Are You Challenging Me?
“You know, you should kill the person who told you that glare was scary.”
The rich, almost exotic accent jolted Altair Ibn La-Ahad out of his vain attempts to intimidate a mirror and he scowled into the smeared reflective surface. Oh, certainly Altair was used to that mocking voice, day in, day out, constantly running him down, but when it became almost a ritual for him, it became nothing less than infuriating.
The novice assassin refused to put down the mirror though, out of sheer contrariness: he kept it held aloft, as an excuse to not turn and face his less-than-welcome companion, even though that was the polite thing to do. Altair tweaked the angle of the mirror so that the person behind him could be seen without turning around: a short, skinny, tanned someone, with an amused expression and playful wickedness glittering in his chocolate brown eyes.
“You know,” Altair quipped back bitingly. “You should realise that your name is a few letters away from ‘malice’, Malik.”
Malik Al-Sayr snorted, shaking his head, smiling and crossing his arms: he looked uncannily like a disdainful elder, bemused at the antics of an ignorant toddler. The surreal effect was heightened by the fact that he hadn’t even hit his eighteenth birthday yet, was several inches shorter than La-Ahad and still wore the earth brown robes of the novice assassin. Altair, being nearly twenty, had been promoted to the white robes of the expert assassin once he had passed the trials. Even though Altair was his senior, Malik left the impression that he was in charge.
“Ah, Altair, my only joy in life is to torment you incessantly until you succumb to the combination that is my sharp wit and superior good looks,” the brunette grinned. “You can understand that, right? Until I conveniently fall into a pit of snakes, impale myself on a pitchfork or become a Templar’s pet trophy, I’ll be your shadow: always happily on hand to crush your self esteem and rip your dignity to shreds, all day, every day.”
Altair finally graced Malik’s presence by turning around on his heel and blinked his storm grey eyes down at him. “Wow,” he said mordantly, arching an eyebrow. “You must have rehearsed that speech for a while.”
“A week, actually,” said Malik primly, nodding shortly.
“You sad, sad creature, Al-Sayr,” snorted Altair, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s a small wonder that I survived over a decade of you.”
“Oy, it’s not like you don’t have a hateful vendetta speech in your head somewhere, labelled ‘Recite this to Malik when he’s dying gruesomely and painfully.’”
Altair smirked, noticeably not denying this accusation. “Like you said, I’m saving that gleefully for when you’re bleeding out in front of me and I can laugh in your face and kick your body parts around a little.”
Malik smiled and shook his head. “And with that lovely thought in mind…”
“Oh, spit it out already,” said Altair impatiently.
“Mind coming out with me to the courtyard to spar?” the brunette asked in an uninterested tone.
“…it’s the middle of the night.”’
“So? My mission doesn’t start until dawn tomorrow and I’m bored to tears. Unless,” Malik added wickedly, leaning forward. “You think you can’t beat me.”
Altair made a derisive noise and stared down at the shorter assassin. “Are you actually challenging me?” He said disbelievingly. “You’re a fourth level novice; I’m a fully fledged assassin. I could beat you with one arm tied behind my back.”
Unbelievingly, Malik yawned, in that odd little feline way, and Altair gaped at his blasé manner. “Your theatrics are so tedious, Altair,” he said tiredly, but still managed a sly smirk. “If you don’t want to spar with me, you can just say so, instead of blathering on about your imaginary prowess.”
The older assassin spluttered for a moment, before regaining his composure and stretching to his full height. “Malik, you insufferable little know-it-all, I accept your challenge. I sincerely hope you’re ready to be pounded into next week.”
“I’m shaking in my boots,” the brunette said dryly. He turned on his heel and beckoned idly. “Come on then, some of us aren’t getting any younger.”
“Have I mentioned how much I hate you recently?”
“Not since this morning, no. I was wondering if you started liking me or something,” Malik shuddered melodramatically.
“Heaven forbid.”
The sparring ring was, unsurprisingly, empty. The trainees who normally occupied it and the instructor who usually bellowed orders were absent, sensibly asleep in their barracks in the fortress. It was eerily quiet as well; the only sound shattering the silence was the sound of their breathing, their footsteps on the stone and the slight clanking of their weapons. Altair breathed out experimentally and frowned as his warm breath cooled in the chilly night air and shivered.
“Could have chosen a warmer night, Malik-nazir,” Altair said gloomily, scaling the wooden fence of the sparring ring and hopping down the other side. “I’m going to freeze to death out here.”
Malik rolled his eyes, pulling off his earth brown robes and pulled out his twin swords. “Well then, shut up, start sparring and you can warm up that way.”
“You have to justify everything, don’t you?” grumbled Altair, unsheathing his broadsword and falling into a relaxed defensive stance, knees bent slightly. “Come on then, I’m certain you’re dying to start.”
His hopes of flattening his rival in a short, sharp sparring match were swiftly squashed as Malik got that look in his eyes when he thought of something insane. “That’s not very interesting though,” the brunette said slowly, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “We’ve got to make this unique somehow…”
Altair stabbed the point of his sword into the ground impatiently. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said irritably, voice dripping with sarcasm. “How about blindfolded and gagged?”
Malik’s eyes lit up. Altair groaned. “I take it back, I take it back… blindfolded is alright, but I refuse to be gagged.”
“Why not?”
“I’d like to be free to swear and curse at you when you run me through with those sharp sticks of yours.”
An offended pout was his answer. “You’re so crude, Altair, they’re scimitars. Say it with me, scimitars.”
“Sharp sticks.” Altair grinned, untying his red sash and looping it around Malik’s eyes. The indignant brunette squirmed away from him but then resigned himself forlornly to being blinded by swathes of dark red cloth.
“Stop breathing on my neck,” the brunette snapped to dispel the awkward silence. He didn’t like the situation he was in; completely at Altair’s mercy, loathing, loving and leaning into his touch, like some infatuated girl. It was pathetic, to be perfectly honest.
Altair snorted, tying the knot then stepping back a few paces to tie his own blindfold around his eyes. “Ever the paranoid one.”
“Well, you aren’t exactly the epitome of trust, either…” Malik grumbled, reaching for his scimitars and holding them ready: one stabbing forwards, the other backwards. “Ready when you are.”
“All set.”
Predictably, Altair made the first move, by wildly and boldly swinging his broadsword in the direction of Malik’s breathing. The brunette heard the whistling of the metal as it sliced through the air, spun around and blocked the blow with his scimitars. Forcing them into an impenetrable X-shape, he braced himself then shoved out at Altair, making him stumble backwards. The twin swords danced through the night air, barely missing the side of the assassin’s face: it was so close, that Altair felt the cold of the metal against his cheek.
He swung his sword upwards to parry the scimitars away and rolled out of harm’s reach, rising to his feet in stilted motions. Uneasily, Altair took a step backwards as his keen ears picked up the sound of Malik moving forward, the pebbles shifting underneath his feet. He carefully and quietly moved to the side of his rival, before striking as fast as a snake, lunging forward with his sword in - what he hoped was - Malik’s direction.
Altair’s aim must have been true because he heard a sharp intake of breath and as he tugged his sword free, he heard the distinct sound of ripping fabric. Being blindfolded and having no idea what had just happened, Malik had to hazard a guess as to what happened: somehow Altair missed his mark and cut his shirt off instead of scoring a hit. It was evident when the cold night air suddenly hit him mercilessly, his skin breaking out into relentless gooseflesh: he felt the shredded cotton shirt fall limply off his lean shoulders and hastily tossed it aside. The brunette then cautiously stepped backwards, trying to maintain a safe distance between him and his rival, although his scimitars were always pointed in the direction of Altair’s breathing.
“You’re good, I’ll give you that,” Malik begrudgingly admitted, though his tone turned playful. “But come now, Altair: you’re supposed to be one of the best in the Brotherhood: you’re supposed to kill me, not strip me.”
“What?” was Altair’s befuddled answer, his quiet voice laced with amusement. “Wait, let me see…”
“No!” shouted Malik in embarrassment, bringing his scimitars closer to his bare chest, in a feeble attempt to maintain his dignity. “You dare take that blindfold off!”
“Fine, fine, I won’t look…” said Altair languidly, smirking as he lifted up the folds of his blindfold with an index finger and looking his shirtless rival up and down. Drops of warm sweat were trickling down his lean muscles and tanned skin. He lazily licked his lips and stealthily took the blindfold completely off. “Nice scars, Malik.”
“You looked!” Malik howled, shaking one of his scimitars. “I hate you!” He furiously tried to reach his own blindfold, but wailed as he realised that Altair had tightly triple-knotted it, making it impossible to untie or lift. “Oh, you sneaky, conniving, lecherous bastard! You did that on purpose!”
"I did indeed," smirked Altair. "What are you going to do about it?"
Lapsing into a steady, fluid stream of Arabic curses, Malik swung forward wildly with his swords, taking Altair completely by surprise. In fact, it was so much of a surprise that it took a while for the assassin to realise that it was suddenly colder around his legs. What remained of his soft brown leather leggings were in a sad torn heap on the stone floor. Altair gaped for a second, and then scowled at Malik, who was grinning triumphantly… in the wrong direction, thanks to the blindfold.
“You’re going to pay for that, my friend,” he swore.
“Friend is a little stretch of the imagination, isn’t it, Altair?” enquired Malik sweetly, poison dripping off every word.
“You’re right,” said Altair, in a mockingly disappointed voice. “You just want it to be more or less, don’t you, Malik?”
The air suddenly turned frigid, even by Masayf’s standards. “What do you mean by that?” asked Malik coldly, mouth turning very dry all of a sudden.
Altair shrugged his broad shoulders, propping his sword up and pacing around like a restless wildcat. “I’m just saying,” he said innocently. “That you may or may not want to be complete enemies or something more with me.”
“Elaborate, if you please,” growled Malik icily, blindly blinking as he heard the older assassin circled him warily.
As a response, Altair rushed forwards, unsheathing his hidden blade. He slammed the brunette against the wooden barricade and yanked his head back, fingers seizing Malik’s brown hair. The younger assassin didn’t make a sound; lips curling in a shaky attempt at disdain and disinterest, even as he felt the metal slash somewhere near his belly. Blinded and with his blood pounding in his ears, Malik thought that the madman had finally killed him. Although when he realised that his leggings had fallen instead of blood, he swore and tried to wriggle out of Altair’s grip. The older assassin merely laughed and pinned down his bucking, lean body, ignoring Malik’s incensed shouts to let go.
“This is me elaborating, Malik-nazir,” panted Altair, with a grin on his face, his hot breath caressing the brunette’s tanned cheek. “You’re enjoying this, I can tell. Shall I continue?”
“Altair, you have a sick and twisted view on romance,” informed Malik lightly, trying to hide the tremors in his voice, eyelashes grazing the inside of the blindfold.
"Sick and twisted?" repeated Altair, almost incredulously. "No, more along the lines of intimate and intimidating."
"Oh, because that sounds much better." Malik snorted. “And while we’re still playing this ridiculous game, I bet you’re a lousy kisser.”
The brunette suddenly felt warm breath cool on his moist lips and had to repress a shiver. “Well, why don’t you prove me wrong?” came the answering purr.
It took a few seconds for it all to sink in, and when it did, Malik smirked. “Is that a challenge?”
The rich, almost exotic accent jolted Altair Ibn La-Ahad out of his vain attempts to intimidate a mirror and he scowled into the smeared reflective surface. Oh, certainly Altair was used to that mocking voice, day in, day out, constantly running him down, but when it became almost a ritual for him, it became nothing less than infuriating.
The novice assassin refused to put down the mirror though, out of sheer contrariness: he kept it held aloft, as an excuse to not turn and face his less-than-welcome companion, even though that was the polite thing to do. Altair tweaked the angle of the mirror so that the person behind him could be seen without turning around: a short, skinny, tanned someone, with an amused expression and playful wickedness glittering in his chocolate brown eyes.
“You know,” Altair quipped back bitingly. “You should realise that your name is a few letters away from ‘malice’, Malik.”
Malik Al-Sayr snorted, shaking his head, smiling and crossing his arms: he looked uncannily like a disdainful elder, bemused at the antics of an ignorant toddler. The surreal effect was heightened by the fact that he hadn’t even hit his eighteenth birthday yet, was several inches shorter than La-Ahad and still wore the earth brown robes of the novice assassin. Altair, being nearly twenty, had been promoted to the white robes of the expert assassin once he had passed the trials. Even though Altair was his senior, Malik left the impression that he was in charge.
“Ah, Altair, my only joy in life is to torment you incessantly until you succumb to the combination that is my sharp wit and superior good looks,” the brunette grinned. “You can understand that, right? Until I conveniently fall into a pit of snakes, impale myself on a pitchfork or become a Templar’s pet trophy, I’ll be your shadow: always happily on hand to crush your self esteem and rip your dignity to shreds, all day, every day.”
Altair finally graced Malik’s presence by turning around on his heel and blinked his storm grey eyes down at him. “Wow,” he said mordantly, arching an eyebrow. “You must have rehearsed that speech for a while.”
“A week, actually,” said Malik primly, nodding shortly.
“You sad, sad creature, Al-Sayr,” snorted Altair, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s a small wonder that I survived over a decade of you.”
“Oy, it’s not like you don’t have a hateful vendetta speech in your head somewhere, labelled ‘Recite this to Malik when he’s dying gruesomely and painfully.’”
Altair smirked, noticeably not denying this accusation. “Like you said, I’m saving that gleefully for when you’re bleeding out in front of me and I can laugh in your face and kick your body parts around a little.”
Malik smiled and shook his head. “And with that lovely thought in mind…”
“Oh, spit it out already,” said Altair impatiently.
“Mind coming out with me to the courtyard to spar?” the brunette asked in an uninterested tone.
“…it’s the middle of the night.”’
“So? My mission doesn’t start until dawn tomorrow and I’m bored to tears. Unless,” Malik added wickedly, leaning forward. “You think you can’t beat me.”
Altair made a derisive noise and stared down at the shorter assassin. “Are you actually challenging me?” He said disbelievingly. “You’re a fourth level novice; I’m a fully fledged assassin. I could beat you with one arm tied behind my back.”
Unbelievingly, Malik yawned, in that odd little feline way, and Altair gaped at his blasé manner. “Your theatrics are so tedious, Altair,” he said tiredly, but still managed a sly smirk. “If you don’t want to spar with me, you can just say so, instead of blathering on about your imaginary prowess.”
The older assassin spluttered for a moment, before regaining his composure and stretching to his full height. “Malik, you insufferable little know-it-all, I accept your challenge. I sincerely hope you’re ready to be pounded into next week.”
“I’m shaking in my boots,” the brunette said dryly. He turned on his heel and beckoned idly. “Come on then, some of us aren’t getting any younger.”
“Have I mentioned how much I hate you recently?”
“Not since this morning, no. I was wondering if you started liking me or something,” Malik shuddered melodramatically.
“Heaven forbid.”
The sparring ring was, unsurprisingly, empty. The trainees who normally occupied it and the instructor who usually bellowed orders were absent, sensibly asleep in their barracks in the fortress. It was eerily quiet as well; the only sound shattering the silence was the sound of their breathing, their footsteps on the stone and the slight clanking of their weapons. Altair breathed out experimentally and frowned as his warm breath cooled in the chilly night air and shivered.
“Could have chosen a warmer night, Malik-nazir,” Altair said gloomily, scaling the wooden fence of the sparring ring and hopping down the other side. “I’m going to freeze to death out here.”
Malik rolled his eyes, pulling off his earth brown robes and pulled out his twin swords. “Well then, shut up, start sparring and you can warm up that way.”
“You have to justify everything, don’t you?” grumbled Altair, unsheathing his broadsword and falling into a relaxed defensive stance, knees bent slightly. “Come on then, I’m certain you’re dying to start.”
His hopes of flattening his rival in a short, sharp sparring match were swiftly squashed as Malik got that look in his eyes when he thought of something insane. “That’s not very interesting though,” the brunette said slowly, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “We’ve got to make this unique somehow…”
Altair stabbed the point of his sword into the ground impatiently. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said irritably, voice dripping with sarcasm. “How about blindfolded and gagged?”
Malik’s eyes lit up. Altair groaned. “I take it back, I take it back… blindfolded is alright, but I refuse to be gagged.”
“Why not?”
“I’d like to be free to swear and curse at you when you run me through with those sharp sticks of yours.”
An offended pout was his answer. “You’re so crude, Altair, they’re scimitars. Say it with me, scimitars.”
“Sharp sticks.” Altair grinned, untying his red sash and looping it around Malik’s eyes. The indignant brunette squirmed away from him but then resigned himself forlornly to being blinded by swathes of dark red cloth.
“Stop breathing on my neck,” the brunette snapped to dispel the awkward silence. He didn’t like the situation he was in; completely at Altair’s mercy, loathing, loving and leaning into his touch, like some infatuated girl. It was pathetic, to be perfectly honest.
Altair snorted, tying the knot then stepping back a few paces to tie his own blindfold around his eyes. “Ever the paranoid one.”
“Well, you aren’t exactly the epitome of trust, either…” Malik grumbled, reaching for his scimitars and holding them ready: one stabbing forwards, the other backwards. “Ready when you are.”
“All set.”
Predictably, Altair made the first move, by wildly and boldly swinging his broadsword in the direction of Malik’s breathing. The brunette heard the whistling of the metal as it sliced through the air, spun around and blocked the blow with his scimitars. Forcing them into an impenetrable X-shape, he braced himself then shoved out at Altair, making him stumble backwards. The twin swords danced through the night air, barely missing the side of the assassin’s face: it was so close, that Altair felt the cold of the metal against his cheek.
He swung his sword upwards to parry the scimitars away and rolled out of harm’s reach, rising to his feet in stilted motions. Uneasily, Altair took a step backwards as his keen ears picked up the sound of Malik moving forward, the pebbles shifting underneath his feet. He carefully and quietly moved to the side of his rival, before striking as fast as a snake, lunging forward with his sword in - what he hoped was - Malik’s direction.
Altair’s aim must have been true because he heard a sharp intake of breath and as he tugged his sword free, he heard the distinct sound of ripping fabric. Being blindfolded and having no idea what had just happened, Malik had to hazard a guess as to what happened: somehow Altair missed his mark and cut his shirt off instead of scoring a hit. It was evident when the cold night air suddenly hit him mercilessly, his skin breaking out into relentless gooseflesh: he felt the shredded cotton shirt fall limply off his lean shoulders and hastily tossed it aside. The brunette then cautiously stepped backwards, trying to maintain a safe distance between him and his rival, although his scimitars were always pointed in the direction of Altair’s breathing.
“You’re good, I’ll give you that,” Malik begrudgingly admitted, though his tone turned playful. “But come now, Altair: you’re supposed to be one of the best in the Brotherhood: you’re supposed to kill me, not strip me.”
“What?” was Altair’s befuddled answer, his quiet voice laced with amusement. “Wait, let me see…”
“No!” shouted Malik in embarrassment, bringing his scimitars closer to his bare chest, in a feeble attempt to maintain his dignity. “You dare take that blindfold off!”
“Fine, fine, I won’t look…” said Altair languidly, smirking as he lifted up the folds of his blindfold with an index finger and looking his shirtless rival up and down. Drops of warm sweat were trickling down his lean muscles and tanned skin. He lazily licked his lips and stealthily took the blindfold completely off. “Nice scars, Malik.”
“You looked!” Malik howled, shaking one of his scimitars. “I hate you!” He furiously tried to reach his own blindfold, but wailed as he realised that Altair had tightly triple-knotted it, making it impossible to untie or lift. “Oh, you sneaky, conniving, lecherous bastard! You did that on purpose!”
"I did indeed," smirked Altair. "What are you going to do about it?"
Lapsing into a steady, fluid stream of Arabic curses, Malik swung forward wildly with his swords, taking Altair completely by surprise. In fact, it was so much of a surprise that it took a while for the assassin to realise that it was suddenly colder around his legs. What remained of his soft brown leather leggings were in a sad torn heap on the stone floor. Altair gaped for a second, and then scowled at Malik, who was grinning triumphantly… in the wrong direction, thanks to the blindfold.
“You’re going to pay for that, my friend,” he swore.
“Friend is a little stretch of the imagination, isn’t it, Altair?” enquired Malik sweetly, poison dripping off every word.
“You’re right,” said Altair, in a mockingly disappointed voice. “You just want it to be more or less, don’t you, Malik?”
The air suddenly turned frigid, even by Masayf’s standards. “What do you mean by that?” asked Malik coldly, mouth turning very dry all of a sudden.
Altair shrugged his broad shoulders, propping his sword up and pacing around like a restless wildcat. “I’m just saying,” he said innocently. “That you may or may not want to be complete enemies or something more with me.”
“Elaborate, if you please,” growled Malik icily, blindly blinking as he heard the older assassin circled him warily.
As a response, Altair rushed forwards, unsheathing his hidden blade. He slammed the brunette against the wooden barricade and yanked his head back, fingers seizing Malik’s brown hair. The younger assassin didn’t make a sound; lips curling in a shaky attempt at disdain and disinterest, even as he felt the metal slash somewhere near his belly. Blinded and with his blood pounding in his ears, Malik thought that the madman had finally killed him. Although when he realised that his leggings had fallen instead of blood, he swore and tried to wriggle out of Altair’s grip. The older assassin merely laughed and pinned down his bucking, lean body, ignoring Malik’s incensed shouts to let go.
“This is me elaborating, Malik-nazir,” panted Altair, with a grin on his face, his hot breath caressing the brunette’s tanned cheek. “You’re enjoying this, I can tell. Shall I continue?”
“Altair, you have a sick and twisted view on romance,” informed Malik lightly, trying to hide the tremors in his voice, eyelashes grazing the inside of the blindfold.
"Sick and twisted?" repeated Altair, almost incredulously. "No, more along the lines of intimate and intimidating."
"Oh, because that sounds much better." Malik snorted. “And while we’re still playing this ridiculous game, I bet you’re a lousy kisser.”
The brunette suddenly felt warm breath cool on his moist lips and had to repress a shiver. “Well, why don’t you prove me wrong?” came the answering purr.
It took a few seconds for it all to sink in, and when it did, Malik smirked. “Is that a challenge?”