03 - [Assassin's Creed] summer make good for all our sins
Rating: R
Characters: altair, garnier and al-mualim
Fandom: gay assassins
Summary: dead birds beating on air, pinned against a desk!
Notes: gore gore gore gore gore. also, bad end.
he still has that taste of blood around his teeth and he can feel it clinging to his mouth permanently like a ghost as he runs his tongue nervously around and in it. altair is screaming. or he would, if he could, but his tongue has frozen mid-scream and all he has done, so far, is to open his mouth and say:
nothing.
nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
perhaps if he repeats the silence and that choking-gaping-wide open pitiful clutching of words with his chapped lips opening and closing like the valves of his heart he might produce a sound.
the other thing that happens: he can't see. his eyesight is a snow of white. he'd seen snow before, when he traveled far enough to the mountains up in the east, white and cold like death and like nothing else he'd seen before. in freezing he thought that his teeth would shatter like glass. but his teeth are still intact and though he's left the snow forever the snow is back over his eyes, now, the world a fuzzy mess of grey and white.
and he can still taste blood from his frozen tongue and teeth.
the spell works like this: that altair would have his hands stretched open and pinned down, gently, by touch and pressure over his frail wrists turning blue. one hand over his head. the other over his head and over his wrist. his feet spread open. he has no clothes. his body is arched against the wooden table and al-mualim presses a finger against his throat and altair chokes.
"my ears are still bleeding," al-mualim says.
"you weren't paying attention. or would you rather i be honest?" garnier washes his hands with warm water on a wooden bucket and picks up a huge knife. "it's not like it mattered to you when his teeth pressed against your skin."
there's a sound of laughter being stifled through weathered hands, and both men smile at each other like they've just shared a joke. altair couldn't see but he is certain of this. the problem of being speechless, of being isolated, is that the words ring heavily in his head and altair rings like a bell: against your skin against your skin against your skin against your skin.
he is still trying to form words with his mouth when al-mualim lifted the pressure from his throat and watches him try to speak like a dying fish.
"perhaps, if you repeat that, it'd mean something ... " garnier soothes and consoles. he covers his hands in oils and massages the skin over altair's belly, making it soft and pliable and warm. the oils were sweet-smelling, a cloying smell that lingered in fingers and curves and dips of his body. an aberration. "any moment now, altair. any moment now."
he stabs the middle of his abdomen, and pulls the knife to the west -- "al-gharb." -- in a smooth stroke to the east -- "ash-sharq." -- back to the middle where it pools blood and warmth and his innards threaten to spill, and up north -- "ash-sha-maal." -- and down to the middle and twisting it to make the blood pulse more and down south to end the lust from old withered hands and a dying dream -- "al-ja-nuub."
altair can't scream, but if he could, he would be outraged, and then he would laugh and remember sibrand screaming in acre and he can imagine the two of them can have a pitiful laugh at their bodies. look, brother, we match, he would say, and sibrand would see that it is no less red than the one over his chest and by god, aren't they pitiful little monsters that feed on ambition and truth like vultures, or peddled for it like whores between templars and ambitious bastards.
the world is still white and grey to him and dimly he can hear:
"where next?"
garnier plunges his hands into his stomach and opens the contents. out pours the blood and the rage and his warmth and garnier almost withdraws his hand in the heat, but he keeps it steady. it is good for his arthritis. he cuts his liver out and flays it open like a dead bird on his hands and reads.
"back to acre, so it seems."
al-mualim sniffs in disdain. "he was just there."
"well, the ports are still wide open. maester sibrand never finished the preparations; he was too busy chasing demons from inside his skull."
"the fool. well then, clean up, and i will tell the rest of them to prepare."
garnier says nothing, but he moves to wash his hands and instructs his students to pay no attention to the dead bird on his table. he will come back to it soon for its skull and liver.
the dead bird says nothing but it still tries to open its mouth wider and move its tongue to speak. perhaps if it repeats the action again and again and again something will stir inside of its heart and move him. as of now he slumbers beneath spells and the choking smell of its own blood and it still can taste the blood on its teeth.
Characters: altair, garnier and al-mualim
Fandom: gay assassins
Summary: dead birds beating on air, pinned against a desk!
Notes: gore gore gore gore gore. also, bad end.
he still has that taste of blood around his teeth and he can feel it clinging to his mouth permanently like a ghost as he runs his tongue nervously around and in it. altair is screaming. or he would, if he could, but his tongue has frozen mid-scream and all he has done, so far, is to open his mouth and say:
nothing.
nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
perhaps if he repeats the silence and that choking-gaping-wide open pitiful clutching of words with his chapped lips opening and closing like the valves of his heart he might produce a sound.
the other thing that happens: he can't see. his eyesight is a snow of white. he'd seen snow before, when he traveled far enough to the mountains up in the east, white and cold like death and like nothing else he'd seen before. in freezing he thought that his teeth would shatter like glass. but his teeth are still intact and though he's left the snow forever the snow is back over his eyes, now, the world a fuzzy mess of grey and white.
and he can still taste blood from his frozen tongue and teeth.
the spell works like this: that altair would have his hands stretched open and pinned down, gently, by touch and pressure over his frail wrists turning blue. one hand over his head. the other over his head and over his wrist. his feet spread open. he has no clothes. his body is arched against the wooden table and al-mualim presses a finger against his throat and altair chokes.
"my ears are still bleeding," al-mualim says.
"you weren't paying attention. or would you rather i be honest?" garnier washes his hands with warm water on a wooden bucket and picks up a huge knife. "it's not like it mattered to you when his teeth pressed against your skin."
there's a sound of laughter being stifled through weathered hands, and both men smile at each other like they've just shared a joke. altair couldn't see but he is certain of this. the problem of being speechless, of being isolated, is that the words ring heavily in his head and altair rings like a bell: against your skin against your skin against your skin against your skin.
he is still trying to form words with his mouth when al-mualim lifted the pressure from his throat and watches him try to speak like a dying fish.
"perhaps, if you repeat that, it'd mean something ... " garnier soothes and consoles. he covers his hands in oils and massages the skin over altair's belly, making it soft and pliable and warm. the oils were sweet-smelling, a cloying smell that lingered in fingers and curves and dips of his body. an aberration. "any moment now, altair. any moment now."
he stabs the middle of his abdomen, and pulls the knife to the west -- "al-gharb." -- in a smooth stroke to the east -- "ash-sharq." -- back to the middle where it pools blood and warmth and his innards threaten to spill, and up north -- "ash-sha-maal." -- and down to the middle and twisting it to make the blood pulse more and down south to end the lust from old withered hands and a dying dream -- "al-ja-nuub."
altair can't scream, but if he could, he would be outraged, and then he would laugh and remember sibrand screaming in acre and he can imagine the two of them can have a pitiful laugh at their bodies. look, brother, we match, he would say, and sibrand would see that it is no less red than the one over his chest and by god, aren't they pitiful little monsters that feed on ambition and truth like vultures, or peddled for it like whores between templars and ambitious bastards.
the world is still white and grey to him and dimly he can hear:
"where next?"
garnier plunges his hands into his stomach and opens the contents. out pours the blood and the rage and his warmth and garnier almost withdraws his hand in the heat, but he keeps it steady. it is good for his arthritis. he cuts his liver out and flays it open like a dead bird on his hands and reads.
"back to acre, so it seems."
al-mualim sniffs in disdain. "he was just there."
"well, the ports are still wide open. maester sibrand never finished the preparations; he was too busy chasing demons from inside his skull."
"the fool. well then, clean up, and i will tell the rest of them to prepare."
garnier says nothing, but he moves to wash his hands and instructs his students to pay no attention to the dead bird on his table. he will come back to it soon for its skull and liver.
the dead bird says nothing but it still tries to open its mouth wider and move its tongue to speak. perhaps if it repeats the action again and again and again something will stir inside of its heart and move him. as of now he slumbers beneath spells and the choking smell of its own blood and it still can taste the blood on its teeth.