Altair was certain that he hadn’t been caught listening—besides, it wasn’t as if Malik had taken pains to stay hidden—but when the man came into his quarters that evening, unexpected and unannounced, Altair felt that maybe he had intruded on something private.
Still, for all his guilty conscious, he kept his mouth shut, and only sat up from where he had been reading on his pallet.
“You were in the gardens today,” Malik said, kneeling down beside him. His gaze was sharp, but Altair was relieved to find that Malik’s expression held no hint of embarrassment. Involuntarily, he strained to hear more of Malik’s voice, marveling just a little at how different it sounded when he spoke.
“I wasn’t aware that you still sang,” he said, very quiet.
“Still? Hm. I’ve had little reason to sing these past few months,” Malik replied with a thoughtful frown. “And, even then, I find that I only like to sing for myself, or people who are very dear to me.”
“And who was it you sang for in the garden?” Altair asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Kadar,” Malik said, and no longer looked as if the name brought him any pain, just a slight wistful look in eyes. “It was a lullaby I used to sing to him when we were younger.”
“Yes, I remember,” Altair said before he could help himself.
Malik blinked, a spot of color rising to his cheeks. “Oh, that explains how you knew.”
“You’re much better now,” Altair said, which caused Malik to laugh wryly. He sat back, propping against the cushions and Malik scooted closer, their shoulders pressing together.
“When I fell back on the grass, I bumped my head on a rock,” Malik said, suddenly. “I looked up and saw a bird, watching me, before it flew away.”
The statement was non-sequitur and odd, but Altair remembered the sound of the rock being thrown down the cliff that afternoon, and he grinned. “You should watch where you—“
“Quiet,” Malik interrupted, brow furrowing. His hand came up to pluck at the embroidery of his robes, almost nervous, but contemplative. Finally, he glanced at Altair, solemn, and started to sing.
It was the melody he had been humming before Altair had left the gardens, the one after Kadar’s lullaby. Altair froze, his breath shallow, as if it was too loud. Malik’s voice was soft, singing of a lost bird, and Altair leaned in, drinking every sound and feeling every reverberation between them, no longer separated by distance or hiding behind a pillar. He listened, able to hear the nuances and tiny imperfections that made it all the more lovely.
Malik’s voice had changed over the years. It was lower, of course, and had the rasp of disuse that would certainly go away in time if he kept on singing. And Malik was singing for him, Altair thought wonderingly, and if the wind carried it out the open window, he could close his eyes, knowing the song was meant for no one else but him alone.
Even so, Malik refused to let the wind take his song. He turned to Altair, pressing their foreheads together and dropped his voice into a whisper, crooning into Altair’s ear. The words became indistinct, blurring so that there was only the melody, and it left Altair to imagine the lyrics himself—still of a bird, flying away from cage.
When Malik finished, Altair drew in a breath, almost shaky. His heart was beating too quickly, fingers too jittery, and, shamefully, he felt as if he missed the point of Malik’s song; it was one meant to soothe and calm, but Altair wanted to stand, shout, maybe run over the rooftops of Masyaf for the rest of the night, he didn’t know.
“It would do me some good if you said something,” Malik muttered, pulling away. “A man does like to be complimented, on occasion.”
“I—” Altair began, realizing that sometime during the song, his hand had traveled to hold the back of Malik’s head, keeping him close. “I would like to listen to you sing again. Please.”
The bird from the window [2/3]
Still, for all his guilty conscious, he kept his mouth shut, and only sat up from where he had been reading on his pallet.
“You were in the gardens today,” Malik said, kneeling down beside him. His gaze was sharp, but Altair was relieved to find that Malik’s expression held no hint of embarrassment. Involuntarily, he strained to hear more of Malik’s voice, marveling just a little at how different it sounded when he spoke.
“I wasn’t aware that you still sang,” he said, very quiet.
“Still? Hm. I’ve had little reason to sing these past few months,” Malik replied with a thoughtful frown. “And, even then, I find that I only like to sing for myself, or people who are very dear to me.”
“And who was it you sang for in the garden?” Altair asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Kadar,” Malik said, and no longer looked as if the name brought him any pain, just a slight wistful look in eyes. “It was a lullaby I used to sing to him when we were younger.”
“Yes, I remember,” Altair said before he could help himself.
Malik blinked, a spot of color rising to his cheeks. “Oh, that explains how you knew.”
“You’re much better now,” Altair said, which caused Malik to laugh wryly. He sat back, propping against the cushions and Malik scooted closer, their shoulders pressing together.
“When I fell back on the grass, I bumped my head on a rock,” Malik said, suddenly. “I looked up and saw a bird, watching me, before it flew away.”
The statement was non-sequitur and odd, but Altair remembered the sound of the rock being thrown down the cliff that afternoon, and he grinned. “You should watch where you—“
“Quiet,” Malik interrupted, brow furrowing. His hand came up to pluck at the embroidery of his robes, almost nervous, but contemplative. Finally, he glanced at Altair, solemn, and started to sing.
It was the melody he had been humming before Altair had left the gardens, the one after Kadar’s lullaby. Altair froze, his breath shallow, as if it was too loud. Malik’s voice was soft, singing of a lost bird, and Altair leaned in, drinking every sound and feeling every reverberation between them, no longer separated by distance or hiding behind a pillar. He listened, able to hear the nuances and tiny imperfections that made it all the more lovely.
Malik’s voice had changed over the years. It was lower, of course, and had the rasp of disuse that would certainly go away in time if he kept on singing. And Malik was singing for him, Altair thought wonderingly, and if the wind carried it out the open window, he could close his eyes, knowing the song was meant for no one else but him alone.
Even so, Malik refused to let the wind take his song. He turned to Altair, pressing their foreheads together and dropped his voice into a whisper, crooning into Altair’s ear. The words became indistinct, blurring so that there was only the melody, and it left Altair to imagine the lyrics himself—still of a bird, flying away from cage.
When Malik finished, Altair drew in a breath, almost shaky. His heart was beating too quickly, fingers too jittery, and, shamefully, he felt as if he missed the point of Malik’s song; it was one meant to soothe and calm, but Altair wanted to stand, shout, maybe run over the rooftops of Masyaf for the rest of the night, he didn’t know.
“It would do me some good if you said something,” Malik muttered, pulling away. “A man does like to be complimented, on occasion.”
“I—” Altair began, realizing that sometime during the song, his hand had traveled to hold the back of Malik’s head, keeping him close. “I would like to listen to you sing again. Please.”