What We Lose
What We Lose
The room was spotless. The bed was made properly, the tapestries hung sharply, the ground free of dirt and blood. Malik watches as Altair stares about the room, searching for an upturned vase or a messily laid rug, only to find the room completely, disturbingly spotless. There were no signs of a struggle.
He walks unsteadily to the bed and sits down, burying his face in his hands as Malik slowly follows behind him.
"I should have known," he says, and Malik finds it strange to hear the tight misery in his voice; that the voice of Altair - their tireless and dauntless Master Assassin - was pitched low with resign and quavered with helplessness.
"Yes, you should have," he agrees, but quietly, with less bite than he might have added two years before.
That was also strange. Malik had expected to feel more grim satisfaction out of this, rather than this vague sense of empathy and regret. He had warned Altair against keeping the Templar woman alive, much less allowed within Masyaf, but Altair had ignored him.
"She said that her eyes had been turned, that her heart had changed," Altair continues, muttering into his hands. "Her eyes spoke of sincerity under the glow of moonlight."
And now she is gone, with only a note from a carrier pigeon that she had ever existed. The bird had flown in when the two had been carefully discussing the affairs of the brotherhood, still wary of breaking the unspoken, fragile truce that had begun to twine between them since Al Mualim's death had necessitated it. Altair had frowned as he rolled open the note, and his face had quickly drained of blood as he read it. Just as Malik was about to demand what had happened, a novice had burst in, explaining between harsh breaths that the Acre woman's bodyguard had been discovered drugged and stripped, and the woman herself had disappeared.
Malik snorts without humor. "She has always been good at deception."
"I know that! I knew that from the first we met!" Altair exclaims, throwing his hands into the air.
Standing up abruptly, he begins pacing the room, speaking agitatedly. "I knew I could not trust the words of a woman who would dress up as a man and be willing to sacrifice herself for her cause. I knew all of this, and remained wary of my otherwise welcome distraction. But…"
At this he stops and looks at Malik, who almost lowers his eyes when faced with the hurt behind Altair's hard gaze. Altair does it for him, turning his head jerkily towards a cradle, the newest piece of furniture in the room.
"But she carries our child, Malik," he whispers. "And I thought…"
You've only reaped what you've sown, a small portion of Malik thinks. You have lost us a countless number of brethren. You lost me my brother and my arm - it was time for you to lose something of your own.
But he cannot dredge up the same scathing, angry sentiment that should match the thought, particularly since the thought did not match the man standing in front of him today. So instead of voicing them, he reaches out with his hand and grips Altair's shoulder tightly, forcing the brotherhood's Master to give his attention to his second-in-command.
"We lose many things in our lives, Altair," Malik says, looking intently into Altair's eyes. "But we learn to live without them."
The same eyes flicker down to the pinned up sleeve on Malik's left shoulder, and Altair utters a weary chuckle.
"I suppose we do."
Malik nods curtly. "I will send word for our brethren to search-"
"A vain attempt," Altair interrupts. "The woman was difficult enough to catch when she wished to be caught. I would not waste our time."
Privately, Malik thinks the same. He also doesn't care to have her back, whether she carries Altair's child or not - the child, like he and its father, would learn to survive without a family. But he does not like how easily Altair surrenders.
"Be that as it may, I will send word," he says firmly. "There is no harm in that."
He releases his grip on Altair's shoulder, but the way his normally self-assured leader will not meet his eyes still troubles him, and he finds himself lingering, his hand falling to Altair's bicep and tightening again. Altair breathes deeply when he does this, and raises his own hand to squeeze Malik's fingers. His hand is warm and ridiculously gentle for someone raised in their harsh profession, and Malik thinks somewhere in his mind that despite his shortcomings, Altair would have made a good father.
"I will be fine," Altair says gruffly. "…Thank you."
Malik nods again, withdrawing completely this time. He steps back, bowing slightly in farewell. "Then I will take my leave. Safety and peace, brother."
He is halfway out the door when Altair barks from behind him. "Malik!"
Stopping, he turns back to the other assassin, who still does not look at him and is instead staring at the cradle, his fingertips lightly touching the polished wood.
"I trust… I trust that you will not be among my losses," Altair says, every word slow and painstaking and sincere.
A strange feeling rises in Malik's chest, a dull ache of warmth and softness. It is strange, like so many things he feels today, but somehow familiar. It brings to mind a vague echo of children's voices, bickering and laughing freely, of crinkling golden eyes, untainted by the responsibilities of adulthood and the blood of slaughter. It reminds him of soft kisses and innocent touches, of exasperation and affection not yet twisted with frustration and anger and hate. It reminds him of a boy he once knew who had turned into a man he once despised, and of what he had thought he not only lost but intentionally stamped out of existence.
"Once, perhaps, and someday again," he says, turning to the door. "But not this one. Rest, Altair."
Love was a hard thing to lose, after all.
AN: Three years later they find Altair's daughter and raise her together as an unbearably cute and domestic assassin family. THAT'S MY STORY AND I'M STICKING TO IT.
The room was spotless. The bed was made properly, the tapestries hung sharply, the ground free of dirt and blood. Malik watches as Altair stares about the room, searching for an upturned vase or a messily laid rug, only to find the room completely, disturbingly spotless. There were no signs of a struggle.
He walks unsteadily to the bed and sits down, burying his face in his hands as Malik slowly follows behind him.
"I should have known," he says, and Malik finds it strange to hear the tight misery in his voice; that the voice of Altair - their tireless and dauntless Master Assassin - was pitched low with resign and quavered with helplessness.
"Yes, you should have," he agrees, but quietly, with less bite than he might have added two years before.
That was also strange. Malik had expected to feel more grim satisfaction out of this, rather than this vague sense of empathy and regret. He had warned Altair against keeping the Templar woman alive, much less allowed within Masyaf, but Altair had ignored him.
"She said that her eyes had been turned, that her heart had changed," Altair continues, muttering into his hands. "Her eyes spoke of sincerity under the glow of moonlight."
And now she is gone, with only a note from a carrier pigeon that she had ever existed. The bird had flown in when the two had been carefully discussing the affairs of the brotherhood, still wary of breaking the unspoken, fragile truce that had begun to twine between them since Al Mualim's death had necessitated it. Altair had frowned as he rolled open the note, and his face had quickly drained of blood as he read it. Just as Malik was about to demand what had happened, a novice had burst in, explaining between harsh breaths that the Acre woman's bodyguard had been discovered drugged and stripped, and the woman herself had disappeared.
Malik snorts without humor. "She has always been good at deception."
"I know that! I knew that from the first we met!" Altair exclaims, throwing his hands into the air.
Standing up abruptly, he begins pacing the room, speaking agitatedly. "I knew I could not trust the words of a woman who would dress up as a man and be willing to sacrifice herself for her cause. I knew all of this, and remained wary of my otherwise welcome distraction. But…"
At this he stops and looks at Malik, who almost lowers his eyes when faced with the hurt behind Altair's hard gaze. Altair does it for him, turning his head jerkily towards a cradle, the newest piece of furniture in the room.
"But she carries our child, Malik," he whispers. "And I thought…"
You've only reaped what you've sown, a small portion of Malik thinks. You have lost us a countless number of brethren. You lost me my brother and my arm - it was time for you to lose something of your own.
But he cannot dredge up the same scathing, angry sentiment that should match the thought, particularly since the thought did not match the man standing in front of him today. So instead of voicing them, he reaches out with his hand and grips Altair's shoulder tightly, forcing the brotherhood's Master to give his attention to his second-in-command.
"We lose many things in our lives, Altair," Malik says, looking intently into Altair's eyes. "But we learn to live without them."
The same eyes flicker down to the pinned up sleeve on Malik's left shoulder, and Altair utters a weary chuckle.
"I suppose we do."
Malik nods curtly. "I will send word for our brethren to search-"
"A vain attempt," Altair interrupts. "The woman was difficult enough to catch when she wished to be caught. I would not waste our time."
Privately, Malik thinks the same. He also doesn't care to have her back, whether she carries Altair's child or not - the child, like he and its father, would learn to survive without a family. But he does not like how easily Altair surrenders.
"Be that as it may, I will send word," he says firmly. "There is no harm in that."
He releases his grip on Altair's shoulder, but the way his normally self-assured leader will not meet his eyes still troubles him, and he finds himself lingering, his hand falling to Altair's bicep and tightening again. Altair breathes deeply when he does this, and raises his own hand to squeeze Malik's fingers. His hand is warm and ridiculously gentle for someone raised in their harsh profession, and Malik thinks somewhere in his mind that despite his shortcomings, Altair would have made a good father.
"I will be fine," Altair says gruffly. "…Thank you."
Malik nods again, withdrawing completely this time. He steps back, bowing slightly in farewell. "Then I will take my leave. Safety and peace, brother."
He is halfway out the door when Altair barks from behind him. "Malik!"
Stopping, he turns back to the other assassin, who still does not look at him and is instead staring at the cradle, his fingertips lightly touching the polished wood.
"I trust… I trust that you will not be among my losses," Altair says, every word slow and painstaking and sincere.
A strange feeling rises in Malik's chest, a dull ache of warmth and softness. It is strange, like so many things he feels today, but somehow familiar. It brings to mind a vague echo of children's voices, bickering and laughing freely, of crinkling golden eyes, untainted by the responsibilities of adulthood and the blood of slaughter. It reminds him of soft kisses and innocent touches, of exasperation and affection not yet twisted with frustration and anger and hate. It reminds him of a boy he once knew who had turned into a man he once despised, and of what he had thought he not only lost but intentionally stamped out of existence.
"Once, perhaps, and someday again," he says, turning to the door. "But not this one. Rest, Altair."
Love was a hard thing to lose, after all.
AN: Three years later they find Altair's daughter and raise her together as an unbearably cute and domestic assassin family. THAT'S MY STORY AND I'M STICKING TO IT.