asscreedkinkmeme ([personal profile] asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2009-12-26 11:46 pm
Entry tags:

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme
Fill Only

Welcome to the Animus 2.5

✠ 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!

List of Kinks
(Livejorunal) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
( Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only


(Anonymous) 2010-10-18 12:22 am (UTC)(link)
I looked at previous prompts, and I don't think I saw this prompt so... yeah, here I go /awkward
I had a dream, where after Solomon's temple, Malik did not escape the temple with the apple,
instead, Robert uses apple to brainwash Malik to think that Malik is a templar.
Obviously, Malik after being brainwashed, thinks it is Altair who killed Kadar, not Robert.

That... was about it, actually.
Whether this ends in Malik/Altair, Altair/Malik, 3P of Robert/Malik/Altair,
or even whether it ends in happy/sad is completely up to writer-anons!
I just wanted to see some guilty!Altair... And definitely Templar!Malik :3
Throwing random ideas out here! /runs away

oh shi--

(Anonymous) 2010-10-19 03:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Woah. That is awesome. Anon and anon are on this.

Re: Templar!Malik

(Anonymous) 2010-10-19 03:51 pm (UTC)(link)
O_o... This sounds awesome, but I totally don't have the writing skills for it. Though it does make me want to draw Templar!Malik... :3

Re: Templar!Malik

(Anonymous) 2010-10-19 08:56 pm (UTC)(link)
I dropped my soda... Holy crap. I thought of this once but never actually wrote anything for it, maybe I will now. Maybe! :3

Excited OP

(Anonymous) 2010-10-20 11:36 am (UTC)(link)
I'm so happy that many people like this prompt!
I thought this would get little to no response lol TuT
Btw, drawing, writing, anything is fine! Please have fun with it!<3

Re: Templar!Malik

(Anonymous) 2010-10-21 06:42 pm (UTC)(link)
Dear sweet god in heaven, somebody fill this.


(Anonymous) 2010-10-22 11:00 pm (UTC)(link)
Ok OP, possible art!fag here. Will Malik still have his left arm? IT'S AN IMPORTANT DETAIL. D: If I don't do anything, sorry to get your hopes up. XD

OP replies...

(Anonymous) 2010-10-22 11:07 pm (UTC)(link)
That... is a really good question lol
In my dream, he lost his arm, so... he only has one... arm...? /awkward shuffle
But again, I want people to go wild with this idea,
so anything you would like, you can do XDXD
Very excited for your art, art-anon! Even if you don't fill it, I'm just happy
that you enjoyed this prompt so much you considered filling. No worries! C:

Re: OP replies...

(Anonymous) 2010-10-24 07:58 pm (UTC)(link)
Ok, that's fine. I just needed to know if I start this. XD I think it's gonna happen. :D

Genesis [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:29 pm (UTC)(link)
It was in the brief moments of idleness, like stopping short in an armory, that he often felt a strange, creeping feeling in his gut, coiling and coiling around his thoughts like some silent, lengthy serpent. He was never sure where to place that feeling, since it usually came from something familiar, something that reminded him of before, at the fortress, with the assassins... This familiarity rose in him, and faded in mid flight, leaving him feeling... lost. He stood still, the air around him still, empty, his breath coming in slow, but not filling him like it should. He stood still and stood staring, searching his thoughts. What was he missing? What had he remembered and then... lost, like a band of smoke dissolving into the air at his fingertips as he reached for it. Smoke. Like at the fortress, at Masyaf, a little room where he studied, incense, his favorite scent in the air and a young man that came to visit him, spoke softly, hand at his shoulder, laughter-- That was it. That was what had gone, that was what he had lost, what had been taken, what had been torn from him, ripped from him like a bloodied piece, carried away in the beak of a bird--he remembered now, he remembered what he was there for, there, in the armory. He gave a sharp inhale, breaking silence, and allowed himself to move.

The leather of the sword hilt was cool in his hand and the feeling of his skin in the heavy chainmail was hot, too hot. But he realized it wasn't his skin, it was himself--he was burning, burnt, charred, a tended fire, he was smoldering with hate, it was all he could feel for days. He had never hated so much in his life but he hated, it was all he could do not to choke on each exhale of hate. hate. hate. It sparked burning embers like the light in his eyes. And that light pointed him to Altaïr, and at the very name on his lips, a murmur, a flare, a spark landing on flesh, he felt hate anew.

‘It was a sad thing,’ de Sable had said, when Malik confessed his hate, ‘that a man so dedicated to peace should feel so much hate’. The man's scared face was soft with pity, and Malik was sorry at the sight. 'But it can't be helped, can it? You loved your brother,’ he reminded him, and suggested that Malik should deal with his hate as swiftly as possible, so that he could return to peace, and bringing peace, like he swore and promised he would.

That day, Malik was told to stay back with the rest of the armed guard, told to stay at de Sable's double's side. But he didn't see the use in doing so. He knew Altaïr was prowling through the streets, after de Sable like he had been after every other ally he had murdered on his twisted path. If they knew, why should they stand around? Why wait? He did not understand de Sable's need for theatrics, and, in full armour (he didn't like it, but he could no longer travel in the cowl and robes), he broke away from the guard and took to the streets, even climbing when he could. He strode the rooftops, archers startled, but recognizing him. Altaïr would be here, Malik knew it. He would be led by the informants passing along the information the templar had planted (he neglected to tell de Sable about the informants, the Bureau--it wasn't their fault, they were innocent in their ignorance, they did not deserve the harsh punishment that could be brought to them if de Sable discovered them... and de Sable never asked of them anyway) and Altaïr would be sent right to the trap. But in the trap that the templar had crafted, there were men in there, comrades, and Altaïr would go down fighting in a struggle of blades and blood. Would it not be so much better to execute him alone? With no lives sacrificed? Not the lady Thrope, not her subordinates, no one had to die. Except Altaïr. And Malik could. Malik would kill him.

Genesis [2/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:31 pm (UTC)(link)
It had been several months since the incident at Solomon's temple, which ended in a complete and utter failure. Not only did Altaïr lose the artifact, but he lost two brothers that day--Malik and Kadar. Robert de Sablé tossed him aside with ease, the path sealed off with collapsed rubble, preventing him from assisting in battle. Try as he might, he could not lift the hefty stones, so he sped toward Masyaf with his head hung, tail between his legs in defeat. No sight or word has come of the status of the brothers; Altaïr can only assume that the worst has occurred, both dead. The humiliation and guilt were almost too much to bear, his pride dashed into as many pieces as the stars set above in the sky. As punishment for his grave error, Al-Mualim had tasked him with the deaths of nine men, Robert's head one of them. It was here again, in Jerusalem, that he will face and end the Templar's life once and for all. Scouring throughout the old city proved to be useful and Altaïr learned of the funeral of the Regent that Robert was to attend, a peace offering between Templar and Saracen, fostering mutual cooperation. Stalking up to the cemetery, he lay in wait within the gathering crowd for the opportune moment to strike.

Something about the whole ceremony seemed... off, even from the start. Why would two groups who have fought so violently against one another suddenly team up? What was the true purpose of the Templars' presence? With each assassination carried out, the men parted with final words upon their lips, their message implying a greater purpose, one greater than he and themselves. And as the numbers lessened, Altaïr's doubts grew and asking the Master left him with more questions than answers. It was imperative that the Assassins reclaimed the so-called Piece of Eden, his Master told him, so that peace could reign throughout the Holy Land. How this old relic would obtain that goal, Altaïr hadn't the faintest clue. Armed guards from both factions lined the surrounding area of the cemetery; there was no short of archers upon roofs or footmen on the ground. In all likelihood, he was surrounded, a dot of blue in a sea of red. There, near the priest heading the procession stood Robert, his attire unmistakable. Using all of the techniques of blending he had learned, he melted away into the crowd while he listened in, eyeing the event from a short distance; he was but another of the many monks attending, white robes glowing in the hot afternoon sun. When Robert turned to whisper into the ears of the priest, he knew something was wrong-- a trap! He had been set up! They knew he was here and they mean to strike him down at this very spot.

Malik's eyes scanned the crowds below him. He remembered the Creed, and knew Altaïr still lived by a mockery of it--as he pleased, though he happily tossed it aside to kill innocents, Kadar--!, and the man hid within crowds, putting on the nonthreatening persona like a second skin. But Malik had the advantage--he knew what to look for, he knew how Altaïr moved. And right there, in the streets, with a sudden panic in his body--there he was. Malik moved almost before his thoughts caught up to him, he actually howled (in relief? in anger?) as he leapt off the edge of the building down to the street below.

Genesis [3/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:33 pm (UTC)(link)
Altaïr's head whipped around at the sound, full of rage--inhuman and intense--to watch as a lone Templar jumped from a building behind him. The man, dressed in a full suit of armor (and yet, missing an arm where the left should be), was running a straight line toward him, the anger coming off of him in waves, too focused on his prize (him) that he had no regard for anyone or anything around him, pushing and breaking his way through. Altaïr uttered a curse under his breath and began to move, making his way out of the gathering before setting out into a run. The plan was to cut a path through the district's numerous, deserted alleyways, hoping to break the line of sight from the enraged Templar. He thought he had blended thoroughly, a mere blade in the crowd, yet--this man saw through his disguise. How could he have known where, what to look for? Was there a traitor at hand? Several thoughts ran through his head as his legs carried him, Templar still hot at his heels. Once a suitable spot was found, he could face the other man and end his life, away from the aid of his fellow brothers. How much damage could one man, who was one-armed, no less, cause?

Malik breathed in the dust that the two of them tossed into the air, he coughed once, but did not slow, he was a predator; he did not let Altaïr leave his sights for an instant, even from within the awkward confines of his helmet. But Altaïr was still running, as if he could escape him. And there, for the first time outside of his violent fantasies, he spoke (screamed) at the man in front of him, "Turn around and face me, you wretched coward!" his voice was as rough and cruel as his howl, under the sweat and heat of the day, his hate was burning him to ashes.

The area was a shadowed alley with barely a soul around to witness the two men, save for a raving drunkard who fled at the first sight of trouble. Now was a good of a time as any to face his opponent, he supposed. Altaïr abruptly halted, the heels of his boots digging into the ground, kicking up dirt in their wake. He turned about, dropping into a fighting stance with practiced ease, sword unsheathed and waiting at his side. "Perhaps it was wrong of me to take pity upon a cripple. It is a wonder they let you into the Order at all," the words fell coolly from his tongue, a small corner of his mouth quirked upward. The fight should be an easy one, quick and painless.

Malik slowed as the other stopped, his breath noisy and echoing over his face in the helmet he wore. From exertion, yes, but also from rage. With a smooth movement, he drew his own blade, and slid into a stance almost mirroring the other's. "You dare speak to me like that?" he snarled, knuckles whitening around the hilt, "After all you've taken from me? After all you've done? You truly are a bastard among bastards,"

Altaïr was at first taken aback, the heated words dripping with venom off of every syllable. Not only that, but the stance was... familiar. Rage he could call his own began to well up when realization dawned upon him. "You are a Templar and furthermore, a traitor--death by my hands would be better than continuing with such a twisted existence." The tip of his sword raised, ready for battle.

He laughed without the faintest bit of amusement in the sound, "I, I am the traitor?" Malik’s heart pounded in his ears. How dare he, how dare he-- Altaïr was the one that broke the Creed, he was the one who murdered, he was the one who betrayed. It was a mockery, just to make him angry, and as he grit his teeth, he had no doubt it was working, "Enough of your foul words--today I'll see you dead in the streets, swine!" with that, he rushed at the other man, sword already swung in a wide arc of white, gleaming fury.
A bold opening made from the Templar, but it was simple in its execution and Altaïr easily sidestepped out of the downward path of the blade. He took a step back, circling around before feinting to the man's left side, his true aim the right.

Genesis [4/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:36 pm (UTC)(link)
Even with his vision hindered, he could see the other's attempt to misdirect his guard, and he returned with his own, following his movements before raising his blade to repel the strike. Through the fury in his core--he felt it, again, deep down--that feeling of loss. Why now? When peace was right in his hand? Why did he dwell on past sparring matches with the man, as if they were something he missed? Right now, they were only a means for him, to best this opponent--remembered weaknesses. Metal rang out against metal, the feint seen through and dispelled. Perhaps his opponent was quicker, more skilled than initially thought; it surprised him. Altaïr was usually not wrong in his assessment of others, but this man proved to be an exception, the second one ever in his life so far. The first was--Malik. But, he's gone, now. No longer working on missions together, sparring in the courtyard---Templars had murdered one of their best men. He must admit (if only to himself), even in the days where they were both novices, there were times where the older A-Sayf had bested him in the ring, and he was the only one brave (or stupid) enough to challenge him in the first place. The other novices were not worth the trouble--Altaïr was so lost in thought, memories from the past coming forth unbidden, anger and guilt surfacing as if Solomon had happened yesterday, that he did not fully notice the templar's next attack which drew first blood, a shallow cut to his side that stained his assassin whites a dark red. Blood hit the dusty ground in between their two forms, and a look of masked triumph appeared on the young man's face. Not so immortal, are you Altaïr? Malik muttered in his mind, his mouth too set in the battle to speak it out loud, you're more than capable of bleeding. Altaïr set his mouth into a thin line, forcing himself to concentrate. He swung the sword in a low sweep toward the Templar's thigh.
Pressing the momentary advantage he had, Malik put his sword low to lock with the other's, and lurched forward, sending his head straight towards Altaïr's.

Altaïr knew that the attack would be parried, but what he certainly did not expect was the head flying straight for his own, forehead and metal helm butting roughly before he could react and pull back far enough. Although he stood his ground, Altaïr was taken off-balance and it did not take much for him to tumble toward the ground, eyes wide in shock. He will not be defeated--not here, not now--not when Robert still had to die, pay for what he did--

"Pathetic--" Malik spat, his mouth twisted into a brutal smile. He took two steps back out of caution as his hand traveled to the helm over his head, "But if I am going to kill you--you will see my face as you die," A scramble, a rasp of hair and skin, and the metal helmet was flung rolling onto the streets.

Altaïr paled, sword faltering, then lowering. Impossible--it just couldn't be-- "Malik--" No, Malik was dead. Dead. "What sorcery is this?!" he yelled at the apparition. He pushed himself away from the figure with both hands. For the first time in his life, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was afraid.

That look on Altaïr's face made him flush with satisfaction. That fear, the way his constant cool demeanor had fallen away like so many dry leaves. He advanced on him, sword raised, sneer widening with each step. Did Kadar look up upon him with such a look? Was this how his brother met his end? Was Altaïr feeling a fraction of what he had felt? "Are you so frightened to see my face once more? Despite your best attempts, Altaïr, I won't die so easily,"

"You---you cannot be alive. We got separated in the Temple--you and Kadar alone with Robert--"

Genesis [5/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Malik seemed to visibly choke at Altaïr's words, the cruel smile gone from his face and replaced by something almost dangerously blank. He jerked his blade down, stabbing towards Altaïr's chest.

Altaïr scrambled backward, missing the blade by mere inches. He rose, standing on unsteady feet. There was a slight tremble to his voice when he next spoke. "The archway, it crumbled after I was tossed out--Do you not remember? I tried to find a way back, but-" Relief and guilt warred for dominance within himself and it showed within the subtle flickering of emotion across his face. He could not, would not fight Malik.

"Do not speak of him! Do not or I promise on my life your death will not be an easy one!" Malik shouted back, his throat scraping painfully on his words.

"...He did not make it, did he," His tone was somber, flat, leaving no question of who Altaïr talked about, ignoring Malik's warning completely. "And your arm, was that, too...?" He knew he was pushing it, but he had to know for his own sake. The incident and silence thereafter never gave him any closure, and it had been eating away at the back of his mind the entire time while completing his trials.

The blank look snapped in a thrash of movement, Malik's face twisting in grief and bloodlust. His eyes were stinging, and that made him ashamed. Altaïr’s taunts could still pierce him more than any blade. And so he charged the other, arm bent to try and pin him against the alley wall.

Altaïr dodged, following through with a defensive pose, frown etched into his face. His eyes, gold and sharp, reflected the turbulence within: sorrow, pity, relief, guilt. They were trained on Malik's face; it had only been a few months, yet it seemed as if time had already changed so much-

The ex assassin breathed through grit teeth, his hand clenching on the blade as he circled the other. That look on his face--Why was Altaïr looking at him like that? He was shaking with hate, his eyes stung even more, his every breath coming in a long shudder, "You--murdered--Kadar--Don't you dare act as though you have the right to speak his name!"

He choked, swallowing back the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. Was this what he meant earlier by 'taken'? How could he make such a grave error? Although, in a way, he did murder Kadar, if indirectly. His absence was the cause of this. After a moment, he was able to find his voice again, "Not by my blade--"

"I saw it with my own eyes" he lunged at Altaïr once again, voice rough and ragged even as he yelled, "I saw your very blade through him. For that I will end your life, and send you swiftly to whatever empty oblivion awaits you!"

Altaïr brought his own sword up, deflecting the blow. "You are mistaken. Who was it that was wielding it?" It was a wonder that their combined noise did not attract attention--too preoccupied with the funeral, it seems. He did not know how much longer he could last like this, constantly defending against unrelenting rage. "Remember, try to remember." Another parry. "What happened after I was shoved."

"D-damn you!" he spat, and returned another blow, "Be silent and die!"

"Is that truly what you wish?"

Malik felt like an empty firepit, all white ash that could be blown away with a puff of wind. The heat was there, faintly an afterglow, but in him remained a great, wide feeling of loneliness. He staggered after another slash, and his arm dropped to his side. Everything. He had lost everything-- His voice caught in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut. "I want you... to die," he choked out.

Genesis [6/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Altaïr's posture slackened and his sword lowered, eyes locked with Malik the entire time. "Then so be it," he called out, tone filled with the heartache coursing through his veins. Either this would break the man before him... or it will be his undoing. If the latter, then he hopes that Malik would learn to forgive him in time for his absence, his arrogance, his pride--long gone and broken, the realization of what he had done and lost, far too late for anything to be done-- Closing his eyes, the shifting emotions gave way to a deep calm, missions and oaths ignored, logic suspended. Only this moment mattered and he waited with held breath.

Malik opened his eyes, slowly, and he felt more alone than he had ever been in his life. He did not lift his own sword, but he spoke, his voice flat, quiet. "Drop your blade."

It was dropped, soon forgotten.

A second blade joined it, briefly, as Malik closed the distance between the two of them, his hand empty. In silence, he stooped, and took Altaïr's fallen blade. It was... the same Malik had seen; the blade that had ended his brother's life. His eyes traveled over it, the quiet details that were simply and undeniably Altaïr's. And yet, how could it be? How could it be the same blade, if it had gained a resting place beside his brother? If he had buried it beside him? A light in him faded.

Altaïr breathed out. Still alive.

Malik dropped the blade in between them, "...Altaïr,"

Sliding his eyes open, Altaïr was met face-to-face with the other man, unarmed as well. "Malik."

" are a fool's fool," he spoke, simply. He was empty, but he felt... relieved. Slowly, he drew away from Altaïr, breathing in deep draughts.

"I have been called that on more than one occasion." The faintest glimpse of a smirk appeared at the edge of his mouth, the only outward sign of relief he would allow himself to show as he willed his pulse to slow down. It had been a gamble and one that he did not know the outcome of; he truly was a fool in every sense of the word, and yet--That one act brought back a small beacon of hope. Perhaps not all was lost.
Altaïr shifted on his feet, watching the other man from a distance, unsure of what was to happen next. Surely quelling Malik's rage would not be so easy, but it was a start. Still, it still begged the question of how Malik turned to the Templars in the first place. Malik, who religiously followed the Creed and obeyed Mualim without question while never missing an opportunity to remind or criticize Altaïr of his own breaches of the tenants. If all it took was for his brother's death to be the catalyst--it made no sense. The man was always one for logic, leaving no detail unturned and yet--to make such a grave mistake of thinking that he was the one that-- Altaïr shook his head lightly. Something was amiss.

All these thoughts of wonderful, violent vengeance of brief deaths, night dreams of killing Altaïr.. All that had left him... he wasn't certain what remained.
"'ve gotten clumsy, as well," Malik remarked, an old reminiscing coming into his mind that did not seem so lost as he had thought it. "Or did this one armed man take you off guard?" the last was a bitter jab at the other's previous insult. But even the memory of those words did nothing to relight his previous anger.

"...I was not expecting a mere Templar to have the skill of a highly ranked assassin," Altaïr admitted.

Genesis [7/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:40 pm (UTC)(link)
Malik laughed, though it was more a gesture than an actual expression of amusement, "Yes... the majority of their ranks are not impressive, even from the inside."

"Not surprising. Their methods seem to rely on brute strength alone."

The templar bent over and gathered his blade off of the ground, brushing the dirt off of it before returning it to its place in its scabbard.

Likewise, Altaïr bent over to retrieve his own, safely sheathed. A heavy silence hung between the two men.

"...would you have let me kill you," he looked over his shoulder, "offering yourself like that?"

Altaïr's shoulder canted in a slight shrug, turning his head sideways. "If it were necessary to redeem myself for my mistakes--" A flashback ran through his head, of being held back by his fellow brothers, standing before Al-Mualim as the grand master lanced through his abdomen. It was not enough to kill, but it left him dangerously close to Death's doorstep. When he had awoken next, he had been stripped of his ranks and so began his long trial to obtain that which he had lost. Not everything could be regained, however, or so he thought.
"--Would you have done it?"

Malik’s inhale was low, but audible in the gap between them. His hand moved up to his shoulder, fingers smoothing through chainmail the aching flesh that curved into a mere stump. He fid not feel his rage, but he could remember it, just moments ago, it did not wane even though his energy had. And every bit of him had been roaring for the assassin's death. "Yes." he answered, dully.

"Then, why did you not?" he inquired.

"Because I no longer know if you were the one to kill my brother."

"If not me, then who," Altaïr pressed further.

"...who?" the other echoed, thoughtlessly.

"Yes, who--think."

It was so very simple, it was a wonder Malik had not even thought of it to that point. He had been so utterly certain that Altaïr had been the one. But it was simply not true--it was impossible. What he had seen had been false. But... that meant something--if Altaïr had not killed Kadar, and the man hadn't... the only ones who could have...
Malik’s eyes widened, and something in his mind seemed to shift. A brief moment of feeling that something that was lost--No, not lost, taken. A memory should have been there in his mind. But it wasn't there, it had been taken away from him. Because he remembered--he remembered a memory, he knew he had seen his brother’s death. His fist clenched into his clothing over his shoulder, curling the fabric in his fingers. A light. A light in his mind; that was all he could reach. But it had to be there--He knew how Kadar had died! He had--

Malik cried out, staggering as if he had been struck.

Altaïr's brows furrowed, startled by the sudden outburst. He took a step forward, "Malik--" The sinking feeling in his gut grew. He knew it was impossible for Malik to be mistaken, unless... something else had happened to him. To make the man forget, and shift blame onto himself--Robert was behind this, but how--

Genesis [8/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:42 pm (UTC)(link)
Malik gasped, his hand moving to clutch at his head, which throbbed and throbbed. He was caught, captured within that light in his mind, and it held him as he struggled. He had to go forward, he had to remember, he had to know the truth. But at the same time he had to go back, withdraw, that light was going to consume him, it was going to consume him again. He sank to the ground, panting, gasping through his teeth.

A tentative hand was placed upon Malik's good shoulder. "Malik--" he called out again, louder this time.

'Malik,' the A-Sayf heard, through the light, and he remembered this, or did he not? It was familiar, but he couldn't place it. He was losing the struggle; the pain was growing worse in spite of it.
‘That was your name, was it? And the assassin there, that was your brother? ‘
Yes," he heard himself answer.
Look upon that sword there, in his chest. Do you not recognize it? He felt through the memory, someone gripping him, restraining him.
Malik's head whipped to the side, and for the briefest moment, his pupils seemed a glowing, brilliant gold. But he wasn't looking at Altaïr--he was staring right through the man, as if he were no more real than a discarded thought.

Altaïr’s grip on the man tightened. The eyes were unlike anything he had seen before. It was not even comparable to the second sight that he had. He gave the man a light shake. Whatever had overcome Malik needed to be stopped before it progressed into something worse. His hand reached out, shoving at Altaïr's arm, he began to thrash.

It is the sword of your companion, was it not? He was so desperate for the treasure, he struck down your brother... and left his sword in his breast,

"Altaïr--" he spoke, in his memory and out loud to the air.

Yes. He has betrayed you. He cursed you and murdered your brother. The proof is the blade, still remaining.

Another shake, harder. Then once again, hand clamped down tight. Panic was beginning to rise at the back of Altaïr's head, but he forced it down. "Malik, Malik--come back to me-" he called out. It was useless; the man did not even acknowledge his existence, instead talking to illusions within his head, blank look in his eyes absolutely harrowing.

Malik's eyes abruptly came into focus, back and realigned with the world with a startling suddenness. The first thing they fell upon was Altaïr's face.

Altaïr looked upon him with relief, "Are you well?"

Without warning, Malik raised his fist and sent it hurling towards Altaïr's face.

He crumpled backward with a short yelp, his grip released as his hand flew out to clutch at his face, blood trickling down from his nostrils, the impact nearly shattering the cartilage in his nose.

Malik took a few steps backwards, and drew his sword out with a metallic hiss.

Lifting his hand away, Altaïr threw a scowl in Malik's direction, just barely able to bite back the sudden anger that rose within him. "What has come over you? Have you gone mad?" Or had this all been a trick, to lower his guard first-- But they were so close to figuring out-- what had gone wrong? Uttering a low curse, Altaïr prepared to defend himself all over again.

"Mad? I will show you ma--ah--ngh," Malik faltered in mid lurch, almost losing his balance once more. His hand, so tight around the blade it looked painful, shifted, turning before dropping his blade. His entire body was clenching, as his struggle turned outwards, "Al--Altaïr!" he hissed, his fingers grasping air before they moved to grasp over his own heart. He wanted to speak, he wanted to explain--to beg for help, but he couldn't get the words out.
I am your master now. You will work for me. You want to achieve peace, and I have the means to do it.’ the voice reverberated in his mind—and he was trying to leave the light.

The assassin was rooted to the spot, staring at the other as if in a trance. The shout of his name seemed to have broken the spell, and he rushed to Malik's aid, though he did not put away his longsword, his anger gone as quickly as it came. "Malik!"

Genesis [9/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:46 pm (UTC)(link)
His eyes widened, and the A-Sayf took a step back away from the other. After a full thrash in his mind, he managed to stammer out, "N-no!" his arm outstretched, warning Altaïr. He couldn't... he couldn't control himself any more. Not even his actions, but the very thoughts in his mind. Memories spun from the words in his mind, commands written in curls of gold, and he looked at Altaïr and he saw his brother's corpse.

Altaïr halted and for the first time (today was a day for a lot of firsts, hasn't it?) the feeling of helplessness washed over him, unsure of the correct action to take. It ripped him to the core, tearing his insides out and leaving him hollow. His body tensed in response, fists clenched enough to draw blood with fingernails while his jaw tightened painfully. A steep edge hovered ever closer toward them, one misstep the difference between life and death. He refused to back down, eyes alit with stubborn determination.

Malik could feel his awareness slipping away into that bright light-he felt compelled to submit, like he was a fool for fighting, and he looked at Altaïr's face and he felt hatred again. No--he shouldn't! Altaïr hadn't... But he had. He had pulled Altaïr's sword out of Kadar's cold, unmoving body. No! that was a lie! But-but Altaïr was always so arrogant, so careless--It was his fault in the first place that they had fought at Solomon’s Temple. His mind felt splintered, shards of buried hatred and restrained affection in conflict, striking against one another. It was always Altaïr, he was the one who always received the praises, who bested him in battles, who mocked him, laughed at him, it was always Altaïr, he hated him--no, no, No! He had to fight it, he had to do something or he would be overcome for certain. He turned his body, turned his head, looked away, moved away-- He was running, running back down the empty alley.

The coil in Altaïr's body snapped like thin string, giving chase when his mind finally caught up to his body and told him to move now, before it was too late. Malik had a head start, running as if life depended on it with fire lapping at his heels. No. No. He was not going to lose him again, not now! He--was the closest that he could truly call a friend, even despite their long-lived rivalry, the only one who was not afraid to face him, be it through battle or wits, insulting or criticizing without remorse. And although their prides had clashed on more than one occasion, stubbornness widening the gap, they had always managed to find a way to gravitate toward one another, circling about in a low orbit dance. But, Altaïr was no longer a proud man-- he was but a shell of what his former self used to be, arrogance costing him and those around him so much. He will not make the same mistake twice. If only he could run faster--Malik increased his pace, just barely out of sight--
Malik made another turn, he knew the city well, and the alley was no exception. If he made one more left turn, it would take them to the square of the district, where the streets were much more filled. He led that way not because he wanted to get lost into the crowd. No, the opposite--he wanted to bring Altaïr into the open. ...and he hoped the man could forgive him for it.

He wondered for a brief moment where the other was leading him as he fought to catch up. Taking a turn to the left, Altaïr was met not with another alley--but a wide, open area that was populated. Shit. He could feel several pairs of eyes boring into him, civilian and guard alike scrutinizing his every move. It did not take long for him to catch the full attention of those patrolling the area, recognizing the fluttering white robes for what they were. Orders were shouted in their mother tongues and soon enough a throng of angry guards followed closely behind him, forcing Altaïr to change his path and break sight of Malik. "Assassin!" "He's getting away, after him!"

Genesis [10/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-25 09:48 pm (UTC)(link)
Malik fled into a group of startled templar, practically barreling into them before he was able to stop short. They cautiously expressed their worry--that he had gone missing, he assured them he was fine, but that he needed to return to his post. Altaïr was being pushed from his mind, for a moment, at least, until the light finally shown brighter than he could fight against.

Altaïr took a sharp turn and leapt toward a wall at full speed, grasping at protrusions with outstretched hands, launching himself upward. Boots finding dips with ease, he made a steady climb to the rooftops, regaining lost momentum once he righted himself. The guards exchanged wary glances, making their own ascension, the assassin already leaping across to other structures and over wooden beams. Archers were narrowly avoided as Altaïr maneuvered around obstacles, changing directions every so often to break the line of sight and confuse as to which path was taken. There, in the distance, a rooftop garden--he took the opportunity, diving between the threaded cloth panels, keeping his profile low and pressing against the wooden frame. He heard footsteps approach closer, then halt--a few curses, more orders--and he was in the clear, the sounds of the guards echoing away-- but it did not feel like a victory. He had lost Malik.


Anon and Anon hope you enjoy the first part of this fill. We have more on the way. Also sorry about the broken italics tag

Re: Genesis [10/?]

(Anonymous) - 2010-10-26 10:42 (UTC) - Expand


(Anonymous) - 2010-10-26 14:43 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Genesis [10/?]

(Anonymous) - 2010-10-27 23:49 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Genesis [10/?]

(Anonymous) - 2010-11-07 01:55 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Genesis [10/?]

(Anonymous) - 2011-02-02 23:45 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Genesis [10/?]

(Anonymous) - 2011-02-03 00:00 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Genesis [10/?]

(Anonymous) - 2011-06-16 05:49 (UTC) - Expand


(Anonymous) 2010-10-27 07:13 pm (UTC)(link)
So, I suck and didn't see the missing arm part of the prompt until I started working on it but WHATEVA!

Hosted on my DA account here:

Hope you like it Anon! ^^


(Anonymous) 2010-10-28 09:09 pm (UTC)(link)
NONO! You don't suck! Malik with two arms is very hot as well!
...Ah, who am I kidding, Malik IS hot whether he has two arms or one arm XD
OP loves this very much, yes. Made up my day after taking a beast of bio exam /cries


(Anonymous) 2010-10-28 10:18 pm (UTC)(link)
Glad you like it! 8D

Previous artfag DELIVERS

(Anonymous) 2010-10-31 11:27 am (UTC)(link)

YEAH, I actually drew something. It's not as awesome as I'd like it to be OP, but I did it at like, 4 in the morning. OTL Hopefully it's alright. Oh yeah, I didn't take his arm off because...I don't really have a reason. I just didn't want to. >_> Hope that's okay.

Re: Previous artfag DELIVERS

(Anonymous) 2010-10-31 12:52 pm (UTC)(link)
This. Is. The Best Treat for Halloween EVERRRRRRRRR
Seriously. This art beats any candy I would have received for Halloween.
Op is extremely pleased. Thank you art-anon!

Re: Previous artfag DELIVERS

(Anonymous) 2010-10-31 06:47 pm (UTC)(link)
Eee, I'm so glad you like it! I was worried it looked lame XD. You're so welcome, it was a treat (lol, treat) to draw! :D