Choke. [Assassin's Creed Fanfiction]
Title: Choke
Characters: Altaïr and Malik
Summary: There's more to Altaïr than Malik ever bothered to realize.
Rating: K+
Something inside Malik felt dirty. Blemished. Disgusting. It reared its ugly head up and roared in his ears, clawing at his shoulders and sinking its wretched teeth in his neck. He couldn't hear. He couldn't feel. He couldn't breathe. Malik knew this feeling well; guilt. But this guilt was different than what he usually felt (the guilt of losing his brother, not protecting him, not keeping him safe-) this was the guilt of hurting someone rather than the guilt of failing to protect someone. It was a much grittier, vengeful kind of guilt, always telling him how much of a bastard he was.
Altaïr hadn't spoken to Malik when he returned to the bureau. He was curled up in the pillows of the main room, seemingly asleep, but Malik knew better. Altaïr was very aware of what went on in the bureau, even if he wasn't seemingly conscious.
Already feeling guilty, Malik walked back towards his room (if it could be called that- more like a closet with a cot taking up a large majority of the already limited space) but paused as he reached the door leading to the file room. He couldn't resist reaching over to the door and just gently pushing it open. Shelves full of books and maps and all kinds of things greeted him and the smell of ancient paper and ink was soothing on his tortured soul. Despite his misgivings about what he was thinking of doing, Malik walked in there calmly, closing the door behind him with only the light of the flickering candle he held in his hand to show him around the room.
He was going to look up those reports. He deserved to know. He deserved to know what made the man who was responsible for his brother's death. He deserved to know what hurt the man who was responsible for the loss of his arm. He deserved to know what caused the man who was responsible for so much hurt to be so hurt inside. He deserved to know.
Malik's father had been a well known assassin in the Jerusalem bureau, responsible for the deaths of many high ranking corrupt politicians in his time. He was revered as a master in the art of death, but Malik himself knew little about the man behind the cowl. Assassin parents were hardly kin and less than kind. But reports were, in a way, diaries for many assassins. They could pour their hearts out on the pages and then just tuck them away in the large archives of a bureau where they would be, more than likely, never seen again.
Malik hoped his father was the same way.
Removing a large bundle of scrolls from the shelves, Malik eyed the tag attached before placing it back up and trying the next one. It took a few tries, many misses with zero hits, before he finally came across his father's name. Aha.
He put the scrolls on the table before bringing a chair up and sitting on it. Pulling the string loose, the scrolls rolled onto the table before coming to a halt right before they went off the edge. Malik peered at the dates with a critical, practiced, eye before selecting one he thought would work. It was dated 18 years ago and the ink had faded from a strong black to an earthy brown, the paper was dry and crinkly under his fingers. His father's handwriting was neat, but had an artistic flow to it, as if the letters just rolled off the tip of his quill. Malik gently unrolled the scroll and began to read.
The mission was a success, as always. I hope Malik and Kadar are proud of me, but who knows- I am hardly ever in Masyaf to see them. Their mother is displeased by the way that Al Mualim keeps sending me to all corners of the Holy Land for my missions, but who am I to say that I should be kept close to home? I hope they realize I love them. I hope they realize I do this for them.
Malik is much like his mother; I hope her bitterness will not rub off on him (as the young are, without a doubt, impressionable). Kadar, on the other hand, seems to take after me; he will do well as an assassin, but I fear for his lack of vision. He seems to follow just about anyone regardless of whether or not he knows them. He trusts too much, but there is time to fix that problem. I hope it is addressed before it is too late.
On my way back to the bureau (in the rain, no less- rain? In the Holy Land? I know, its crazy, but it has to happen sometime) I found something. Less than a something and more of a someone. He goes by the name Altaïr and has eyes so gold I can see why his mother named him after eagles. They're almost frightening. Those eyes miss nothing, absolutely nothing. I swear, he'll have them closed and he'll still see what's happening around him.
I normally bypass urchins (a terrible thing to say, but true nonetheless- after all, I cannot help them all), but for some reason, the boy made me pause. Maybe it was because he was so close in age to Malik and Kadar. Maybe it's because I'm going soft. But I stopped for him and he was, well…
Pathetic beyond all reason.
He really is just about Malik's age…8 or 9, I think. Seeing the boy makes me miss Malik even more. Oh, I hope he knows I love him-
But, back to this boy. He says his name is Altaïr ibn La-Ahad. His mother is dead and his father is gone, but to where the boy does not know. He's small, sick, and wounded; literally whipped though he will not say by whom or for what reason. I fear he has caught the most recent plague (with a life on the streets it is not unlikely (plus sitting out in the rain with such a condition would only worsen it)) but the doctor who examined him assured me it was no such thing. Though without proper care of those back wounds, well- they could get infected. I shall have to watch to make sure he does not irritate them.
Although he will not say where his injuries came from, I suspect foul play; a gang, most likely. A few informants have mentioned vaguely, in passing, of increased gang activity in the slums, but thought nothing of it because it because their actions are mostly conducted by young boys who can do little by grouping together. Although they may be informants, some agents in the bureau are not exactly intelligent. Gangs, no matter the age, sex or race of the members, are dangerous things to keep around and even more dangerous to join. Whoever is running this, whoever is calling the shots for this sick venture, they better watch their backs. People will eventually open their eyes to the problem- but they will need time. Blindness (metaphorically speaking) is not something you can fix overnight.
In the mean time, I will keep up with Altaïr. The gang is not something I can take care of, so I will take care of him. He's quiet, very quiet; cannot read, write, or do any kind of math or understand any sciences, but he is clever. Resilient as well based on the beating he took. I've decided to take him to Masyaf with me- the boy deserves a home. My wife will not be pleased with the addition to our home, but maybe she will be- who knows, maybe Altaïr, Malik, and Kadar could be friends.
Altaïr ibn La-Ahad may be a son of none, but he will no longer be without a roof.
The report went on to say more of the mission details, how the assassin had attacked from above before escaping down the alleyways into the poor district, but Malik did not bother to comprehend what was written beyond the section for Altaïr.
The marks on Altaïr's back now made sense. Whip lashes. Malik had seen them on the slaves that came through Jerusalem; he felt foolish for only remembering now how the ghastly marks stretched and bled and left ugly strips of scar tissue that would never fully heal.
Malik no longer felt he deserved the information he had gathered.
Looking to his left, Malik saw two golden eyes, turned almost yellow by candlelight in the hallway (how long had that door been open? How long had Altaïr been standing there?) before they disappeared.
Of course he would know. Like his father had said before him, Malik thought Altaïr's eyes could see everything, even when closed. He was a fool for trying to escape their hawk-like sight. He felt like an idiot for thinking that reading these wretched reports would make him feel better. And above all, he felt like a complete and utter fool for ever believing that he would never forgive Altaïr ibn La-Ahad.
Getting up silently, Malik blew the candle out at the table before walking out into the hallway once again. Instead of heading towards his room (or lack thereof) he headed out to the main room. Altaïr sat there, silent as the grave, elbow's resting on his knee's as he studied his clasped hands in front of him. His hood was down, all his weapons stripped away, and Malik felt that Altaïr looked complete and utterly vulnerable, none of the old protections up around him, exposing him for what he really was under that assassin mask; a human being.
Those piercing eyes looked up at him, but Malik was surprised to find no anger in them. There honestly wasn't much of anything in that gaze. It was almost defeated. That was a troubling thought.
"Kadar knew."
Malik took a startled step back. "What?"
"He found out. I had that recalled some…unpleasant things. He found me hiding in a rooftop garden." Something deep and sad flickered in that gaze, but Altaïr didn't continue. He didn't feel he deserved to continue; telling Malik how much he missed Kadar and his open ear would only provoke the man.
Malik studied him for a long time before slowly going deeper into the room and sitting across from Altaïr. "What happened?"
Altaïr shrugged, uncomfortable. "It was an easy mission. Kill a priest. I did that, but….the priest had been in confession. The man who had been in there…" Altaïr shifted his position, bringing it a fraction inwards (something Malik only noticed due to years of training). "He used to be in charge of the gang I was in," said Altaïr, his tone almost whispery soft. "He talked about me. I couldn't adapt. I ran. I hid. I couldn't come back to the bureau like that; people would talk." He scoffed and avoided looking at Malik, feeling intense shame.
"What did he say?"
"What?" Altaïr looked at him owlishly, confused.
The rafiq rolled his eyes. "What did the man in confession say about you, novice?"
The title rolled off his tongue automatically and Malik instantly regretted it, cringing inside and ready to correct it, but the phrase actually seemed to warm Altaïr slightly, as if he was pretending it was said in affection rather than in disdain. Maybe, just maybe, it was.
"He talked about how he used me as an example," responded Altaïr. "A sort of…exhibition for what happened if you didn't bring in the required amount of money. We were all pickpockets, you see," he explained quickly, hurriedly. "None of us could do much else and, well…I was a terrible pickpocket. Still am." His hand scratched his head and mussed the hair that had been flattened under his hood. Altaïr's expression was flickering rapidly between fear and apprehension. "He, uh- He said he used another boy after me. As an example." There was a long moment of silence before he continued. "He died."
"Altaïr-"
"I'm sorry."
Malik stopped. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he said again, looking right at Malik before his eyes met the ground. "For Solomon's Temple. For your arm. F-For…Kadar. I never- I-I couldn't say it when it mattered most. I fear I've lost you forever from my life." He looked up at Malik, eyes desperate for an answer.
Silence greeted Altaïr and he bowed his head, his worst fears recognized.
"I cannot forgive you."
"I understand," came the quiet, overly calm reply. This was his last chance for redemption. Nine lives for his-? Worthless. Altaïr knew his worth.
"No, you don't." Altaïr's head lifted and gold met brown. "I cannot forgive you because you are not the same man who went with me to Solomon's Temple." The rafiq stood up and moved into a crouch next to Altaïr. "The wrong man is carrying the guilt. You need to forgive yourself, Altaïr. You are not the same man."
Altaïr suddenly felt like that young boy he used to be, alone in a dark alley once again with no hope in sight only to have someone drop in and save him. Emotion he'd suppressed for so long built up in Altaïr and he felt his throat closing up. His vision became blurry and he became concerned, hand touching his face and coming away wet. He sent a confused, worried look towards Malik.
The older man gently reached over and wiped underneath Altair's eyes and the touch was warm on his skin, lingering there even after Malik had pulled away. "W-What-" said Altair, deeply confused and conflicted. "W-What's happening?"
Malik's eyebrows furrowed, but he smiled wryly. "What? Never cried before?"
Altair flushed and looked away. "N-Not like this."
The rafiq laughed slightly. "I didn't know there were multiple ways to cry."
"I've never cried because I was happy."
Altaïr was never good with words. Malik didn't try and force him.
Characters: Altaïr and Malik
Summary: There's more to Altaïr than Malik ever bothered to realize.
Rating: K+
Something inside Malik felt dirty. Blemished. Disgusting. It reared its ugly head up and roared in his ears, clawing at his shoulders and sinking its wretched teeth in his neck. He couldn't hear. He couldn't feel. He couldn't breathe. Malik knew this feeling well; guilt. But this guilt was different than what he usually felt (the guilt of losing his brother, not protecting him, not keeping him safe-) this was the guilt of hurting someone rather than the guilt of failing to protect someone. It was a much grittier, vengeful kind of guilt, always telling him how much of a bastard he was.
Altaïr hadn't spoken to Malik when he returned to the bureau. He was curled up in the pillows of the main room, seemingly asleep, but Malik knew better. Altaïr was very aware of what went on in the bureau, even if he wasn't seemingly conscious.
Already feeling guilty, Malik walked back towards his room (if it could be called that- more like a closet with a cot taking up a large majority of the already limited space) but paused as he reached the door leading to the file room. He couldn't resist reaching over to the door and just gently pushing it open. Shelves full of books and maps and all kinds of things greeted him and the smell of ancient paper and ink was soothing on his tortured soul. Despite his misgivings about what he was thinking of doing, Malik walked in there calmly, closing the door behind him with only the light of the flickering candle he held in his hand to show him around the room.
He was going to look up those reports. He deserved to know. He deserved to know what made the man who was responsible for his brother's death. He deserved to know what hurt the man who was responsible for the loss of his arm. He deserved to know what caused the man who was responsible for so much hurt to be so hurt inside. He deserved to know.
Malik's father had been a well known assassin in the Jerusalem bureau, responsible for the deaths of many high ranking corrupt politicians in his time. He was revered as a master in the art of death, but Malik himself knew little about the man behind the cowl. Assassin parents were hardly kin and less than kind. But reports were, in a way, diaries for many assassins. They could pour their hearts out on the pages and then just tuck them away in the large archives of a bureau where they would be, more than likely, never seen again.
Malik hoped his father was the same way.
Removing a large bundle of scrolls from the shelves, Malik eyed the tag attached before placing it back up and trying the next one. It took a few tries, many misses with zero hits, before he finally came across his father's name. Aha.
He put the scrolls on the table before bringing a chair up and sitting on it. Pulling the string loose, the scrolls rolled onto the table before coming to a halt right before they went off the edge. Malik peered at the dates with a critical, practiced, eye before selecting one he thought would work. It was dated 18 years ago and the ink had faded from a strong black to an earthy brown, the paper was dry and crinkly under his fingers. His father's handwriting was neat, but had an artistic flow to it, as if the letters just rolled off the tip of his quill. Malik gently unrolled the scroll and began to read.
The mission was a success, as always. I hope Malik and Kadar are proud of me, but who knows- I am hardly ever in Masyaf to see them. Their mother is displeased by the way that Al Mualim keeps sending me to all corners of the Holy Land for my missions, but who am I to say that I should be kept close to home? I hope they realize I love them. I hope they realize I do this for them.
Malik is much like his mother; I hope her bitterness will not rub off on him (as the young are, without a doubt, impressionable). Kadar, on the other hand, seems to take after me; he will do well as an assassin, but I fear for his lack of vision. He seems to follow just about anyone regardless of whether or not he knows them. He trusts too much, but there is time to fix that problem. I hope it is addressed before it is too late.
On my way back to the bureau (in the rain, no less- rain? In the Holy Land? I know, its crazy, but it has to happen sometime) I found something. Less than a something and more of a someone. He goes by the name Altaïr and has eyes so gold I can see why his mother named him after eagles. They're almost frightening. Those eyes miss nothing, absolutely nothing. I swear, he'll have them closed and he'll still see what's happening around him.
I normally bypass urchins (a terrible thing to say, but true nonetheless- after all, I cannot help them all), but for some reason, the boy made me pause. Maybe it was because he was so close in age to Malik and Kadar. Maybe it's because I'm going soft. But I stopped for him and he was, well…
Pathetic beyond all reason.
He really is just about Malik's age…8 or 9, I think. Seeing the boy makes me miss Malik even more. Oh, I hope he knows I love him-
But, back to this boy. He says his name is Altaïr ibn La-Ahad. His mother is dead and his father is gone, but to where the boy does not know. He's small, sick, and wounded; literally whipped though he will not say by whom or for what reason. I fear he has caught the most recent plague (with a life on the streets it is not unlikely (plus sitting out in the rain with such a condition would only worsen it)) but the doctor who examined him assured me it was no such thing. Though without proper care of those back wounds, well- they could get infected. I shall have to watch to make sure he does not irritate them.
Although he will not say where his injuries came from, I suspect foul play; a gang, most likely. A few informants have mentioned vaguely, in passing, of increased gang activity in the slums, but thought nothing of it because it because their actions are mostly conducted by young boys who can do little by grouping together. Although they may be informants, some agents in the bureau are not exactly intelligent. Gangs, no matter the age, sex or race of the members, are dangerous things to keep around and even more dangerous to join. Whoever is running this, whoever is calling the shots for this sick venture, they better watch their backs. People will eventually open their eyes to the problem- but they will need time. Blindness (metaphorically speaking) is not something you can fix overnight.
In the mean time, I will keep up with Altaïr. The gang is not something I can take care of, so I will take care of him. He's quiet, very quiet; cannot read, write, or do any kind of math or understand any sciences, but he is clever. Resilient as well based on the beating he took. I've decided to take him to Masyaf with me- the boy deserves a home. My wife will not be pleased with the addition to our home, but maybe she will be- who knows, maybe Altaïr, Malik, and Kadar could be friends.
Altaïr ibn La-Ahad may be a son of none, but he will no longer be without a roof.
The report went on to say more of the mission details, how the assassin had attacked from above before escaping down the alleyways into the poor district, but Malik did not bother to comprehend what was written beyond the section for Altaïr.
The marks on Altaïr's back now made sense. Whip lashes. Malik had seen them on the slaves that came through Jerusalem; he felt foolish for only remembering now how the ghastly marks stretched and bled and left ugly strips of scar tissue that would never fully heal.
Malik no longer felt he deserved the information he had gathered.
Looking to his left, Malik saw two golden eyes, turned almost yellow by candlelight in the hallway (how long had that door been open? How long had Altaïr been standing there?) before they disappeared.
Of course he would know. Like his father had said before him, Malik thought Altaïr's eyes could see everything, even when closed. He was a fool for trying to escape their hawk-like sight. He felt like an idiot for thinking that reading these wretched reports would make him feel better. And above all, he felt like a complete and utter fool for ever believing that he would never forgive Altaïr ibn La-Ahad.
Getting up silently, Malik blew the candle out at the table before walking out into the hallway once again. Instead of heading towards his room (or lack thereof) he headed out to the main room. Altaïr sat there, silent as the grave, elbow's resting on his knee's as he studied his clasped hands in front of him. His hood was down, all his weapons stripped away, and Malik felt that Altaïr looked complete and utterly vulnerable, none of the old protections up around him, exposing him for what he really was under that assassin mask; a human being.
Those piercing eyes looked up at him, but Malik was surprised to find no anger in them. There honestly wasn't much of anything in that gaze. It was almost defeated. That was a troubling thought.
"Kadar knew."
Malik took a startled step back. "What?"
"He found out. I had that recalled some…unpleasant things. He found me hiding in a rooftop garden." Something deep and sad flickered in that gaze, but Altaïr didn't continue. He didn't feel he deserved to continue; telling Malik how much he missed Kadar and his open ear would only provoke the man.
Malik studied him for a long time before slowly going deeper into the room and sitting across from Altaïr. "What happened?"
Altaïr shrugged, uncomfortable. "It was an easy mission. Kill a priest. I did that, but….the priest had been in confession. The man who had been in there…" Altaïr shifted his position, bringing it a fraction inwards (something Malik only noticed due to years of training). "He used to be in charge of the gang I was in," said Altaïr, his tone almost whispery soft. "He talked about me. I couldn't adapt. I ran. I hid. I couldn't come back to the bureau like that; people would talk." He scoffed and avoided looking at Malik, feeling intense shame.
"What did he say?"
"What?" Altaïr looked at him owlishly, confused.
The rafiq rolled his eyes. "What did the man in confession say about you, novice?"
The title rolled off his tongue automatically and Malik instantly regretted it, cringing inside and ready to correct it, but the phrase actually seemed to warm Altaïr slightly, as if he was pretending it was said in affection rather than in disdain. Maybe, just maybe, it was.
"He talked about how he used me as an example," responded Altaïr. "A sort of…exhibition for what happened if you didn't bring in the required amount of money. We were all pickpockets, you see," he explained quickly, hurriedly. "None of us could do much else and, well…I was a terrible pickpocket. Still am." His hand scratched his head and mussed the hair that had been flattened under his hood. Altaïr's expression was flickering rapidly between fear and apprehension. "He, uh- He said he used another boy after me. As an example." There was a long moment of silence before he continued. "He died."
"Altaïr-"
"I'm sorry."
Malik stopped. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he said again, looking right at Malik before his eyes met the ground. "For Solomon's Temple. For your arm. F-For…Kadar. I never- I-I couldn't say it when it mattered most. I fear I've lost you forever from my life." He looked up at Malik, eyes desperate for an answer.
Silence greeted Altaïr and he bowed his head, his worst fears recognized.
"I cannot forgive you."
"I understand," came the quiet, overly calm reply. This was his last chance for redemption. Nine lives for his-? Worthless. Altaïr knew his worth.
"No, you don't." Altaïr's head lifted and gold met brown. "I cannot forgive you because you are not the same man who went with me to Solomon's Temple." The rafiq stood up and moved into a crouch next to Altaïr. "The wrong man is carrying the guilt. You need to forgive yourself, Altaïr. You are not the same man."
Altaïr suddenly felt like that young boy he used to be, alone in a dark alley once again with no hope in sight only to have someone drop in and save him. Emotion he'd suppressed for so long built up in Altaïr and he felt his throat closing up. His vision became blurry and he became concerned, hand touching his face and coming away wet. He sent a confused, worried look towards Malik.
The older man gently reached over and wiped underneath Altair's eyes and the touch was warm on his skin, lingering there even after Malik had pulled away. "W-What-" said Altair, deeply confused and conflicted. "W-What's happening?"
Malik's eyebrows furrowed, but he smiled wryly. "What? Never cried before?"
Altair flushed and looked away. "N-Not like this."
The rafiq laughed slightly. "I didn't know there were multiple ways to cry."
"I've never cried because I was happy."
Altaïr was never good with words. Malik didn't try and force him.