Codex (Assassin's Creed Short / Maltaïr)
Title: Codex
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Words: 840 in Word.
Pairings?: Malik/Altaïr, vaguely. Altaïr/Apple?
Summary: Altair is locked within his obsession. Short something from reading through all the Codex pages in AC2. Especially that last one. BAWWWWW BABY.
Malik guided his hand over the innumerable sheets of parchment strewn across the table, some ink rubbing his fingertips black, but for the most part, it had dried out long ago. As well, there were charcoal scribbles, half-hidden beneath neat copies in ink. Altaïr sat hunched over the table, his hand moving in a flurry as if possessed, the other cradling his temple. Malik picked up a stray sheet, looking over the figures in movement crudely scratched out by his Brother.
“Your drawings have improved.” He announced dryly. Altaïr did not react, too absorbed in his task. Malik grunted, scrunching up the paper with on hand and hurling it at the other’s head. It bounced off, almost comically, and at last Altaïr paused, looking up at his friend. Years rarely treated a man in their profession kindly, but for Altaïr, who after the death of Al Mualim had become consumed by research, it had been truly a monster. Premature greys already coloured streaks along his temples, jagged stabs of silver in his overgrown hair. He’d stopped shaving… Malik couldn’t remember when. His eyes were blood-shot and shadowed. He’d come a long way from the overconfident flea-bitten donkey Malik had known in younger days.
“What?”
The word might have been snapped, if his voice were not so powerless and hoarse. Malik felt a surge of hatred against the innocuous golden ball that had transformed Altaïr. He grabbed another paper, one of the instruction manuals for new assassination techniques.
“Your drawings. They actually look human now. It once looked like you dreamed of filling our order up with overweight cows. Though, really, these are scribblings the world would still be better off without.
Altaïr stared at Malik for a moment, and then formed a weak smile at the jab. Gone were the days of witty back-and-forth between them. It was all Malik to do for hope for even a small smile such as that, to acknowledge him. But in the haggard assassin’s eyes, Malik still saw the Apple. Thoughts of this and that, consuming his mind. Soon, Altaïr might not be able to be said to exist anymore. Only a convincing dummy that sat and scribbled, every day.
“Have you come to tempt me away from work with food, Malik?” Altaïr asked, and leant back in his chair. He couldn’t hide the relief of relaxing from his stiff posture, flexing his fingers. His hands shook.
“No food today, Altaïr. Only more words.”
Malik sat himself down beside Altaïr, shifting through the papers to see what had been accomplished since Malik had left him in the early gray hours of the morning, after staying up with him all night and pleading him to abandon this so-called quest for knowledge. As remarkable as it might all be, as much as it did for the brotherhood, as much as there was still left to learn and benefit from, Malik hated it all. Wished to burn it away to dust. He was not afraid to say that he missed his friend.
Altaïr scrubbed at his face with his hands, a shuddering sigh that stopped short of a sob wracking his shoulders into a fit. “I’m so tired,” he confessed, “afraid too. What is becoming of me, Malik?”
The opening was small, and Malik had to take it while he could. He gripped Altaïr’s shoulder with his hand, hard and painful, gritting out, “Come away. Abandon these studies. Destroy the Apple.” He crept his hand around Altaïr’s neck, pulling him sideways into his chest, resting his lips to the thinning crown of his friend. “Come back to me, Altaïr.
Altaïr turned his face into Malik’s chest, wrapping an arm around the other and breathing in the human scent of him. Not ink and paper, but flesh and blood and clean cotton. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he took a shuddery breath. He desperately wanted to fall into Malik’s arm and let the other lead him away, out of this accursed prison he’d crafted for himself and back into a life more familiar, and more humane. But the fever had already set in. As much as he might wish it, Altaïr knew there was no getting away. He pushed Malik away gently, looking up into dark, concerned eyes. He held Malik’s face in his hand, and saw a hopeful shine in his eyes. It made Altaïr want to escape all the more, if only for that idiot cripple, but…
He kissed him, gentle, deep and sudden, coloured with desperation and misery and obsession, and then abandoned his friend, turning back to half-finished notes and taking up his quill, eyes dulling with the stupor of mechanical obsession once more.
He heard the silence of Malik’s shock, and then tuned out everything. When he came to, it was dark once more. Someone had lit candles for him. It may have been Altaïr himself. Malik was gone, but food, now-stone cold, was left in its place. Altaïr blinked back tears, and took momentary reprieve from his prison to eat.
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Words: 840 in Word.
Pairings?: Malik/Altaïr, vaguely. Altaïr/Apple?
Summary: Altair is locked within his obsession. Short something from reading through all the Codex pages in AC2. Especially that last one. BAWWWWW BABY.
Malik guided his hand over the innumerable sheets of parchment strewn across the table, some ink rubbing his fingertips black, but for the most part, it had dried out long ago. As well, there were charcoal scribbles, half-hidden beneath neat copies in ink. Altaïr sat hunched over the table, his hand moving in a flurry as if possessed, the other cradling his temple. Malik picked up a stray sheet, looking over the figures in movement crudely scratched out by his Brother.
“Your drawings have improved.” He announced dryly. Altaïr did not react, too absorbed in his task. Malik grunted, scrunching up the paper with on hand and hurling it at the other’s head. It bounced off, almost comically, and at last Altaïr paused, looking up at his friend. Years rarely treated a man in their profession kindly, but for Altaïr, who after the death of Al Mualim had become consumed by research, it had been truly a monster. Premature greys already coloured streaks along his temples, jagged stabs of silver in his overgrown hair. He’d stopped shaving… Malik couldn’t remember when. His eyes were blood-shot and shadowed. He’d come a long way from the overconfident flea-bitten donkey Malik had known in younger days.
“What?”
The word might have been snapped, if his voice were not so powerless and hoarse. Malik felt a surge of hatred against the innocuous golden ball that had transformed Altaïr. He grabbed another paper, one of the instruction manuals for new assassination techniques.
“Your drawings. They actually look human now. It once looked like you dreamed of filling our order up with overweight cows. Though, really, these are scribblings the world would still be better off without.
Altaïr stared at Malik for a moment, and then formed a weak smile at the jab. Gone were the days of witty back-and-forth between them. It was all Malik to do for hope for even a small smile such as that, to acknowledge him. But in the haggard assassin’s eyes, Malik still saw the Apple. Thoughts of this and that, consuming his mind. Soon, Altaïr might not be able to be said to exist anymore. Only a convincing dummy that sat and scribbled, every day.
“Have you come to tempt me away from work with food, Malik?” Altaïr asked, and leant back in his chair. He couldn’t hide the relief of relaxing from his stiff posture, flexing his fingers. His hands shook.
“No food today, Altaïr. Only more words.”
Malik sat himself down beside Altaïr, shifting through the papers to see what had been accomplished since Malik had left him in the early gray hours of the morning, after staying up with him all night and pleading him to abandon this so-called quest for knowledge. As remarkable as it might all be, as much as it did for the brotherhood, as much as there was still left to learn and benefit from, Malik hated it all. Wished to burn it away to dust. He was not afraid to say that he missed his friend.
Altaïr scrubbed at his face with his hands, a shuddering sigh that stopped short of a sob wracking his shoulders into a fit. “I’m so tired,” he confessed, “afraid too. What is becoming of me, Malik?”
The opening was small, and Malik had to take it while he could. He gripped Altaïr’s shoulder with his hand, hard and painful, gritting out, “Come away. Abandon these studies. Destroy the Apple.” He crept his hand around Altaïr’s neck, pulling him sideways into his chest, resting his lips to the thinning crown of his friend. “Come back to me, Altaïr.
Altaïr turned his face into Malik’s chest, wrapping an arm around the other and breathing in the human scent of him. Not ink and paper, but flesh and blood and clean cotton. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he took a shuddery breath. He desperately wanted to fall into Malik’s arm and let the other lead him away, out of this accursed prison he’d crafted for himself and back into a life more familiar, and more humane. But the fever had already set in. As much as he might wish it, Altaïr knew there was no getting away. He pushed Malik away gently, looking up into dark, concerned eyes. He held Malik’s face in his hand, and saw a hopeful shine in his eyes. It made Altaïr want to escape all the more, if only for that idiot cripple, but…
He kissed him, gentle, deep and sudden, coloured with desperation and misery and obsession, and then abandoned his friend, turning back to half-finished notes and taking up his quill, eyes dulling with the stupor of mechanical obsession once more.
He heard the silence of Malik’s shock, and then tuned out everything. When he came to, it was dark once more. Someone had lit candles for him. It may have been Altaïr himself. Malik was gone, but food, now-stone cold, was left in its place. Altaïr blinked back tears, and took momentary reprieve from his prison to eat.