Was this not a battle? Perhaps not a hunt as Malik had once known them, but a paired flight never the less, the two of them working together to preserve the Brotherhood.
And Altaïr had another opponent of his own, one that only he could fight. Malik still remembered the night when Altaïr had thrown himself out of the trance he used to gaze into the Apple, flinging the thing aside with such violence that Malik had dared to hope it might be dashed to pieces against the wall and trouble them no more. No such luck – and Altaïr had clung to him desperately that night, golden eyes seeing something in the darkness of which he would not speak to Malik, save to whisper, “The world was burning.”
Would Altaïr lose himself in that solitary battle against terrible knowledge and temptation? Was that how al Mualim had fallen? He’d driven himself so far to protecting the Brotherhood and humanity, he’d come to destroy it instead, forgetting even that he himself was human and fallible…
Malik would not leave his friend to fight that battle alone – even if all he could offer was a safe aerie where Altaïr could gather his strength for the next fray.
The decision was easy.
*** “Safety and peace, Brother,” Altaïr had said upon seeing him, tone measured and neutral as ever, to someone who couldn’t read the genuine warmth underneath that voice, the same that warmed the golden eyes ever so slightly when Malik murmured the greeting in return.
And now Malik stood back ever so slightly as Altaïr quietly murmured to his companion, and tried to understand why he felt so… taken aback. As though there were something missing.
Then he realized. He had come to meet Altaïr on his return from the long mission, knowing that this time, when his friend offered that silent invitation, he would extend his own in return.
But there had been no invitation. Nothing but the warmth due a close friend, though subtle as ever behind the Assassin’s mask.
Altaïr turned back to say something to Malik, and Malik saw it. Subtle – subtle even to the eyes of an Assassin, trained to read the least little hint of motion or posture for clues to the movement of a target or an extra scrap of information from an opponent. A faint hint, a sense of openness in Altaïr’s bearing. And as he watched, Malik saw Maria shift in like manner. The eyes of the pair did not meet, they did not touch – Altaïr’s attention was on Malik, Maria’s on the sights of the Assassin stronghold. But at a very deep level...
If I reached out, would you reach back?
Yes.
An awareness, of presence, of companionship - of intimacy. One that Malik himself had once shared with Altaïr.
It was the ideal solution. The eagle had chosen a mate, one that could fly and hunt and kill beside him. Better still, one who might perhaps someday bear him children, the new generation that, by Altaïr’s forceful demand, would be raised knowing the love of their parents as well as the burden of their bloodlines.
Hanan was delighted, and opened her gardens and wisdom to the former Templar – after, of course, she had thoroughly trounced the younger woman with daggers, proving that even the flowers of an Assassin’s Garden were deadly when they so chose, and would not tolerate the scorn of a woman who knew nothing of their ways. Others were far more leery of “de Sable’s woman,” sometimes openly.
Altaïr did not intervene on Maria’s behalf – she would, he noted dryly to Malik, hardly thank him for fighting her battles.
...and as they spoke, Altaïr pacing in his room as he idly tinkered with the gears of a broken Hidden Blade, Malik stood at the door – welcome within, but not invited. The chair where he’d drifted off to sleep so many times was there, but pushed back and out of the way; by unspoken understanding, their long meetings were now usually in the library and archives, Altaïr’s own room reserved as a place for privacy with his lover.
Lost Chance (3/5)
And Altaïr had another opponent of his own, one that only he could fight. Malik still remembered the night when Altaïr had thrown himself out of the trance he used to gaze into the Apple, flinging the thing aside with such violence that Malik had dared to hope it might be dashed to pieces against the wall and trouble them no more. No such luck – and Altaïr had clung to him desperately that night, golden eyes seeing something in the darkness of which he would not speak to Malik, save to whisper, “The world was burning.”
Would Altaïr lose himself in that solitary battle against terrible knowledge and temptation? Was that how al Mualim had fallen? He’d driven himself so far to protecting the Brotherhood and humanity, he’d come to destroy it instead, forgetting even that he himself was human and fallible…
Malik would not leave his friend to fight that battle alone – even if all he could offer was a safe aerie where Altaïr could gather his strength for the next fray.
The decision was easy.
***
“Safety and peace, Brother,” Altaïr had said upon seeing him, tone measured and neutral as ever, to someone who couldn’t read the genuine warmth underneath that voice, the same that warmed the golden eyes ever so slightly when Malik murmured the greeting in return.
And now Malik stood back ever so slightly as Altaïr quietly murmured to his companion, and tried to understand why he felt so… taken aback. As though there were something missing.
Then he realized. He had come to meet Altaïr on his return from the long mission, knowing that this time, when his friend offered that silent invitation, he would extend his own in return.
But there had been no invitation. Nothing but the warmth due a close friend, though subtle as ever behind the Assassin’s mask.
Altaïr turned back to say something to Malik, and Malik saw it. Subtle – subtle even to the eyes of an Assassin, trained to read the least little hint of motion or posture for clues to the movement of a target or an extra scrap of information from an opponent. A faint hint, a sense of openness in Altaïr’s bearing. And as he watched, Malik saw Maria shift in like manner. The eyes of the pair did not meet, they did not touch – Altaïr’s attention was on Malik, Maria’s on the sights of the Assassin stronghold. But at a very deep level...
If I reached out, would you reach back?
Yes.
An awareness, of presence, of companionship - of intimacy. One that Malik himself had once shared with Altaïr.
It was the ideal solution. The eagle had chosen a mate, one that could fly and hunt and kill beside him. Better still, one who might perhaps someday bear him children, the new generation that, by Altaïr’s forceful demand, would be raised knowing the love of their parents as well as the burden of their bloodlines.
Hanan was delighted, and opened her gardens and wisdom to the former Templar – after, of course, she had thoroughly trounced the younger woman with daggers, proving that even the flowers of an Assassin’s Garden were deadly when they so chose, and would not tolerate the scorn of a woman who knew nothing of their ways. Others were far more leery of “de Sable’s woman,” sometimes openly.
Altaïr did not intervene on Maria’s behalf – she would, he noted dryly to Malik, hardly thank him for fighting her battles.
...and as they spoke, Altaïr pacing in his room as he idly tinkered with the gears of a broken Hidden Blade, Malik stood at the door – welcome within, but not invited. The chair where he’d drifted off to sleep so many times was there, but pushed back and out of the way; by unspoken understanding, their long meetings were now usually in the library and archives, Altaïr’s own room reserved as a place for privacy with his lover.