Perhaps at the rejection, or perhaps it was simply that in his concentration on the Brotherhood and Masayaf and the Apple, the strange direction their relationship had taken had simply slipped his notice. He’d regarded Malik long and thoughtfully, then at last inclined his head and turned away from Malik’s door to return to his own room without argument.
Without agreement, either, and Altaïr had made it clear, quietly, that he did not agree with Malik’s choice even though he honored it. He did not push, would not enter beyond Malik’s door nor touch if Malik did not invite it. But neither would he leave unless asked to go, nor deliberately put distance between them. Wordless requests to be met half-way, free to be ignored unless the recipient wished to reciprocate, the same that they had always used between them. Malik put up more walls between them, ignoring the urge to reach back. Habit was the sixth sense that overrules the other five - and good sense, as well.
Malik did not trouble himself overmuch about Altaïr's silent disappointment, until a certain conversation he overheard among the younger novices.
“He truly is like an eagle!” a boy had exclaimed with that distinctive light in his face that always had Malik hiding a smirk when he realized that Altaïr had entranced another devotee. At least he no longer had to fear Altaïr’s swollen ego – that side of his friend had been lost beside Malik’s arm and Kadar, and buried with the corpses of al Mualim and the ten who had gone before him.
No, the boy’s near-worship of the new Master was no surprise to Malik. What came as a shock was the teasing when the others had noticed it.
“Give it up, Faruk,” one had snickered, although not unkindly. “The eagle’s eyes are on the sky, not a nest. Even the most beautiful maid in the Gardens hasn’t tempted him in.”
The boy had flushed brightly and laughed with the others, but where he sat unnoticed, listening, Malik had frowned. This, he had not heard of, and he found it… faintly troubling, for some reason.
And so – feeling, with some annoyance with himself, like he was behaving like the worst village gossip – he went to the Gardens, and sought out the head of the women.
Hanan had simply looked puzzled. “I had thought that you and he…?”
Malik had inexplicably flushed, feeling awkward and foolish and young, speaking of such things before a woman easily old enough to be his mother, even though Hanan had an agelessness to her that mocked the efforts of time, which only refined her beauty instead of diminishing it.
“Briefly,” he managed at last to admit. The well-being of the Brotherhood was Hanan’s duty – physical, spiritual, and mental alike. “But we were not… there was no… I ended it.”
Hanan frowned. “…that is not good to hear.”
“That he has no lover?” Malik had asked disbelievingly. “Surely…”
“Humans require human touch,” Hanan had replied, demure and implacable. “Leaders, in particular, because they are so easily isolated by their rank. Particularly those like our young Master, come to his position in such troubled times, so young, and still feeling he must prove himself after past mistakes.” She folded her hands, outwardly calm and demure, but with the faint frown that sent a jolt of reflexive fear through Malik’s face still in her eyes. “I had thought that the bond between you two would serve – not just for him, but yourself as well. You were too isolated in Jerusalem. I argued that you should not be sent so far after the loss of your brother, but al Mualim disagreed…” A sigh, for how they had all been to easily misled. “But if your bond is ultimately of a different nature… I must think on this.”
Malik had returned to his quarters, troubled in more ways than one. He had not thought in such terms, but Hanan was right. Altaïr never gave himself only partially to a task. When he took a duty on, he did so without holding any of himself back. He would lose himself to the Brotherhood so easily.
Lost Chance (2/5)
Without agreement, either, and Altaïr had made it clear, quietly, that he did not agree with Malik’s choice even though he honored it. He did not push, would not enter beyond Malik’s door nor touch if Malik did not invite it. But neither would he leave unless asked to go, nor deliberately put distance between them. Wordless requests to be met half-way, free to be ignored unless the recipient wished to reciprocate, the same that they had always used between them. Malik put up more walls between them, ignoring the urge to reach back. Habit was the sixth sense that overrules the other five - and good sense, as well.
Malik did not trouble himself overmuch about Altaïr's silent disappointment, until a certain conversation he overheard among the younger novices.
“He truly is like an eagle!” a boy had exclaimed with that distinctive light in his face that always had Malik hiding a smirk when he realized that Altaïr had entranced another devotee. At least he no longer had to fear Altaïr’s swollen ego – that side of his friend had been lost beside Malik’s arm and Kadar, and buried with the corpses of al Mualim and the ten who had gone before him.
No, the boy’s near-worship of the new Master was no surprise to Malik. What came as a shock was the teasing when the others had noticed it.
“Give it up, Faruk,” one had snickered, although not unkindly. “The eagle’s eyes are on the sky, not a nest. Even the most beautiful maid in the Gardens hasn’t tempted him in.”
The boy had flushed brightly and laughed with the others, but where he sat unnoticed, listening, Malik had frowned. This, he had not heard of, and he found it… faintly troubling, for some reason.
And so – feeling, with some annoyance with himself, like he was behaving like the worst village gossip – he went to the Gardens, and sought out the head of the women.
Hanan had simply looked puzzled. “I had thought that you and he…?”
Malik had inexplicably flushed, feeling awkward and foolish and young, speaking of such things before a woman easily old enough to be his mother, even though Hanan had an agelessness to her that mocked the efforts of time, which only refined her beauty instead of diminishing it.
“Briefly,” he managed at last to admit. The well-being of the Brotherhood was Hanan’s duty – physical, spiritual, and mental alike. “But we were not… there was no… I ended it.”
Hanan frowned. “…that is not good to hear.”
“That he has no lover?” Malik had asked disbelievingly. “Surely…”
“Humans require human touch,” Hanan had replied, demure and implacable. “Leaders, in particular, because they are so easily isolated by their rank. Particularly those like our young Master, come to his position in such troubled times, so young, and still feeling he must prove himself after past mistakes.” She folded her hands, outwardly calm and demure, but with the faint frown that sent a jolt of reflexive fear through Malik’s face still in her eyes. “I had thought that the bond between you two would serve – not just for him, but yourself as well. You were too isolated in Jerusalem. I argued that you should not be sent so far after the loss of your brother, but al Mualim disagreed…” A sigh, for how they had all been to easily misled. “But if your bond is ultimately of a different nature… I must think on this.”
Malik had returned to his quarters, troubled in more ways than one. He had not thought in such terms, but Hanan was right. Altaïr never gave himself only partially to a task. When he took a duty on, he did so without holding any of himself back. He would lose himself to the Brotherhood so easily.