The first thing Malik learns of the human world is that Altair is impatient and proud and thoughtless. There are other things as well, but the list grows longer by the hour.
“Where did you get the sword?” Altair asks again in the morning, after Malik wakes up, still sweating and anxious from lingering nightmares.
“I found it,” he says, blinking from the sunlight that shines through open ceiling; it’s very bright. Twisting around, he takes in the rest of the room, as he had fallen asleep for moment his head hit pallet the night before. He is unable to comprehend most of the things he sees, so he settles for the most familiar sight—which is unfortunately Altair.
“Where?”
“The sea,” Malik snaps, tired of the questions when he has so many of his own. “It fell from a ship where I—ngh!”
He coughs, massaging his throat, and is offended when Altair leaves the room, but the man returns a moment later with a cup of water, thrusting it into Malik’s hand.
Malik stares, not understanding.
“Well? Drink,” Altair orders.
“It’s water,” he replies, baffled, but his mouth feels dry, so maybe it makes sense.
“Would you prefer wine, then? Or fresh fruit juice?” Altair drawls, and roughly nudges the cup to Malik’s lips and the liquid sloshes into his open mouth.
The water is not like the sea; it’s warm and clayish, but devoid of salt and Malik drinks it, greedily, and learns of what thirst means to a human for the first time.
“More,” he gasps, holding the cup out, thumb running over the patterned edges, carved into white bone. He swallows his pride and says, “Please.”
But Altair is already turning around to exit the room. “I am not your nursemaid; go get it yourself. The fountain is in the chamber.”
Malik stills at the tone of his voice. He doesn’t know this human, this stranger who speaks with so little regard or grace. Even the man’s footsteps sound different, gone utterly silent as if ghosting over the ground, while Malik only recognizes them by the gentle creaks on weather-worn wood.
But he refuses to be ignored, not after all he has sacrificed to be here. Without thinking, he hurls the cup at Altair’s head. It is childish and petty, but he can’t help but be glad when Altair whirls around to face him, catching the cup with the speed that can only be made in a world of air.
The man takes three steps to cross the room, a breath to grab Malik’s wrist, and a blink to bend it back so that Malik can feel his bones strain in protest.
“I will not hesitate to rid you of your remaining arm,” Altair murmurs, soft and dangerous.
“And why wouldn’t you, when I had—“ Malik stops as his breath hitches with no reason other than by sorcery, and bitterly bites back his retort. “…The cup. It’s just a cup.”
“You threw it at my head. And that cup was a gift.”
“From who?” Malik challenges, heart thudding in his chest.
Altair pauses, letting go of Malik’s wrist, and steps back. “It was a gift,” he repeats. “And it is none of your concern.”
“No one would want to give you anything,” Malik sneers, with all his anger and guilt. “You traded for it.”
Something shifts in Altair’s expression, from murderous to hurt to carefully blank. He takes another step back, placing the cup on a shelf of books, and Malik notices a little too late the tiny glass figurine resting there, and the beaded charm that swings from Altair’s hip as he walks out of the room.
“I don’t have time for this,” Altair says, “I am late to meet with my master. Either stay here or get out, it does not matter. Rashad will be in the back room, so do not even think to try anything regrettable.”
Malik doesn’t make promises, but it doesn’t matter; Altair will not wait for them.
The Moon and the Tide [5/?] (tiny update, hurf)
“Where did you get the sword?” Altair asks again in the morning, after Malik wakes up, still sweating and anxious from lingering nightmares.
“I found it,” he says, blinking from the sunlight that shines through open ceiling; it’s very bright. Twisting around, he takes in the rest of the room, as he had fallen asleep for moment his head hit pallet the night before. He is unable to comprehend most of the things he sees, so he settles for the most familiar sight—which is unfortunately Altair.
“Where?”
“The sea,” Malik snaps, tired of the questions when he has so many of his own. “It fell from a ship where I—ngh!”
He coughs, massaging his throat, and is offended when Altair leaves the room, but the man returns a moment later with a cup of water, thrusting it into Malik’s hand.
Malik stares, not understanding.
“Well? Drink,” Altair orders.
“It’s water,” he replies, baffled, but his mouth feels dry, so maybe it makes sense.
“Would you prefer wine, then? Or fresh fruit juice?” Altair drawls, and roughly nudges the cup to Malik’s lips and the liquid sloshes into his open mouth.
The water is not like the sea; it’s warm and clayish, but devoid of salt and Malik drinks it, greedily, and learns of what thirst means to a human for the first time.
“More,” he gasps, holding the cup out, thumb running over the patterned edges, carved into white bone. He swallows his pride and says, “Please.”
But Altair is already turning around to exit the room. “I am not your nursemaid; go get it yourself. The fountain is in the chamber.”
Malik stills at the tone of his voice. He doesn’t know this human, this stranger who speaks with so little regard or grace. Even the man’s footsteps sound different, gone utterly silent as if ghosting over the ground, while Malik only recognizes them by the gentle creaks on weather-worn wood.
But he refuses to be ignored, not after all he has sacrificed to be here. Without thinking, he hurls the cup at Altair’s head. It is childish and petty, but he can’t help but be glad when Altair whirls around to face him, catching the cup with the speed that can only be made in a world of air.
The man takes three steps to cross the room, a breath to grab Malik’s wrist, and a blink to bend it back so that Malik can feel his bones strain in protest.
“I will not hesitate to rid you of your remaining arm,” Altair murmurs, soft and dangerous.
“And why wouldn’t you, when I had—“ Malik stops as his breath hitches with no reason other than by sorcery, and bitterly bites back his retort. “…The cup. It’s just a cup.”
“You threw it at my head. And that cup was a gift.”
“From who?” Malik challenges, heart thudding in his chest.
Altair pauses, letting go of Malik’s wrist, and steps back. “It was a gift,” he repeats. “And it is none of your concern.”
“No one would want to give you anything,” Malik sneers, with all his anger and guilt. “You traded for it.”
Something shifts in Altair’s expression, from murderous to hurt to carefully blank. He takes another step back, placing the cup on a shelf of books, and Malik notices a little too late the tiny glass figurine resting there, and the beaded charm that swings from Altair’s hip as he walks out of the room.
“I don’t have time for this,” Altair says, “I am late to meet with my master. Either stay here or get out, it does not matter. Rashad will be in the back room, so do not even think to try anything regrettable.”
Malik doesn’t make promises, but it doesn’t matter; Altair will not wait for them.