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Chapter Text

What happened to Masyaf?

Jamal ibn Husayn doesn't know. They are sitting together, at the tables of the dining halls,

(like brothers, like friends ought to)

And yet, there are chairs which are empty. Why are they empty?

It has been three days since the siege-or-coup-or-reclaiming-or-saving-or-damning of Masyaf. So many people, and each has a different word for it, and there are so very many words. So many to keep track of. It makes Jamal's mind spin, a little, to hear and listen and remember, who said what, and why, and when, to put it all into boxes, to notice, remember; this is the duty of a novice, this is what they do, and he tries, he really tries, but.

It has been three days since the arrow that made him want to die, and two days since Jamal has felt strong enough to leave the infirmary, and a day since the last shred of the poison-fire burning left his veins. Three days later, things are much the same; their walls have not crumbled, their birds are singing again, the flags of the Order are flying, the village is bursting with crowds, and Masyaf stands tall, and proud, much as it always did.

But not all is the same. Their Mentor is gone. Selim is gone. Their peace, and safety, too, is gone. And what has returned

is Altaïr ibn La'Ahad.

Altaïr is their brother, or so Selim said. Brother must trust brother, or so Rauf said. But brother poisoned brother, and Rauf says it was fair. Necessary.

Implictly forgiven.

Jamal does not understand.

Jamal watches as they go through the motions, each of them pretending to be the same united Brotherhood that they were before. But the birds stopped singing, their allies turned their blades on them, their bodies were hollowed, and the illusion of their paradise is now burned, shattered, lost. Jamal doesn't know how to fix it.

What happened to Masyaf?

--------

Zayn al-Amili doesn't know what to make of Masyaf.

It is a place of different air, different from the salt of Latakia and the meadows of Salamiyah, a place of safety so great that they are not allowed to leave the castle walls, and he tries to be grateful to be here, truly, he tries, he really tries, but.

In safe and sheltered Latakia, his brotherhood of damaged siblings found a haven and a home. In fortified, secure Salamiyah, Zayn himself made a sanctuary, a Bureau for their shelter and rest. (In that, Salamiyah, too, is a haven. His haven. His home.) But Masyaf is different. In homely, safe Masyaf, some of his brothers' eyes are cold, as cold as the stones of their high halls, and hard, as hard as their beds of straw. Here, in homely, safe Masyaf, they train and share their bread together now, and sometimes, in exchange, they get a smile. Some people want to be their brothers, and some people do not, but that is alright; these are the growing pains of a new home.

(Zayn understands.)

And it is hard, sometimes, to blend and find their sanctuary in safe and homely Masyaf. Still, Zayn tries, and does his best.

-

Four days into their stay, a group of white-clad men follow him and Karim as they depart from the barracks.

"You are Altaïr's novices, aren't you?"

And on that day, Zayn al-Amili learns to be afraid of Masyaf.

--------

His first warning sign is their absence.

"Have you seen Altaïr's novices?"

The Dai of Acre shakes his head on his right, and Malik knows how to tell confusion from lie. The man at his side is honest in his answer, and if Jamal knew where Zayn and Karim were, it would be a good sign. It would mean the boys have a proper, honest reason to be missing breakfast.

To Malik's mounting concern, Jamal's confusion is a warning.

Next to the tables of the novices, Rauf, too, is alert. The beta looks down, at two now-empty seats, and he whispers something to an older child. Over the rows of the tables, Malik and Rauf's eyes meet, and this, this is a second warning. Then, when the Rigmaster's eyes narrow as they set to his left, Malik asks, again, almost without thinking,

"Do you know where Zayn and Karim are, Misbah?"

And this time, he does not need to know how to tell confusion from lie, because the old Dai nods in assent,

three warning bells form in his head

(a chorus)

and Rauf and Malik rise from their tables as one.

-

While he runs, Malik thinks, that he has had ears to hear the whispers, eyes to see the stares, and nose to scent their displeasure, and still, somehow, he failed. Too often, over the course of so few days, his brain has told him, in a harsh, admonishing voice that sounded suspiciously like Faheem al-Sayf, that:

To hurt a man, strike at what he cares about most.

And too often, he ignored it. When Malik heard, saw and scented them, whispering how Altaïr's boys are not proper Masyaf assassins, when he heard them shake their heads in disapproval, at how they haven't been initiated yet, he didn't think they would dare, no, not while he watched them, not while Rauf, too, kept guard. Too often, much too often these days, he is wrong about things, these things that matter, and, no. Not this time. And the two of them run faster.

They don't need to ask the wrinkled, old Fool of Damascus anything. There is only one place where those loyal to Misbah would take Altaïr's novices to.

------

"Are you afraid to become assassins?"

It is said in a dulcet tone, faux-caring, and Karim hisses, powerless, at the words of this insult. But the arms that hold him are rigid, twin shackles, and they carry him and Zayn forward, moving in a slow procession towards the training grounds.

"Altaïr should have done this a while ago. But don't worry. We'll initiate you properly."

The cowled heads nod in assent, and for a moment Karim is confused. Initiation? But they have been initiated already. They jumped their first Leap of Faith, they said the words and sworn their vows. Do these brothers distrust it? Do they want a repeat performance?

Then they enter the ring proper, and they see the table before them. And fear sours Karim's scent.

"Ah, have you changed your minds, novices? Not true assassins, after all?"

A tall man with a dark beard and a mean smile awaits them, smiling coldly over a red-hot blade. And even as Karim tries, fruitlessly, to pull away, to say, no, of course they are assassins, Zayn cries out, full of righteous anger,

"This is not the way, you fools!"

Even as, with more sour scorn, Zayn powers on, well-repeated words from an oft-repeated sermon, even as he tries to explain to them, with words from Altaïr's philosophy, that

"It is our skills, our Creed, that makes us assassins-"

Karim scents their captors, sees how many they are, and knows them for what they are: outnumbered. And when the dark-haired stranger gestures forward, uncaring, to one of the others, to

"Hold out his hand."

When Zayn, once more, abandons words for snarls when they grab him,

when he pulls away from their arms and throws the first fist in a fight that he cannot and will not win, Karim, knowing the value of battles won and lost, knowing the importance of sacrifice and pain,

(true, deep, whip-carved, child-starved pain)

sighs, steadies himself. And he calls out.

"I'll go first."

In the smiles and nods of these cowled brothers as he steps forward, as he lays his hand willingly upon the well-worn butcher's table, Karim reads approval and brotherhood. Mentor Altaïr has always said, that pain is one of the many costs of being an assassin, and maybe in that, he was right. Maybe pain is a facet of life, inescapable, and this is what it takes to find sanctuary here, in the halls of Masyaf.

What is a finger, in exchange for a home?

"Pull your other fingers back."

It is with a heavy heart that he ignores Zayn's shouts,

("No! Brother!")

with a heavier heart that he nods at the smile of this stranger-turned-brother and obeys,

("Good.")

and when the blade rests gentle over his finger, aligning for the cut, his skin sizzles underneath, and he swallows up a groan. He has had worse. Much worse, and this is nothing, will be nothing, if this is the price of Masyaf, then Karim is willing to pay. For Yusuf did, Alibek did, Altaïr did; he is proud, now, proud of them, proud of himself, to share in their noble, sacrificial pain. And so proud Karim clenches his teeth, hardens his heart, and he nods to his butcher for a final time, closing his eyes and bracing against the pain that will come. And when the blade leaves his finger, for a final, terrifying time, he holds his breath, waiting,

and time is meaningless, for a second feels like forever,

and

"Stop!"

Karim hears the blade of the knife sizzle onto the damp wood. Slowly, he reopens his eyes, almost afraid to see, but of course; there is nothing to see. Burned, but still whole, his ring finger is staring back at him, defiant, and Karim looks around, confused, at what just happened.

But the others no longer look at him.

Everybody's eyes are on the Dai of Jerusalem.

--------

"It shouldn't have come to this."

Altaïr has become many things, since they were last here. Mother. Father. Husband. Wife. Master Assassin, Novice and Dai.

Right now, he is a very good listener.

"I am sorry."

It has been four days, since they retook Masyaf. Three days, since they have come to an agreement, a leadership of sorts, a Council of Dai, formed by the four currently in Masyaf. But this will not last forever, and Rauf, too, tells him much the same. They need a Leader, he says, to steer the Order. To save it. Save it from what, Malik wants to ask?

They won.

It has been two days, since Altaïr awoke for the first time. Much like in Jerusalem, he drinks, he eats, but mostly, he sleeps. He is recovering, Malik wants to think, wants to hope, except the first time he woke, he was there, together with Rauf. He was there when Altaïr took a deep breath and opened his eyes, when they tried to focus, blinking again and again. He was there when Altaïr parted his lips for the first time, was there when Altaïr looked into Malik's eyes, and said, in a fascinated, almost happy voice:

"I died."

And he was there to see him laugh. Rauf tried, of course, to rouse him after that, to get him to look, to Look, with whichever eyes he would, at him, at them, and see them breathe, feel his own heartbeat or maybe theirs, but no matter what his friend tried, Altaïr just... smiled, as if resigned, finally at peace, and nodded, wordless, in endless accord, unhearing, uncaring. He was there to see Rauf leave with a burst of frustration, rattling the doorframe as he went, with hate fierce in his dark eyes when he looked at Malik, as if to say,

You did this. Fix it!

Since then, they have been at an odd, tentative standstill. They visit Altaïr and tend to him in turns, and to his novices, too, especially; and whether it is genuine care that makes him focus so on the two boys, or merely guilt, Malik cannot say. But for the past two days he has been coming here, in this room where, five years ago, he made a deal, and he has been telling Altaïr, sleeping or awake, about everything; the other assassins, the Dai, the novices, Masyaf as a whole.

Altaïr doesn't respond much. Mostly, he looks into the distance, with vacant eyes, or at him. Sometimes, he asks a few questions in return, and those are good times, when Malik can almost pretend this is Altaïr that is healing and not a shell that the Apple left behind.

And on some days, his throat still hurts.

-

Unbridled, unbound, on some nights Malik dreams.

And it is a testament, to how truly tired Altaïr is; for his Apple, together with his armour and robes, have remained in his room at Malik's insistence. The others, beside the novices and Rauf, don't know about it at all. Of Rashid's Apple, they had to speak at large; too many had been entranced. But it was an easy thing, to tell the assassins of danger, of sin, of corruption and many other lies him and Rauf were able to make on the spot, until the pacified masses agreed, at last, that only another Mentor of the Brotherhood should have access to such a power; and until they elected another, under lock and key it went.

(Truthfully, Rauf has helped him in many things. Malik thinks this more than worthy enough of a promotion to Master Assassin, if not outright to Dai; but Abbas, Misbah and his ilk, those of the old ways and those with grudges against Altaïr, will not promote Rauf after such a grave sacrilege. Burning a man's body is not something to be overlooked.)

He doesn't know if the Apple helps Altaïr, or hurts him, or neither, or both. The omega-that-was-Death is still haunting his dreams, especially on the days when he sleeps here, in a chair by Altaïr's bedside, and Malik's brow furrows as he thinks that the Angel of the Fallen should not have been clothed in a gold so bright. And he thinks, sometimes, of taking the Apple, when Altaïr is sleeping; of going to the Orontes, or better, to the sea, or maybe to the highest mountains, and he thinks he should throw it there, destroy it, for there is nothing, nothing at all good that will be coming out of that hellish sphere.

But he promised. He promised, that Altaïr could trust him. That when he couldn't fight, or be there to decide, his brothers will be there for him, and they will think of him, for him, and they will do what is best.

And Malik knows that this is not his choice to make.

-

A week after the day he first awoke, Malik watches with hope as Altaïr, gaze clearer than he has seen in too long, rises at last from his deathbed.

"What day is it?"

Malik wishes he didn't know. He wishes he could say that time is meaningless now that they have won, that here in this room of recovery, time can flow fast or slow or not at all as Altaïr wishes, because Malik is here to take care of him at last, but-

"The fifteenth of Sha'ban."

But the world does not work that way anymore. Perhaps it never did.

"I see."

It is quite fitting, Malik thinks, that it is on the evening of the fifteenth of Sha'ban that Altaïr at last moves into the Mentor's quarters. This, much like anything else that Altaïr will be doing in the coming months,

(including breathing, and having a pulse),

will give rise to an insufferable torrent of yapping and yowling and bickering moans, words of a hundred lesser men, behind whom no inteligence or insightful thought has ever hidden. And undettered, Malik will deal with all of them in turn. But not tonight.

Tonight, Malik is at peace.

Because Altaïr is, at last, back to where he has always belonged.

Home.

Chapter Text

"Tell me of your Bureau."

The market of Masyaf is much like any other souk: it is rich, and colourful, and overwhelming. Zayn tries to take it all in as they wade through the stalls that dot the slope of the village, and he almost gets lost in the chorus of voices, in his own memories; for markets across the land of Syria are much of the same, and he missed this. For a brief second, he is not in Masyaf anymore.

Ahead of him, Malik al-Sayf coughs once.

"Zayn."

And the voice of the older alpha breaks his reverie. Zayn blinks once. Twice.

"Yes?"

"I asked you a question."

"My apologies."

The Dai of Jerusalem scoffs, but the tone of his dissapoinment is a caring, near-paternal sound. (Familiar.) And, Zayn notes with some fondness, this leader, too, shakes his head when he reproaches his charge.

"I asked you to tell me of your Bureau, novice. You are the Rafiq of Salamiyah."

His fondness curdles abruptly; and Zayn, for a moment, chokes on the urge to balk, or hiss, at the insult.

(Novice?, novice, novice!, cursed and blasted word, why does everybody in this Order call him a stupid, godforsaken novice now-)

"Zayn!"

A whiff of wild forage,

the crack of shattered pottery.

They don't call anger blinding for nothing; when it slaps across his face, the beam of the spice stall catches Zayn entirely by surprise. And an angry shout follows.

"You must pay for this!"

Stepping through a cloud of bright-red sumac, Malik al-Sayf clicks his tongue, and under his heel rings a dry crunch; terracotta. In his eyes, Zayn sees disappointment.

"You heard the poor man. Reimburse him."

The Dai's stern tone kills any further remark. Clumsy, thin-skinned; on proving himself not a novice, Zayn is doing a rather lackluster job today. He does as al-Sayf commands. And the bitter scent of the spilled spice is poor cover for the bitterness of shame.

But then, they keep walking through the markets.

And when nimble fingers refill the gold purse, dinar by dinar, until he... recovers those used earlier on that overpriced powder, the bitter note in his scent dissipates gently. For each time he pilfers another dinar, on the face of the Dai who is looking away (and pretending not to notice, poorly),

there is the barest shadow of an approving smile.

-

"Why Salamiyah?"

The smell of cooking meat surrounds them in a cloud of mouthwatering flavours; and briefly, Zayn contemplates asking for respite. When the Dai picked him up from their quarters this morning, he said they were going shopping in the village souk. He didn't say they would be skipping breakfast and lunch.

But the Dai asked him a question.

"Because the main merchant routes to Hama pass through Salamiyah. There is always good intel to be gathered from their caravans, and we needed a base of operations in the region. Salamiyah is close to Hama."

"I see", the Dai nods, and the heat of a roasting oven brushes his right ride. Zayn bites his lip, inhaling. A hint of baharat. Wonderful.

When the older alpha, instead of buying a skewer, continues to wade through the food stalls and talk, Zayn thinks he might cry.

"And now? Hama is an Assassin stronghold, and within it, a strong Bureau. It is a well-organised, defended city. Would there be a point in keeping the Bureau in Salamiyah?"

This is an easy question to answer.

"Of course."

"Oh?"

Tactfulness, or honesty? Dai al-Sayf seems to favour the latter. Zayn chooses his words carefully.

"Hama is poorly administered. Its leader is not a good governor; the aqueducts are starting to crumble under him, from disuse and lack of maintenance."

"Failing aqueducts? You sound like a native already. Is that all there is to your complaints?", comes the question, with a raised brow. And Zayn swallows, once, before answering.

"No."

He looks carefully at their surroundings before he presses onwards. Left, then right. No eavesdroppers.

These truths are dangerous ones.

"The population is angry. Unstable. And the Rafiq of Hama is not an honest man. I have dealt with him a few times, transactions of no specific import. But I know his alleged trade. A herbalist; a poor one. He extorts his customers for the quality that he provides. I would not trust his ability to gather information, or prepare a decoction, or guide our brothers to anything other than death."

But to the scathing tone that he doesn't quite manage to hide there, at the very end, his disgust for an assassin that brings shame to their craft, the Dai seems to... smile, instead of frown. Approving? How interesting. Zayn decides to test this tolerance with a last, bitter truth of Hama.

"The city was doing better when it was ruled by Salah al-Din."

Dark eyes narrow, but do not correct his remark. And a breath, to break their silence; relief. Today Zayn has learned something new, and precious, about the Dai of Jerusalem; for telling him truths, he will not be chastised.

(Once more, so familiar. Were he not so hungry, Zayn thinks he would smile.)

On that reminder, Zayn's stomach growls and aches, impatient; and if Malik al-Sayf is a lover of honesty...

"Dai, if I may? I am hungry. Could we buy some food while we walk?"

It is the answer to this question, that truly makes him smile.

--------

Altaïr is a bright man.

Altaïr is a bright man, and too often, alone.

In light of everything, and especially after the Misbah Incident, Malik has been paying more attention to Altaïr's style of leadership. And in return to Altaïr's stances, his previously-proven views of such simple things as help and allies, and more and more relevantly, his feelings on rest, Malik and Rauf have been furthering their efforts to look after the omega's two charges for him.

Sometimes, their company is a helpful thing.

On some days, Karim sharpens the tips of Malik's featherquills with the same care that he sharpens his arrows, and he tells Malik about his craft as a marksman. On other days, Zayn's knife chops up vegetables, faster than Malik's singular hand ever could, and the young alpha tells him of networks, and missions, and ways to detect lies.

They're not bad assassins, far from it.

But Malik's heart aches, because they are both so very young.

(Sometimes, Zayn tells him of lightwoods, best ways to treat them and make arrow shafts. And when the boy speaks, there is a glint of childish wonder, familiar in his light blue-

no, dark brown, eyes.

And sometimes, Karim is distracted, easy to lose in the hubbub of crowds; and if, calling his name, instead of Karim he shouts another last vowel, the boy pretends not to notice or mind.)

Today he has Zayn in attendance, and Malik is doing his usual rounds. He tests the boy for impulsive reactions, for his spatial awareness, for the ease with which he negotiates and steals and melts away in a crowd. Like before, there are things to work on, but he is far from a bad one; and steadily, Zayn is improving. But hearing this intel from Hama, much as it is interesting, and valuable, and undoubtedly important

(and Wadi will be hearing of this, for Hama is closer to Emesa than Jerusalem)

is not why he is here today.

"Zayn?"

The boy is currently busy stuffing his face full of chicken, nonetheless, he manages a, "Yes?"

"Tell me about Altaïr's uniform. Not the armour, the robes underneath. Who made them?"

Almost unnoticeable, he scents a hint of burnt cardamom. It almost makes him chuckle; such petty annoyance, in this young one. How dare Malik interrupt his lunch? But aside from his irritated scent, the boy says nothing, nothing for a full minute, nothing while he chews down his chicken and wipes clean his palms and his hands, and thoughtfully analyses how much to lie to him in his response.

It's a little too obvious, how much their bad habits have all rubbed off of Alibek's.

"May I ask you something else before I answer your question, Dai? I promise it is relevant."

"Of course."

"You met Alibek, you were in Latakia. Is it... true? What they say about you?"

"Yes."

Zayn's exhale is a harsh hiss through his clenched teeth. His eyes are hidden underneath his cowl. But Malik knows the look of judgement without seeing them.

"I didn't want to believe it. You seemed to me an honourable man."

Seemed.

"There, you have your answer. Can you answer my question now?"

And Zayn nods.

"As far as I know, Mentor Altaïr sewed them himself, in the manner that they do in Al-Kahf. He told us that the overlapping layers mark one's ascension through the ranks, from novice all the way to Master Assassin."

"Why Al-Kahf, and not Masyaf?"

"Ask our Mentor. It is not for me to say."

But he knows why.

(Oh, how he looks forward to Alibek's return. They will have words about this.)

"What of your uniforms?"

"Sewed by ourselves, under Alibek's guidance."

"And Adha's?"

Zayn chuckles.

"Her uniforms are tailored in the greater cities' craftsman workshops. The silks Altaïr buys for her are the farthest thing from common or cheap."

Finally, the answer he was looking for.

"Thank you, Zayn. You have been very helpful."

"You're... welcome?"

But Malik doesn't care about the boy's confusion anymore. He sets his sight on a far stall, with rainbows of linens and cottons and silks, woven lovingly and fluttering in the soft breeze, and when the aged omega sitting behind the counter asks him:

"What do you wish for, assassin?"

Malik is confident in his answer.

"Show me your finest white silk."

-

A month passes from the battle of Masyaf.

Seemingly overnight, the council of the Four Dai becomes a council of five.It is a slow, unofficial process; one that is met with much discord,

("This is not what we agreed to, Malik! We didn't elect him to anything, last of all things to Dai!"

"We didn't elect his novices to be initiated, either. Yet you went for it anyway.")

a process that Malik watches over, every step of the way. He watches as Altaïr unlocks Rashid's rooms for the first time, is there to steady his shoulder when the omega freezes at the entrance to his study,

(where, five years prior, Altaïr was condemned to death; where he was sold)

he is there to smooth over and change the linens and sheets, to sniff at the pillows and the curtains, and shake the dust out of everything, until no trace of the older alpha's scent remains, he is there to make sure that Altaïr will sleep in his bed for that first night,

(that he will not run off to climb some faraway tower, freezing to death secluded, and cold, and so-safely alone)

and he is there, morning after morning after, to pick up the two proteges from the quarters they now, too, inhabit with their Mentor.

Malik is there, day by day now, watching as Altaïr goes about his days and his duties, watching as he meets with the assassins in the Council Of Masters, as he teaches the others in the training ring or simply, as he does paperwork at the quiet of his-now desk,

and Malik remains there, day after day, for when Altaïr needs a reminder. As many times as he needs it, Malik will be there to remind him, that throughout all of this transition, throughout this abrupt reacquaintencing, throughout all these new roles and struggles, Malik is there to remind him, that

he does not have to face them alone.

Chapter Text

Masyaf is burning.

And from the window of the Mentor's quarter, Altaïr ibn La'Ahad watches. Down and underneath him, all the way down, inside the training ring two shapes flicker, and Altair watches them circle, waver, prepare for a spar. Then the battle starts, and with each move the shape of them changes:

a forward lunge, they brighten;
a slice and a parry, they sputter down.

Again and again they circle, and all the while Altaïr sees nothing, nothing blue or white or gold on them but the colours of fire, and blood, and Altaïr watches them closely now, because Masyaf itself is not burning.

But, its assassins are.

Watching over said Assassins, Altaïr narrows his eyes, thoughtful, and tries to focus his vision into better detail. But even though he tries, with how bright their flames are he cannot quite tell the form of their faces. They burn so brightly that he cannot gain the slightest clue of what their names, their ranks, even, might be-

Salah al-Ansari and Bassim al-Kas

thank you, Juno.

And that explains some things, but not all. Altaïr bites his lip as he considers, whether Salah, like Bassim, is more likely to be a spy, a traitor like Rashid, or whether he, like many others, has remained loyal to the Creed and the Order

(but hostile and an enemy to him).

Simply by looking, it is impossible to tell.

Making a decision, he pulls a thin scroll from a drawer, and there, in curling Arabic, he scribbles Salah's name down, adding to a list growing longer by the day. Just in case he will need to remember them. Just in case not remembering would be a mistake.

(Ink blots on the page, and cut throats spill hot blood. One blink, it is his father's. Another blink, it is Malik's.

In lovely Masyaf, it is expensive to make mistakes.)

A moment after the quill leaves the page, there is a knock at the door of his study.

"Yes?"

Caught within the wooden arch of Rashid's chambers, the last remaining Dai of Masyaf freezes like an animal. Altaïr thinks this brother is afraid, might desire to flee away from his gaze, and Juno delights in these erstwhile thoughts he is having-

He should, he should be afraid of you! Lovely Wielder-

Shut up.

A few more blinks, and the purple swirls of his coat vanish, and, yes, it was his eyes; because the Dai now visibly relaxes. For his part, Altaïr sighs. Holds his palm out.

"Please, come in."

"Than- Thank you, um. Safety and peace."

"Upon you as well. What news do you bring?"

"New correspondence, from Aleppo and, uh, Emesa. Dai Malik said-"

"I know what he said, I was there. Leave them on the desk, please. And bring me yours, as well, when they're done."

"Yes, Men- um-"

"Brother, was there something else?"

With duty at his front and his brother-in-law burning red at his back, he thinks, with a pang of regret, that he could have left this all behind; Malik told him to run away from this place. But saving Masyaf was a choice, one he made willingly.

For duty, for the Creed, Altaïr steels himself, and gently, he exhales. Beckons another half-ally-half-enemy closer.

And another day begins in Masyaf.

-

Not everybody is a living torch. There are exceptions.

Rauf remains his cornerstone, his deepest ally, even though the years have left their unkind markings, even though his blue has dulled in his absence.

(Altaïr tries to pretend that the loss doesn't hurt.)

Malik, on the other hand, is an everstar; gold and blue, and always ready, manifesting from aether, ready to intervene, or to speak, or to act, always at his side, always on his behalf and anxious as if he is waiting, always waiting for...

he is not sure what, actually.

(Redemption? No need. Between them, scores have been sealed with shed blood. It is not Malik's fault that his self-sacrificial act did not take.)

Whatever it is, Altaïr wonders, if on Malik's secret quest the man hears only the loud whispers, the ones that are endless demands, duties that the alpha would have gladly thrown in his face before, yet now volunteers oh-so-eagerly to take on in his stead;

"Altaïr, the novices need training."

"Altaïr, the aviary is running low on grain"

"Altaïr, the kitchen needs more supplies-"

"Altaïr, the apothecary wants-"

"Altaïr, the Flowers-"

"Altaïr" "Altaïr" "Altaïr"

Or whether Malik also hears the mutters, the quiet ones, the ones that they say when they think he is not listening, that

"He doesn't care for our Order, only lusts for power and rank-"

"He is too young-"

"too foreign-"

"arrogant-"

"weak-"

"improper"

"Haven't you heard? He has children, left behind-"

And on most days they would be right to assume Altaïr would not be listening; he rarely has time to spy on the gossip of overtitled incompetence. But he is not alone anymore; and She doesn't need sleep, can tell him what they say, and of course She does, She keeps watch, listens to their whispers always.

(Her words are lies, but never direct ones. She lies through ommission, and gaslighting, and truths that are mean to hurt, and a thousand other distortions. When it comes to lying, she has had a thousand years to become a master at this game.)

Still, on some days, he cannot help his old habits. On those days he finds himself listening, attentive as a hawk and silent as the grave,

(and it costs him nothing now, to shroud his presence with the power of the Apple, a lie of empty air besides another's form)

and on those days he is thinking, more often than not: if only you knew. If only you knew what it took, what I left behind for the Order, what I had to let take hold inside me for your sake-

So tell them, Wielder! Take it from them, compel them into gratitude, snare them and make them pay you back!

Juno, too, stokes in him the fire that threatens to burn down Masyaf. Or, at least, she tries; but the ruse is over, because he knows what she wants. He knows what her goal is, and with this Malik cannot (will not, never again) help him.

So when will you pay me back?

-

Like all good things in Altaïr's life, the carefully cultivated monotony of his new days eventually ends. And it all comes to a head on a bright, unremarkable day, that finds Altaïr at his desk, reading yet another message from Hama.

(Zayn's report rests heavy on his mind. Alibek's caravan is too close to risk this position, and Altaïr cannot read this brother's colours; so he tries to read his words instead.

He also starts planning, should the Dai of Hama require replacing.)

When confrontation comes to find him, it comes in in the form of a bright-cheeked assassin, bursting in fresh from a completed mission. This brother is eager to report about those he has slain, and Altaïr smiles, pleased to see a shade darker, purer on him than it was when he left. With an open palm he beckons forward, eager to hear of what has instilled in this brother's heart such strong loyalty; but the journeyman assassin never gets to open his lips, because in the frame of the entrance his shade turns bright with fractals, a pattern of kaleidoscopic gold.

And at Altaïr's door there is now another.

"Do you have a moment?"

"Can this not wait? I am in the middle of a debrief."

"Very well."

-

True to his words, half an hour later, when the report finally comes to a stop,

(it turns out that this assassin's change of heart was unrelated to his mission, because this boy's report is dull. It is dusted full of irrelevant findings, and every bit as insignificant as all of the other mission findings coming out of his city.)

Malik is still waiting for him in the atrium, fiddling with a silver thread of his hem that is slowly unravelling. Altaïr coughs, trying to get his attention; and when dark eyes lift up to him, they are...

Troubled.

"We have received word from Alamut."

His chest constricts for a moment.

"And?"

"They made it."

Praise be, Altaïr thinks with an exhale. But Malik's face does not release its tension, the smile he attempts does not quite reach his eyes, and there must be more to this, something more that the alpha isn’t telling him.

"Malik?"

He gets only a hum in response, for Malik's knowing eyes are now lowered away from him.

"Malik, tell me."

Malik does nothing more than stare at the floor. And for a brief moment, tension runs through him, fever-fire hot, and with it comes a fear indistinguishable from anger, with a compulsion that begins to form on his lips;

(Tell me.

Look at me.

Speak to me, tell me what's wrong, tell me, tell me everything, tell me everything that you know or else-

It would be so easy, to rip the knowledge straight out of him.)

Instead of an order, what leaves Altaïr's lips is a question:

"Do you not trust me, Malik?"

This time, his reply is a hiss, and their eyes meet again. (Finally.)

"You know I do, Altaïr, don't play that game with me. They are all alive, is this not what's important?"

"Give me the missive."

"Malik, give me the missive, or so help me God-"

A sigh, and from inside the dark kaftan, a roll of parchment emerges. The wax seal is broken; and Malik is as entitled as him to read their correspondence, yes, but it should have been obvious, what this letter contained.

(This man, of all people, should have known better, better than to open it before him.)

Altaïr wants to be upset. But he has a paper to unfold, and his hands move without meaning, his eyes, too, and his breath stops as he reads. And reads. And reads.

Safety and peace be upon you, brothers of Masyaf.

We write to you from Alamut, where we have received shortly ago a family, a brother whose name you should know already, accompanied by a nameless woman and three of her children.

We write to let those who need to know that our reinforcements will arrive with a slight delay. The woman who arrived was pregnant; and she has fallen ill from the strain of the road. Given our brother's insistence to depart with her or not at all, we find ourselves delayed until she will be well enough to accompany us. Even still, fear not: for we have heard of your struggle, and we have not forgotten our family. We will help you in your efforts to secure our home, brothers, as soon as God wills us able to do so. Peace be with you in the interim.

Enil, Dai of Alamut

Outwardly, Altaïr says nothing.

------

Altaïr is not taking the news well.

What a stupid thought, Malik thinks a mere second later. Who would take such news well? What did he expect, even? Peace? A calm, calculated, well-reasoned answer?

(A muffled cry of anguish, lost to the rain, a trail of darkening blood, falling in rivulets, a jump to descend to a target, heedless of carefully agreed upon plans-

When has Altaïr reacted in a measured manner? Why does he keep expecting this man to have changed?)

"Wait, Altaïr, just wait, please, be sensible, think for a second-"

Shut up-

"No!"

(He once thought of Altaïr's power as gentle. Resisting it is anything but.)

"Look, just come back, let's talk about this together, we can make a plan-"

But the youngest Dai of Masyaf is running ahead of him, and careless of who sees, careless of the many eyes that turn around them, curious, to see what is causing immovable Malik to shout; and it is obvious, now, where Altaïr is heading.

The stables.

In a fit of madness Malik tries to command him, order him to heel as many would an omega. His voice rings out with an alpha's deeper rumble, a last, desperate cry,

"You cannot ride to Persia, Altaïr!"

But these kinds of things never worked on him, did they? They only worked when Altaïr had to submit to him, when he had no other choice but to listen, and now he is free. Free, and alive, and they won, didn't they? They won

(didn't they? is this not victory?)

and they're safe, and he is trying, trying so hard to make Masyaf into home and into safety, so why, why is this happening, this should not be happening, no, not again-

("The Order will crush you, if all you see in Masyaf is shadows to run from."

"There are things more important than the Order and Creed."

Malik tastes the truth of his own words, and his soft-spoken confidence lies bitter on his tongue now. Because he was wrong, what he thought of.

Because Altaïr has, at last, listened.)

"Altaïr! Altair, stop!"

And, at least this time, it is Rauf shouting as the horse starts to gallop. Malik can do nothing; is simply watching.

He watches, and does nothing, as Altaïr leaves him once more.

Chapter Text

Altaïr doesn't return until midnight.

The passage of time is measured in the brightness of stars; and by the time his namesake rises, with the Sun long left behind, Altaïr is angry still, and frustrated; but in the absence of food and water, a man can be fueled by anger only for so long. It's an insidious process, when gallop turns into canter, and more often than not, into trot; and it takes him nodding off, almost falling out of his saddle, for Juno to hiss at him.

This is a fool's errand!

Fresh air now clears his mind, and Juno must know that he is listening, because she powers on, a bit more gentle,

Without rest, your horse will expire before sunrise, Wielder. And you, too, before tomorrow's end.

She is pleading with him, he realises, and for a second, he doubts the truth of her words, because he always doubts her, as all sane people must. But Juno has never lied to him so directly, and Altaïr, quite weary now, still angry, and tired most of all, thinks that he understands what she is saying. He thinks, that Juno's plea is a warning; and that the road ahead is a choice.

But death without a mission fulfilled is not noble in the slightest. And that is the worst thing of all.

It's pointless.

-

By the time the village of Masyaf greets Altaïr, the slope has long grown quiet, and the silence of the night makes it a cold and lonely world. The assassin is beyond exhausted, drained to the marrow of his bones; and when Malik, dark silhouette against the moonlit walls, speaks up, lone sound, and breaks the quiet with a simple,

"Welcome back."

and when Juno croons in his ear,

He waited here for you. Isn't that sweet?

Altaïr lacks the energy to twich in surprise, or answer to her goading, or do much of anything except check for danger in scent, and colour, and tone. But if the alpha is angry with him, it is muted, well-hidden; as such, when Malik beckons him to approach, Altaïr obeys, dismounting, and then he watches numbly while Malik takes his near-dead horse to the stables. Just as numbly, he registers the alpha returning, senses his presence as a hand on the small of his back, and then there is his voice, too soft to be all genuine, urging him forward.

"Come with me."

And slowly, together, they step through the arch of the stone wall.

-

Somewhere around the middle of the way, Altaïr notices that they aren't going in the direction of his quarters. He parts his lips, inhales to ask, whispers as to not disturb the quiet,

"Where-" are you taking me,

But Malik's hand moves up and down his spine, gentle, and urges him forward still.

"Trust me."

Altaïr thinks, as drained as he, that he doesn't have much of a choice on the matter; and Malik, too, sounds exhausted. The day has been too long, and harsh, on both of them.

So instead of pointless arguing, he nods.

-

"You brought him back."

"I didn't. He returned by himself."

From those last words on the path to here, there is some memory missing, and were Altaïr not so deathly tired, he would rouse himself with alarm. But with his eyes closed now, he recognises voices, a bit behind his head, a bit above him; they are Rauf and Malik, talking in hushed half-whispers.

(His allies, together. Safety.)

With that acknowledgement, he becomes aware also that he is laying down on something rather soft. A bed.

(Rauf's?)

In the whispers exchanged above him, the beta's voice sounds somewhat sluggish, heavy still with sleep. Rauf must have been roused from this bed; his friend was clearly not anticipating them.

So then-

"Why did you bring him here?"

"The novices-"

"They're rafiqs, Malik."

"The rafiq novices", Malik says with annoyance, "are sleeping. You saw how they were sparring earlier. Convincing them to go to bed was a challenge and an effort."

"Ah. Afraid that he'll wake them?"

"You weren't there, in Latakia. Their doors never creaked, their floors didn't crack."

He hears a hum, then.

"Impressive, but I doubt their bureaus were as well-maintained."

"And you would take the risk?"

"Fair. But still; why here, why my place?"

"Because you're a beta, you have no scent to rouse him with. And..."

Malik seems to hesitate on the end of his sentence. But Rauf must be still ruffled, because he asks, impatient,

"And?"

In the ensuing silence, Altaïr shuffles a bit over the bedsheets, a lazy attempt to keep himself awake. With voices growing distant, exhaustion tries to pull him into sleep; but he tries not to let it. He wants to hear this last part,

and then,

"He came to nest here during his heat, Rauf. He thinks of your house as safe, as a sanctuary. He trusts you, that's why."

The words are said slowly, softly, both tentative and hesitant; it used to be a very rare tone, coming from a man like Malik.

Rauf's dismissal is nothing like it. His tone turns rough and low, such that he never heard from his friend before. And the beta sounds well awake now.

"Reflect on why that is, Al-Sayf, and on the choices you made in your past, and then, if you will, let us sleep. That's why you brought him here for."

Forcing his eyes open for a second, cobalt wobbles as it lights up in the doorway. A nod.

"Peace be upon you, Rauf. And thank you."

"Don't thank me, Malik. I'm not doing this for your sake."

And that is the last thing Altaïr hears while he is awake.

-

Altaïr's sleep turns out both calm and restful, dreamless, a rare event for which he is very grateful these days. His young rafiqs, awake in their quarters, prove to be anything but.

"Praise be to God, Karim! Karim, come quickly, he's back!"

"Mentor!"

They are too old to be doing this, Altaïr thinks with some fondness. Yet the sound of their voice is comforting, familiar; and when his boys come running to him, he revels in the patter of their eager steps. When Zayn and Karim wrap an arm each around him, he should shrug them off, instead he embraces them, and the memory of sea salt is dispelled by a fond huff.

"Safety and peace."

"Upon you as well! Mentor, you left-"

"Why did you not take us?"

"-and you didn't say anything! What happened?"

"Are the others in danger?"

"Oh! Is it Alibek? The others? Are they-"

"Easy, assassins! Easy. Let him breathe, slow down."

Malik's voice commands from behind him, and both their heads turn to look at him, tugging Altaïr's cowl off his head as they do so. It is a small annoyance, feeling the fabric fall, but the admonishing tone works on the young ones; the assassins' questions draw to a halt. Altaïr seizes the moment.

"Malik is right. Let me breathe, brothers, and I will answer you both. That is, if you'll allow me the space for some words of my own?"

"Yes, of course-"

"Sorry, we just-"

"Relax. Let's go and sit down first."

They let him go, but only barely; only enough for him to pull his hood back up, but not so far that he doesn't feel the heat of their bodies. It's an arrangement that tugs at his mind, a memory of heavy injuries, of burial songs and noise-filled city crowds; and as an afterthought Altaïr turns to Malik, so stiff and left alone, once more in the corner.

"Are you coming?"

This time, he reaches a hand out for the alpha. And this time, their voices do not rise in an argument upon coming this close. No, this time Altaïr bides the alpha to follow, makes them all wait by his desk while he plucks up some pillows, dislodged from the edges of a still-in-progress nest. This time, he is the one who starts the conversation, once the four men are settled on the floor more comfortably.

This time, it is him, instead of Selim, that delivers the bad news.

"Yesterday, Masyaf received a missive."

------

"And you left for Alamut. Just like that?"

"Forgive me, Mentor, I know that this is Adha, but that is so-"

Despite the harsh tone of the news just told, and the oppressive atmosphere that it creates, it is mildly gratifying to see Altaïr chewed out by his loyal underlings. In Latakia the children were borderline worshipful of their mighty Mentor, with Alibek alone in occasionally speaking up against him. Based on those few days, Malik had assumed Altaïr's proteges to be unquestionably devoted - and there is relief in seeing that assumption proven wrong. It speaks of potential, and intelligence; and of understanding what it means to be an assassin. Free thought, the core of their Creed.

That fact aside...

"How could you not know this? I mean, Alamut is so far, and there are the Zagros mountains in the way, and you seriously thought you would make it?"

"Yeah, and even if you were to change horses, without water-"

"Yes, you've made your point well enough."

"But-"

"Zayn, I said enough!"

Malik feels the urge to smile, if only a little. Let it not be said that Altaïr, of all people, couldn't use a bit of humbling.

-

The matter of Adha's wellbeing does not end with their admonishment, and Malik learns that in this matter also, Altaïr is not a man prone to sharing.

The novices are none the wiser. Once the tongue-lashing is over, leaving for Alamut is dropped from conversation; but if Malik truly fell for this ruse, he would be a very lousy Dai. Instead, he waits for Altaïr to dimiss his charges, orders them to find Rauf for the day's errands, and when the two of them are alone again, he wastes no time avoiding it.

"We still need to talk about last night."

To his credit, Altaïr doesn't try to dodge the topic, not with him. Instead, he tries to shut it down.

"Not today, Malik."

"But tomorrow you will say the same, and the same the day after that. Then, one day, you will be gone once more from among us, with some supplies this time."

"And you will try to stop me?"

"No," Malik sighs, and thinks, I would not dare, "but you have to be reasonable about these things. Talk to us about them. You are a Dai of Masyaf now."

A break, no reaction, and then Altaïr nods.

"Tonight, then. After the others are sleeping, you will return to my chamber, and since you wish it so, here, we will talk."

This time, he hears it before he sees it; the expression on his face is such that Malik understands the topic to be definitively, inarguably, closed. The appointment lies now final between them, a compromise offered yet grave, and uttered like a death sentence. But there is nothing Malik can think to say for it.

"Then peace be upon you, Altaïr."

"Upon you as well."

And the conversation is over.

Chapter Text

For the rest of the day, Altaïr paces. And he thinks, on what Malik must want from him.

(What is there left to explain between them?)

Now, as always, Juno tries to intervene.

He wants you to stay here. In Masyaf.

But this time, her words do nothing but annoy him.

Yes, I am aware of it.

So will you do it? Stay?

And there it is, the conundrum. A dillema he has held, ever since this man went ahead and threw his throat on a sword.

I... I do not know.

At this point, does he even need to?

Without Malik, he would not have imposed himself, not without more use of the Apple, that is. It was the Dai that named him leader, and without Malik as his right hand, peace and order would not have been restored so fast. Malik, whose missing left arm reminds him, still, of the life he took through arrogant mistakes, has been doing just fine on his own. Malik, without whom Alibek's and his own life would have been forfeit, is now well-fit to wear the black robes. Malik, who left his bureau and position to go on a quest like the Crusaders, followed him with little more in the way of proof than belief and a notebook,

(And notebooks can be falsified oh-so-very-easily.)

And in his head, Juno snickers.

You killed his brother. In return, he raped you. And now, how fondly you think of him! As an ally. Perhaps even a friend.

I want you to shut up.

Perhaps, this conversation is his chance to address these things left unsaid between them, at last give them peace, and rest-

You are a fool if you'll forgive him.

And Juno's cruel laughter follows him through the day.

-

Waiting for the day to end, restlessly he paces. First his own rooms, then the grounds of the fortress; and then he seeks some work. He teaches for a few hours, some French that the novices will surely forget. He goes to the apothecary and checks on their stocks, browses the souk for replacements, scolds the herbalist on duty for inattentiveness and labelling mistakes.

And all this time, Juno thankfully stays silent.

Then, when the sunlight starts to leave the valley of the Al-Sarouf, Altaïr climbs the towers and the walls to chase it. Higher and higher he goes, until his knuckles are sore, until his palms have some skin missing, until he can do nothing but shiver, until the rush of hot blood drowns the howling of the wind over the citadel's highest parapet.

It is there, at the top of the world, that Juno speaks up again. And her presence is the warmth of the sun set, radiating from the marrow of bones.

Have you decided?

Altaïr sighs.

I have not yet, no.

You should do so soon.

And he knows it. At the foot of the slope, Altaïr can make out a dark shape, has been tracking it for a while, ever since Malik left the village; he doesn't need his Gift to recognise that Juno is right.

He is stalling.

If I made a suggestion, Wielder, would you care to consider it?

The candour of her tone is atypical, almost apologetic after the words they had exchanged earlier; and with wariness he answers.

Perhaps I would. What is it?

You know not what words to bring him; and I know you by now. If your words are still missing, you will not find enough of them in the future either. But remember, son of Umar, that you are no mere human. You have at your disposal more than the power of words.

Surprised, he tilts his head considering, and if Juno had a body, he knows she would be smiling, elated that he no longer ignores her. And pushing for more influence, before he can tell her that he gets it, really, he understands what she meant, she finishes, triumphant.

Show him! Allow the Apple to replace your voice.

Juno's advice is often dangerous, but there he is, Malik, almost at the halfway point up the slope, carrying in his arm a bundle unknown, and she is right, for he needs to say something, answer to this matter in a way that Malik will understand.

Explain that this time, Masyaf will not chain him. And if it tries, he cannot do this. Not anymore, and never again.

With that understanding and an idea taking root in his mind, Altaïr looks for the white of the haystacks, and then with a leap of faith, he returns to the judgement that awaits him below.

------

"You wanted to talk."

Time has passed, dinner has been had, the others are sleeping; and Altaïr is, once more, watching him. Impatient, or curious, or maybe neither, or both, the Eagle's gilded eyes are cold as they stare down Malik from behind his desk, and with a flash of amusement the alpha wonders, if Altaïr is aware of how closely he resembles Al Mualim.

How ironic.

Instead of saying anything, his right arm tightens, and the paper parcel he brought to the talk crinkles. The noise distacts Altaïr enough to look down, and yes. That, in his eyes, is curiosity.

"A gift?"

"Take a look."

But instead of approaching, Altaïr's head tilts to the side. He remains seated.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to. You didn't want to have this conversation; let this be a peace offering, then. Brothers being kind to brothers."

"You and I are not brothers, Malik."

Malik's scent doesn't sour, because he doesn't let it.

"Very well. If you won't open my package-"

At his tone, Altaïr finally rises from his chair. Eyes narrowed, as if preparing for battle.

Malik sighs, prepares himself also.

"-then, we need to talk."

But then Altaïr surprises him. Because instead of confrontation, he answers with a question.

"What if, instead of telling, I showed you?"

-

"Follow me."

When the other assassin stepped out of his quarters, his first instinct was to laugh.

(Leaving will not work now.)

But instead, Malik obeyed, and followed, silent as he did so; for this was not his tale to tell. Besides, in his tenure as Dai, he has demanded many difficult answers, and in return he learned something important.

The best interrogation is often a monologue.

But when they entered the graveyard, things took a turn for the bizzare; and this time, Malik pauses.

"Here? This is where you want to talk?"

"You wish to understand, no?"

There is something menacing in the question, a bitterness he doesn't quite understand. Then the omega turns to stare at him, frown on his face and cowl lowered off.

(Malik is not surprised to see the gold in his eyes burning.)

"It won't hurt you to know. I promise."

Malik becomes aware, all at once, that there should be a stray dog barking, or an owl's distant hoot, or gravel under his foot, but instead. There is nothing.

The graveyard is completely silent.

"Hold out your hand."

It is not a compulsion, nor is it mere request. Malik takes a step back, before he can think better of it; on pure animalistic instinct, his hand pulls away.

"And if I won't?"

"Then we walk some more. Come."

-

"This is the grave of my mother."

Malik has heard of Maud bint Jonah ibn La'Ahad. Umar's Crusader wife, his one and only love, a woman much contested in their Order. He remembers Faheem al-Sayf, also, saying Umar had a duty to remarry, and how much better it would be, if only he took more than one wife this time. Remembers him saying that the Eagle owed Masyaf more than a single son.

Remembers his father sneering in annoyance when Umar would, again and again, refuse an omega.

"She died so that I may live. Father said it was her choice, that she loved me, even though she knew me not."

"My condolences, Altaïr. But I do not understand why we are here."

"Because Adha may have chosen different."

What?

"Did you read the letter, Malik? Did you read it carefully?"

Of course; he read it twice, thrice, trying to understand while the omega was sleeping, he read it because Malik would not be a hypocrite, not if he could help it. He knew, with steel conviction, that had he known where Altaïr ran to, years and years ago, he too would have given chase, Al Mualim and the Order be damned.

But he doesn't understand Altaïr's gesture, for Adha is safe in Alamut, in reach of many allies. With Selim and other novices, even, so what did this man read, that frightened him so?

"You didn't notice, then. Perhaps if you read it again?"

And then...

Safety and peace be upon you-

"Altaïr!"

"Hush; I'm just reading-"

"Then read it aloud! Not like this!"

"I can't, so be good and listen, Malik, and stop me when you think you understand."

"But!"

His complaint is wasted air; just as he finishes speaking, Altaïr resumes speaking, and by God, how disturbing, the sound of a compulsion without its force. But then, Malik stops complaining in thought also, because true to form Altaïr is speaking right now, and he does wish to understand, to learn what he had missed, so he listens, and it's the same old; a family, a brother, et cetera.

(The absent mention of the novices, maybe? But no, that is a trifle. This was such a strong reaction, it must have been about his family.)

And then, he hears it.

The woman who arrived was pregnant; and she has fallen ill-

was pregnant

Oh, God.

"That's enough."

A tilt of Altaïr's head; and in his mind, silence, and "do you get it now? Why I had to leave?"

And he does, but this is madness.

"It was just a past tense! You can't tell me, you seriously think," and here Malik takes a second to compose himself, "they wouldn't have mentioned? If Adha miscarried your child?"

"If they assumed Selim was the father, they'd see no reason to go into such detail."

"Altaïr, it's absurd-"

Absurd is the wrong word to use, for Altaïr's eyes widen with incredulous anger, "Absurd, you say, after she rode for days on end? Absurd, after she almost passed out from exhaustion?"

And then, as a whisper, "Was it absurd, when it happened to me?"

Malik thinks he is going to be sick.

"Were you... alone? When you..."

"No. I rode into the night after killing my target, and then it started as I slept. My companion stopped it, saved the children, then watched me over until I was once more awake."

At least that, some small mercies, and Malik lets loose a breath he didn't notice he held. Still, what a horrible story, and with it, what a piece of information. A companion. Altaïr hadn't mentioned one before; could it be connected to Zayn's words from earlier? An influence from their neighbours in Al-Kahf?

It would explain the devotion.

"Is your... companion with Adha, then?"

But Altaïr shakes his head, and on his face, there is a deeper frown now. Wrong question to ask, once again, and "it is not the same, Malik. I am her mate-"

"I know!"

But we are your Order.

And for us, you should have stayed.

"Even if the worst has happened-", and there is a hum, a warning and a whine at once, and so he chooses words more carefully, "it will take you a week, at least, to reach her. Would it be so terrible to wait? They will come here, and you can see to the truth of it, that she is safe with us. Anything you could do, Altaïr, our kin in Alamut will do. She is the daughter of an assassin, and they might believe her to be wife of one. Have faith."

And stay with us. Stay with me. Let me see my sons, at least once.

How he burns to say it; how fast Altaïr would run away if he did. They are Darim and Tazim Ibn-La’Ahad, Selim warned him. The sons of none.

And even still, he wants to see them. Maybe-

"Is that the only reason you left?"

Maybe this, also, is why he left, maybe the letter was a reminder that his family is coming, and Altaïr decided, then and there, that he will keep them all away from him. Maybe Altaïr still hates him, after everything, and maybe this is all for naught-

Altaïr shakes his head.

"No."

In his stomach there are stones now. Adha's miscarriage is one thing; but he cannot dissuade him from this reason. If this, also, is why Altaïr had, and will, leave them, then there is no hope that he can stop him, not unless he leaves Masyaf, going back to Jerusalem.

"But I can show you this part, if you would let me."

On Maud's grave a light begins to glow; and this time, it is Altaïr that holds out his hand. Palm up, and on his skin there are the bands of sunlight, the terrible lines carved in pale skin that he donned to fight Rashid.

Altaïr promised it wouldn't hurt.

"Will it kill me?"

A small shake of the head.

"Have faith."

It is, indeed, a leap of faith, his first in many years. Malik, again an assassin, feels the bracer on his arm. A gift and show of faith, too.

He reaches out, and jumps.

Chapter Text

There is an Eagle, watching over Masyaf.

And stuck in the Eagle's body, Malik cannot breathe.

Easy, now. Steady. Focus-

He tries, but he cannot see; he tries to blink, but he cannot move; he tries to scream, but his lips won't part; and then there is Altaïr's voice, a knife in his mind as it sighs,

You are drowning, Malik,

And for a second, all is quiet-

but I won't let you. Hold onto me.

-then his chest moves up, and down, and up, the movement is not his, and it hurts, this way of breathing; but still he cannot scream-

Gaze through my eyes.

-and then, there is light, and he is blinking. Blinking up, again, again, against a midday sky that is as dark as midnight-

Settle in my bones, and tell me,

-and then, in his mind, there is nothing, nothing but red bodies, a sea of scarlet waiting to engulf and devour him-

Tell me what you see.

-and for a second, the eye of the storm holds still. And in that second, Malik indeed understands this, that he is seeing a courtyard, and in it Bassim al-Kas and Salah al-Ansari, two torches sparring-

And then he is drowning, and falling, again.

-

They all speak to me so sweetly, now. As if they are courting me.

In front of him, there is a man with a sword attacking; Altaïr's left hand rises on sheer reflex, and on a golden bracer the blade is caught, parried, blocked. Yet the man to whom the sword belongs is smiling, once more striking, and talking:

"You are so gifted, son of Umar, and graceful! It is an honour and a privilege, sparring with you."

But under lowered lashes, fire engulfs him.

As if I cannot hear them, or see.

In the back of his head, Malik hears the same voice, far into in the distance of time, and once more, Altaïr whispers, This one was a fool, even as the man is talking, boasting to another in the shadows,

"I will behead him myself, but pay me double, triple, and I can make it quiet, too!"

And with a shiver down his spine, sweetly Altaïr tells him,

This brother tried to poison me.

Later still, down in the Masters' Library, a man breaks bread with his brothers, and on a shared drink he starts convulsing, choking. Around him there is chaos, shouting, and hands beating and pulling at his back, as the others try to help him, dislodge whatever is stuck in his throat. Yet Malik knows, this was no accident.

How foolish, his end turned out to be.

-

How many of them are there, that have tried to kill you?

Across his desk, lies uncoiled parchement, and in his hand, a quill. Under his eyes, his hand is writing, adding, another name to a list,

Not any that still draw breath, but many talk of it. Some think they might get coin from the Templar, the way that fool was attempting, yet some other remain loyal assassins, who think the Order would be better off without me. Those, I will not touch. I promised I won't. But I can rarely see anymore, on them, this difference.

And before, you could?

Before, I was an ally, and blue on a brother reflected that loyalty, to our Order, no matter how much they disliked me. But now, if they do not see me as a Masyaf Assassin, they feel no loyalty for the Order extending to me.

And thus, there is no blue on them.

Precisely. One could be the most loyal of assassins, and I could not tell by looking at him.

The scratch of the quill stops under his hand, and the fingers of his left hand flex, uselessly, as Altaïr looks down at the name he wrote down,

All I can do, is keep a list of the red ones.

Malik knows, from his tone, this is not the first scroll he is writing. And how blind he has been, how ignorant.

Perhaps, in the future, you should be sharing these lists with me.

And perhaps I will.

He was a fool.

-

You said you promised not to harm them. Why?

Inside his head, there is a fuzzy feeling; and somehow, Malik knows, this is the ghost of Altaïr smiling.

I had to.

And then, the scene changes. And he is arguing with a child.

"This was their ritual! Their custom!"

"Karim, please-"

"He interrupted it!"

Malik, who feels as Altaïr does, sees in head's eye horror, a flash of corpses cooling in a dark and incensed room. He remembers, that Alibek mentioned the Templar's slaves, in Latakia. That he said Yusuf was one, was meant to die as one.

And so, he understands.

Karim, who now shouts of home, and tradition, and virtue, is gripping at the scar on his left hand so tightly, without even noticing. And on his tongue, Altaïr is tasting the stench of Latakia's corpses, the burn of Acre's rotting piles, and he thinks, how complicated, the history of pain that was carved in this child. He is talking back, gently, calmly, negotiating a solution.

And then the scene melts away, and Altaïr's smile in his voice is haunting,

We had to compromise, you see. From now on, he had to promise, no more symbolic sacrifices. And in return, I had to promise, too. No poison in Misbah's meals or veins.

You would have killed the Dai of Damascus for him.

I would have done worse.

And of this, Malik does not ask, does not doubt, Altaïr.

-

You showed me the red ones, the traitors.

The brothers, too, Malik.

If he had lungs, he would be stifling a sigh.

Yes, yes, those ones too. But surely, there must be more allies amongst us? Show me, I would like to know their names.

Of course.

He is starting to get accustomed to the feeling, the emptiness in his gut that is the sinking into Altaïr's memories. In a way, it is nice, even, to be young again, and see and feel, to have a left arm, and youth, the lack of burdens, is such an underappreciated thing.

Alas.

This is Rauf.

Quite expected. The first he sees is Altaïr's friend, and he is dark, so dark blue as he walks around. It is hard to see minute details like this, but the posts of the ring are a telltale, and this, he thinks, must be a training lesson.

Quite nice.

Selim.

Again, nothing shocking. Another blue shade resting under a palm tree, eating dates and gesticulating as he does. Fighting, a later image, with another dark blue torch, and with a mental nods he knows already, that this is, Alibek.

But what of the new ones? In Masyaf? Show me the ones I wouldn't know-

Patience.

And a cacophony of scenes begins to fly past him. One moment, he sits by a desk, with a novice ahead of him; in another, he is teaching, and small wisps of blue are paying attention; yet another time, he is requesting information, and the Dai of Acre nods as he glows blue back at him. A good amount of people, not the worst count, and then he sees some purples, too, knows these are undecided ones. Ones Altaïr has been working on convincing. Maybe he can make a list of these ones, work also on turning them into their allies.

Yet from this list, there is an absence.

Altaïr...

Yes?

Can I see my own shade?

And in his head, Altaïr, too, hesitates.

The new one, or the old?

Whichever, either. Both?

And then there is a sigh.

As you wish.

-

The first thing he becomes aware of is the blankets. They are soft, and nice, on his skin; he then becomes aware that he is naked, warm, in a bed, and oh.

There is a voice, so softly talking, from the man lying right next to him.

A voice he recognises.

"Altaïr, can I ask you something?"

For the second time in an hour, he feels sick, and, please, not this one. Anything but this one.

Why, what is wrong with this night?

Everything, he wants to say.

An issue with this memory, is that for Altaïr, this was a distracting one. It is odd, and dizzying, to feel his own bite in his shoulder, to feel the edge of an omega's desire. Altaïr moans, it centers on him, and Malik tries to gather his thoughts-

And then, in his mind, there is a memory that is not his. An image of burning branches, golden fire over blue silk, and the roots of a thick tree, reaching in the sky for sunlight, as young Altaïr tells him, besotted:

"I know. You are like that, too."

And you were, Malik.

There is a shift, and he is moving, looking up at a face, a blink and he sees...

"I have never seen anything like it before. Not before I looked at you."

The memory of words, and a tapestry.

He understands it now, why Altaïr called them strings. An enticing canvas, blinding him, and if he could he would reach to touch them, alas. The memory is not like this, and pillowed on a warm chest he blinks, content and watching, as the gold of silk spins around a sapphire fire, and he feels the affection in his words once more as he whispers;

"I care for you, you know that?"

And he remembers, that in his own skin, he almost cried at those words. Now, too, he would do the same, for Altaïr's eyes must have been lying. He was a monster, on that night.

And yet, Malik, why, look at you. There was no red on you, and you know now what that means.

Nothing, it means nothing.

It means you had a good heart. And then, were led astray.

Do not fault Abbas alone for this. It was me who assaulted you.

Some of the warmth of the room evaporates, and in his head, Altaïr's voice, too, is frozen.

I have not forgotten.

A sigh.

But I am tired, Malik. I am tired, of hating you, of fearing you, for years I have thought on this, on why you could do what you did, on this, on this night, on where was the red of your hate, and oh, you look the same today, do you understand? I am tired, so tired, of this, of doubting you, of doubting everything.

And Malik's voice trembles.

I understand, now. I understand why you would run away.

And do you begrudge me this? I cannot do this, not again. Not anymore.

With each word heard, his throat feels tighter, like a noose finally coiling home. And Malik is too numb to fight it.

I have feared for years, and yet I stayed loyal. For the Creed, for Masyaf, I would have shed my life. But to live, and be chained by this uncertainty, once more? To be scared, and always questioning. To have my family here, even, and know that I can't trust my own eyes? Unable to tell ally from enemy, and loved one from foe? To know I have to defend them, all alone? I cannot, Malik. Forgive me, if you can, for everything. For Kadar, and for my arrogance. For denying you your rightful bloodprice, and for running away. But I...

And Altaïr's voice, too, trembles.

Forgive me. But I cannot do this anymore.

For a long moment, there is silence. Silence, and the rustle of fire, and the memory of breathing, of twinning breaths as two souls doze off together, almost sleeping in the firelight. Then, at the cusp of the memory's end, Malik remembers his voice.

And this time, his voice does not tremble.

I do not forgive you. I cannot.

He feels, not hears, Altaïr's responding sadness.

I cannot forgive you, for you alone were not at fault, and my sins, too, brought us this end. It was inevitable, was it not? You would never have come to me willingly, and why would you have. What did you know, of companionship, of nuances of trust, of what I asked of you, of contentness in moderation, you who sees the world without grey, you, for whom there is just red, and blue, and white? Your eyes see only extremes, Altaïr, only allies and foes, and I did not understand at all, I thought you merely arrogant.

And at last, the bitter truth.

I was a fool to propose that deal to you. And you were a fool, too, for accepting.

Do you regret not killing me, then?

Oh, how this hurts.

No, Altaïr. I do not. And I do not know how we could have been better, what kinder fate would have befallen us, if only I had the wisdom to choose more justly. But listen to me now, for I know one thing, truthfully, and that is why I cannot forgive you.

And that is?

That I am tired, too. I am tired, of us haunting each other for the hurt we caused, without beginning or end. I am tired of all these things going wrong, of suffering, again and again, and all because-

I killed Kadar.

On instinct, he almost says, no, then,

Maybe. But, he would not have wanted this. This hatred, this suffering, and what I did to you... He would have, he

he would not

he would not have-

"He would have wanted us to be kind to one another."

The memory ends, without him noticing.

"He would have wanted this, all this, to end. To seek a better end. So, please.

Do not run away, Altaïr."

Across from him, a sigh, and eyes that are glossed in the moonlight.

"I... do not know how not to."

"Then let's find out, together. One last try, to put our past behind us and find peace, real peace, and rest, at the end of everything. And if, this time as well, I shall fail you in this, if this time too, I shall break all of my oaths-"

The hiddden blade unsheathes in his palm, and to Altaïr, he lifts it like an offering.

"-then kill me. Finish what began at the Temple of Jerusalem. And may you find, away from Masyaf, your home once more."

Altaïr looks, wide eyed, at the blade given to him. He looks, Malik thinks, terrified.

"But I do not want your death."

"Nor do I want yours. All I want..."

The hidden blade retracts, and once more, his palm is free, and offered. And Malik looks Altaïr in the eyes.

"...is for us to be better to one another. If you would have this be our end."

And Altaïr...

Altaïr does not take his arm in acceptance.

Instead, he steps forward, and embraces him. And in the curve of his throat, he feels no words, but a nod, small and hesitant. And Altaïr's arms draw up, even tighter.

For a long time, they do nothing but hold each other.

And that is enough.

Chapter Text

The evening ends where it begins, in the Mentor's Study. Before he leaves for his own rooms, Malik points at his desk, tells him,

"You should open the package."

and Altaïr blinks, looks up, surprised.

"Should I? I thought you'd want it back."

But to his confusion, Malik only asks,

"Why would I?"

In response, Altaïr knows not what to say; so he says nothing. This, Malik must take as invitation to leave, and vaguely, Altaïr thinks that five years ago, he would have felt insulted. Oh, to be talked to in vagueness and dismissed so summarily, like a simple child; his scent sours a little.

(Whether it is at a perceived insult, or at the imminence of Malik's departure, he cannot say.)

For what is worth, Malik seems to pay it all no mind; still, before he steps outside and into the night, the alpha stops, looks back at him.

"Try to enjoy it, Altaïr. I had it made for you."

Then, he closes the door; just like that, he is gone.

And Altaïr wonders.

-

Ten heartbeats, after the door shuts; Altaïr waits no longer. The paper crinkles in his hands, and the parcel is lighter than expected. It only stirs more curiosity; what could it be? A knife, a sword, it would defeat the purpose, peace, he said, but then, what else, what would Malik have made for one such as him-

Then, as the package gives way, the first thing he thinks is,

Soft?

And then he keeps unpacking. Confusion gives way to awe, and oh. How strange.

It's beautiful.

------

Woken by the morning light, Zayn yawns, stretches, and tries his best to shake himself awake. With patience, he washes, dresses, straps on armour, pouches, sword, prepares to go and rouse Karim; but then, inside the atrium, stops.

There is a stranger in their house.

"Hello?"

Even as he calls, a knife is in his palm; and this is an assassin, albeit of rank he does not recognise. It matters not; Zayn is ready.

And then the stranger turns.

"Good morning" says Altaïr, in white from head to toe, and smiling. "Did I startle you?"

"A little", Zayn confesses, and Altaïr nods.

"You got complacent, then. Is it the clothes? Our enemies do not keep wearing the same ones."

"I know", again he says, this time with half mind. Zayn stares, looks him up, then down. And then, he stares some more, because.

Because these clothes are beautiful.

Silk that flows in waves; the first is long, and ends in strips that are dyed red. Red like the sash still underneath it, red but embroidered with silver thread, red and layered with silver buttons, and over this a shorter one, this layer, too, cuffed in more colours, only instead of red it's black. Black, like a Dai's jacket, black, like the armours they both wear, black, and red, and white most of all, like an assassin; but the amount of silver thread is staggering, and the silk is heavy, finely spun. Over collarbones, there is the cowl's edge, thick with yet more metallic embroidery; and round his throat is wrapped a shawl, this one just black, so simple; but of course, this too of finest make-

Then Altaïr takes a step towards him, and in the light, the silver sparks, it comes alive, and on each step, it shifts, such that Zayn looks some more, enraptured and amazed by the display, and then-

Oh.

He saw this pattern once before. A market stall.

"Are these your make?"

"No, not at all. They were a gift."

"I see."

He does.

"They suit you well, in fact-"

Zayn, with some small-talk, now stalls. He smiles some more, and compliments, and all this time he watches Altaïr, whose hands keep patting down the silk. Altaïr, who now looks only down, Altaïr, who turns a little left, a little right, and the fabric shifts around his ankles, another twist, another swoosh, Altaïr, who now smiles at it. Altaïr always brought to Latakia only the best and brightest fabrics, Altaïr learned from Nazik and Adha how to appreciate beautiful things-

-and here he is, radiant like never before.

(Not since the battle, anyway.)

Altaïr now smiles so very much, and Zayn, too, smiles wide to match him. He's pleased as well, if only a little, because Altaïr should be more often this happy, soft-hearted and relaxed, he thinks, he deserves gifts, and happiness, he deserves this, and so much more.

But inside him, there is a feeling, as he recognises the pattern, as he replays words in his mind. Dai Malik asked for Adha's robes. Dai Malik asked about Al-Kahf…

The feeling grows, and it burns him.

For why else would an alpha ask?

-

"We need to talk", is how he greets the other assassin, later, as they ascend a set of stairs. Today, Zayn is on aviary duty, and Dai Malik insisted on coming with him. Just to show him how it's done, just to make sure that he is safe; as if Zayn did not have a bureau, as if Altaïr's teachings were deficient, as if he never cared for an eagle or dove before this very day.

Regardless, to his words, he gets no response; only later, just like the eaglet he now feeds with care, does Dai Malik turn his head to the side and asks,

"What did you wish to talk about?"

And Zayn smiles. "Why, boundaries."

The older alpha sighs, coaxes the young bird back on its stand, "you'll need to be more explicit."

"Like you are, Dai? A courtship gift! And you were bold. Expensive, too! So much silver, why, that one robe could feed all Masyaf for days. A beautiful creation, you outdid yourself making it-"

The gate of a cage falls shut, and bar the ring of metal grate, between them there is silence. Then the Dai turns.

"It's wrong to court him, don't you know this? He has a mate!"

Whatever Dai Malik meant to say in return, he opens his mouth, then closes it. When he opens it again, he only says a single thing. A lie.

"It's not a courtship gift, Zayn."

"It's not? Then you mistake me for a fool. Your robes are not of silk, are they? And asking about Adha's clothes, about Al-Kahf..." he huffs in anger, then curls his lip at the Dai, "if I knew why you asked, I would have told you nothing."

Malik sighs.

"Child", and Zayn hisses at the insult. Malik just frowns, and shakes his head. "You accuse me for nothing, cool your tongue. Do you truly not hear them talk? Talk that he is by my word a Dai, yet that the clothes he wears are foreign? Those robes I made, they're not like mine, this much is true; but they are in the style of Masyaf, and that is what matters. I asked you those things because I wanted him to like them, I asked because he needs to wear them, I asked because Altaïr was, and will be once more, a title higher than Dai."

Altaïr does not need to do anything, that aside, "So what of it?"

"Mentor is an elected title. The assassins must look up at him, and feel that he belongs with them. He cannot, will not, become Masyaf's Chief Dai while dressing like they do in Al-Kahf."

Have you and your lot not taken enough? And Zayn feels anger curl in his blood. Fingers, clothes, sons and oaths; Masyaf behaves like a beast, and this beast always hungers for more. When will it give them something back? Thus far it's just demands and costs; in Latakia, they swore oaths, but they got safety, they got peace. They got a home. In Masyaf? They get near-nothing, save for some shelter and stale food.

And that's the thing.

He doesn't know.

Nazik Al-Abid has raised this man's sons, and even now, in her old age, the beta watches over them in Alamut. This ungrateful Dai has no idea of it, of what she did, of what he's doing; that he is wiping Nazik's mark, that he is trespassing. He doesn't know that he owes her, he doesn't know so many things, and Zayn tells him now as much,

"Altaïr has done enough for titles."

"You think I do not know? I do, I agree, but-"

"But? I think you don't; or you would not have done what you just did! That robe he wears, it is a mark of someone else, a mark you're trying to replace."

"It's not like that," Dai Malik frowns, and in the air there's bitterness.

"It is not just me you challenge, alpha, do not try now to fight for him. Alibek, too, abhors transgressors, his poison and blades will find you-"

"For what, Zayn? For just a robe?"

"No, it's not that. But..."

He takes a second, lets his blood cool, finds the words.

"Our Mentor has been through a lot. He's tired, worried, and with that letter? You saw it too, he almost left. Left us all, and rode off, he would have died in some desert. All it took was a single letter, with a single word spelled the wrong way, and he would have died. Just like that."

Dai Malik closes his eyes, and nodding, he sighs. Perhaps he is starting to understand.

"There is a lot that now hurts him, that triggers him to act rashly, and you know so little about him. This isn't just about some clothes, Malik; this is about trying to change him, about making demands, and you have no right, you, least of all. You have no right to make him change. Not for courtship, and not for politics. Not even if it saves Masyaf."

And just in case it must be said.

"We won't take it, to see him hurt. Not by this place, and not by you. Not anymore, Dai, do you hear? If you hurt him again-"

"I die? We all die?"

Dai Malik opens his eyes and, strangely, he smiles.

"If this is all, then do not worry. I already know."

------

In the following days, change shows in the little things.

It shows in the way Malik now shows up, no longer overbearing. Before, he was there to relieve him of burdens, of any menial tasks he could, eager in a naive, almost desperate way; now, the alpha comes to him calm and composed, each day he visits once, and always with the same words.

"Walk with me."

Altaïr, for his part, tries to make time. And, when he can, they walk the gardens, they walk the grounds, even the village sometimes; and Malik, from time to time, bends to him, asks, always a whisper:

"Gaze onto them."

Later still, Malik stays silent, and Altaïr sinks him into memories. Shows him the colours of the people, whose faces he can never see-

(To walk while using second vision is distracting, even dizzying at times; but the hand at his back is steady, and Malik never lets him stumble.)

-and the alpha corroborates. Two souls, they watch Masyaf as one; they put words onto papers, faces onto colours, intent onto names that Juno now stays mysteriously silent about-

(Is he right? Is he lying? Altaïr asks, not only once.

And every time, she says nothing.)

and now, with each walk, things begin to change.

Small things.

But he notices.

------

"Thank you for making time, Salah", Dai Malik tells a Master Assassin. At his side, Zayn, busy sharpening quills, pauses; for there is something odd in the alpha's tone.

He looks up, puts the feather down. And before the desk, Salah now bows.

"My pleasure, Dai. You wanted to talk?"

"Indeed, I did. I have a mission for you."

"From who? We have no Chief Dai yet."

"Indeed, we don't. We're all Chief Dai."

"But Altaïr-"

"-is also Dai. What are these questions, assassin? Do you not live to serve the Order?"

It is an accusation, not a question, and Zayn, silent, watches as Salah averts his gaze from the Dai's eyes.

"Of course I do."

"Then, kill this man."

And Dai Malik holds up a scroll. Salah picks it up, and then he reads, he gasps, and pales, and then he speaks.

"Al-Kond Herri! You... you want me..."

"Yes."

Salah looks at the Dai, then around, and on his frame Zayn sees tremors.

"But..."

"But?"

"I do not understand! This man made allies with the Order, he visited Al-Kahf! We signed a treaty with him, this must be a mistake-"

"It's not. His wife is Isabella, the wife of Conrad of Monferrat, and Conrad, if you remember, was at the siege of Acre. They are both Templars, or, at least, they were. Conrad was assassinated."

The Master Assassin gasps.

"By whom?"

"Altaïr."

"And you are sure..."

Zayn's eyes narrow, he straightens a bit; and tilts a hidden blade in candlelight. For just a second, Salah's roving eyes get pulled by the flash of light, and then they rise, and when they meet-

"It was warranted, do not frown. Conrad changed some correspondence with Rashid ad-Din Sinan."

-Salah no longer looks afraid. He looks upset, and somewhat hateful, and then he looks away the first, and Zayn thinks, he's not afraid, or well, he is. But there is more than just fear making him nervous.

He's hiding something.

"But, Al-Kahf..."

"You waste my time. Speak with Altaïr, he'll show you proof of his betrayal. But first, this task. Do you decline?"

Subtly, Salah shakes his head, looks down, closes his eyes, inhales. He sighs.

"Alone. You want me to kill this man alone."

"He's just one man as well."

"But I..."

"Again, Salah, you waste my time! Do you decline? For if you do, I'll take your rank. You cannot stay Master Assassin when you won't kill a single man. At Acre's siege, Altaïr killed ten."

Salah looks up.

"Then I accept, but-"

"But?"

"-if I... If I don't come back, can you promise me? My family-"

Malik's eyes soften, just a bit.

"We'll keep them safe. Now, go with God."

"Safety and peace."

"On you as well."

And the assassin bows, and leaves.
Zayn gets up as the door closes. He leans onto the wooden door, and waits to hear his steps retreat. Then, at long last, he speaks up. And he cannot believe what happened.

"You just sent an assassin to die!"

"Did I?"

Malik regards him, passive. Incredible, this man.

"You sent him to kill the king of Jerusalem! Alone! He'll die, for sure-"

"I know."

Wait. What?

"Then why?"

Behind his desk, Malik sits up. With measured steps, he comes so close. And hot air fans Zayn's throat; it's warm, and soft, at odds with Malik's whisper. He sounds enraged, his breath a hiss.

"Because he called me Abu Darim."

------

A week later, Altaïr receives a note. It is not one meant for him, nonetheless, Malik shares it, and the council of five Dai is saddened to hear that Salah al-Ansari passed. A good and noble death, they call it; Malik praises the man. Dead while performing an assassination; just as planned, his target died.

And then his guards killed the assassin.

It's all hush hush, of course it is, dismissed as simple accident. To call it anything else would crush the Crusaders; the rumours from Acre took root, and now they say that Richard, the brave King Lionheart, wants the Jerusalem throne for himself. Richard the Lionheart, who would be now twice a killer, now twice rumoured to have paid the Assassins, twice he would have widowed dear, pregnant Isabella.

No, it would be disastruos.

Henri of Champaigne just fell down. He tripped, and fell, from a balcony.

And Salah?

Well.

"A loyal one", Malik now cries. "A loss for our Order, how sad. May God forgive him, rest his soul." And the others, Altaïr too, bow down and pray, for his poor soul, and for their ones.

If only there was a merciful God.

-

"Another one", Malik says later. "Amend the list, he knew too much."

"A Templar?"

"Yes, or paid by one."

Then good riddance. Altaïr cuts. Across the parchment, fresh ink shines, and just like that, the list shortens. Another traitor is now dead. Another threat, one red torch less, and step by step, Masyaf changes. Fingers curl gently into white silk, and Altaïr leans back in his chair. He sighs.

It's little things.

But he notices.

Chapter Text

The day Salah dies is a good one. Many of the ones that follow are not.

-

"Why are you keeping him alive?"

Another night, another parchment; and the flat bread he chews is dry. A late night dinner shared in silence, with some labneh to smooth it down; and Altaïr, behind his desk, frowns as he looks at the name Malik taps at.

"Bassim?"

He hums.

"He's Adha's brother."

Malik frowns. "So? What of it?"

"His acts are not just mine to judge."

An oddly sentimental reason.

"You told me he was a Templar. He must be dealt with, dealt with soon, or he will winter here with us. Do you remember the Mustali?"

"We still have time", except, they don't. And surely Altaïr too knows this, because he asks next, looking up,

"Do you think we're that close already? To the roads being blocked with snow?"

Blocked for whom, he needs not ask.

"Altaïr, I-" and Malik sighs, "Think it this way: it gives us time. We'll rally allies, build more trust, so when they come, it will be safer. It is not all bad, and better still, if Alamut, when they come join us, finds no traitor to our Creed left here."

Go back to al-Kas, to the right one, but even as he thinks the sentence, Altaïr's mouth purses as he frowns. Looking back down, the white cowl shields him; it is plain to see that the young Dai is dissatisfied.

"Look, I understand-"

"Do you? Do you, now?"

The voice he hears is low and cold; and this is what Zayn warned about. The little things.

"Believe me when I say I do, or that, at least, I try my best. But you must try as well; have faith, in them if not in me, that they'll come. That they will be safe until they do."

Focus on us, in the meantime.

From under the white hood comes a hum, and Malik sighs with sheer relief, let this be done, let it be over; but then Altaïr says, "about that”, and Malik closes his eyes, resigned.

"I got a letter from Hama. Zayn told me about the Dai there, he told me that he told you also. What do you think?"

"I think it's early, we judge suspicion on mere words."

"Zayn's words are ones you can trust, that is why I sent him to Salamiyah, to judge that city's truths and lies. And since he told me of this matter, I have been thinking."

"Of?"

Another sigh.

"Sending him back to his Bureau. And maybe further-"

How absurd.

"He is a child."

Yet Altaïr denies it, shakes his head. "Zayn has gone on many missions. He has earned his title and bureau, he will do well what must be done."

"And if he doesn't? If he misjudges, if he kills an innocent Dai?"

Malik bends down, until he feels wood scratch on his cheek, and honey eyes staring him down, peering from the dark of the shadows.

"Be more concerned with Masyaf. The assassins are-"

"- so close to Hama, and Alibek, their leader, injured. Or are those not assassins too?"

The older assassin straightens up and, as he does, Altaïr follows.

"I want to hear at least from them, that they're alive, that they are safe, that they're prepared to winter there. I want Hama to be safe for them, if Masyaf is not."

"And for this, you would send a novice to kill a Dai. What if Zayn dies, Altaïr? What if he fails, and the Dai writes back to us demading your head?"

The younger Dai shudders, and in that moment Malik knows: he won.

"He won't, Karim will join-"

"No."

"No? By what authority?"

"Mine, as Dai of Jerusalem."

Once more, Altaïr bows under his words, and this time he feels some shame for it, but it comes and it goes in seconds. Altaïr is being unreasonable, and Karim's bureau is under his own. Jerusalem controls Safed. Malik tries to end the discussion for the night-

"Take your thoughts away from Zayn and Karim. Neither will leave Masyaf, not this winter."

-but Altaïr's iced tone catches him off-guard.

"Because you will not let them leave, Malik."

Realisation hits him slowly.

"I didn't mean-"

"Get out."

The omega, shoulders bowed, turns his white-clad body away from him, and there is nothing Malik can think to say.

"Altaïr."

The air shifts, burns; and silver turns an ugly colour, a sunrise misplaced in the night. Malik tries, still, a final time,

"Altaïr, I'm sorry-"

Leave.

But he doesn't think he could resist the command, even if he tried.

-

Some days, they go on long walks. They look for enemies as one, they chat, they eat, they spar together; and those are good days, when they heal. They rest, and peace, and all they promised, they find together for some time.

Some other days, they talk and fight. Politics is now their crucible, a coded maze they navigate, and Altaïr, who lead alone, is uncompromising, sometimes alien, sometimes unreasonable in his demands. In return, Malik, tired, lonely, also used to his one Bureau, lets tempers rise and makes mistakes.

One evening, they get so frustrated that Altaïr, cool toned and composed, loosens an angry shout. It's nothing more than just frustration, nothing more than Malik's own name, nothing but a sound now familiar, in nightmares which should stay just in the past. Malik knows, and he understands frustration. Malik forgives, tries to forget, a new beginning, they promised one another, safety and peace…

Malik throws up his dinner that night.

-

The matters of Bassim and Hama remain unresolved. Time passes; the air grows thicker, colder, wet with the promise of a winter that Malik knows and hates, and he watches the citadel of the Assassins, if not the men contained within, slowly but surely change with it. The autumn of their battles wanes, gives way to bitter memories, to loss of warmth, of sun and auburn and, oh, does he ever hate winter and the snow-

(But perhaps Altaïr favours winter and snow, the memories of his escape, wings reborn and shackles lost. Perhaps the losses were Malik's and Masyaf's alone, Kadar and him, summer and winter, the two worst memories of them all.)

Alone in his rooms, Malik now often aches, with pains forgotten and remembered, with scars that never healed completely; from an arm long rotted into dust. And in this he is not alone, for Altaïr too changes ever-so-slightly, grows colder and joins him on less walks; and whether this is temper or a biological urge, Malik doesn't know. He does not remember much of his own mother, what she did and what she liked, and before Altaïr was not man but weapon, thinking of him 'before' is pointless in this regard, winter did not change Altaïr before, it could not.

(Rashid's commands were sacred things. Altaïr rode through the harshest storms, through famine, through snow, he rode through his own heat without break or complaint, above and beyond, never failed, never faltered, until he did, until it brought both of them to ruin.)

Malik aches, his ruined arm aches, and he thinks that Zayn knows nothing; that change is inevitable, and that it has no right to hurt him so. On lonely walks between Masyaf's halls the cold even makes him yearn for old comforts, comforts he did not ache for since they threw him out of Masyaf, except those comforts are now poison-

("Take him during his heat. With a child in his belly, he will not fight you anymore."

He can feel Abbas' revolting eyes on him each day now, each night, smug, did my advice not work? Did he not come back in the end?

Smile, alpha.

You have a family now.)

And avoiding the hammam, miserable by his own stubborn fault, he finds himself missing Jerusalem often, longing for the easy, careless ways of its crowds and the freedom they held. It is being caught in these erstwhile thoughts that makes things hard, that makes him slow and somewhat bitter, and he doesn't care, doesn't notice, not until-

-

"Malik?"

Altaïr has stopped talking about grain reserve budgets. Altaïr looks concerned, cowl down and eyes softened by flickering-gold candlelight. In front of his desk, Altaïr is now waiting for an answer, and somewhat more rough than he intends it to, Malik snaps back in mild annoyance:

"What?"

If possible, Altaïr's eyes only grow softer. His voice, too, is now feathersoft.

(A minute ago, they were arguing.)

"What bothers you?"

"Nothing, it's nothing-"

And Altaïr's voice hardens.

"Don't lie to me."

But is it lie? It is just tiredness. He says as much,

"I am just tired-"

"Malik."

Glowing eyes stare down at him, not honey-soft anymore, but cold and piercing.

"I know you lie."

You do? How so? Does lying get perceived as enmity, are things between us so fragile in your eyes,

("I knew you would be red again. It was just a matter of time.")

that even this is an agression?

How stressful, how tiring; and it doesn't matter, not really, not if it makes his colours enemy red, Malik says, thus, somewhat forlornly,

"My left arm hurts."

And really, it is his entire shoulder, his entire body, will he glow scarlet if he doesn't describe it so? Perhaps not, because oh, his eyes, they are now back to honey, and Altaïr says,

"Thank you, don't lie to me again."

and he has a look on him, thoughtful, as if he discovered something secret, as if this answer is a key, to what Malik does not know, all that he knows is when he insists,

"The cold is coming, it's just normal-"

"It's not."

the topic ends, changes summarily. And he does not think much of it, not until a mere few days later, when Karim tells him,

"Bring satchels tomorrow, we'll go plant gathering."

And Malik yearns to ask something, anything, to seem knowledgeable and in control; but adrift he is nowadays in Altaïr's moods and an icyness that more often than not hurts, and when Karim blinks up, too, in wordless questions, he offers in return not words, but a single nod.

He asked Altaïr to trust him.

It is a trust he must now return.

-

They do not, in the end, go foraging.

For all that Malik prepares, for all that he brings thick robes and his reed basket, shears ready and sharpened, mind set to find whatever half-dead plant matter has not yet succumbed to Altaïr's hunts and the cold…

…the assassin takes one look at him, and says,

“Please stay inside.”

Malik raises an eyebrow, “Karim told me-”

“He didn't know what we spoke of.”

This makes Malik laugh once, disbelieving, it makes him smile. “So what, Altaïr, will I die? It's just some cold-”

“Please, it will” hurt? Altaïr doesn't say, but maybe thinks it, his face crinkles as if he feels it so, and his tone, again, turns soft as he repeats it,

“Just... stay inside, please. Just this once.”

And Malik marvels. Altaïr so rarely said please, before.

"Perhaps I will, then. Take this, though, will you?"

Malik gives him the basket he brought up; and when Altaïr blinks at him, curiously, surely a man like him has better, sturdier baskets than some poor swampwater reedlings, he tells him,

“We used this, me and Kadar, for balms, it is a sturdy, lucky basket. You'll see for yourself.”

Another man would have just scoffed; the basket is in fact, quite poor, so old, like him, like them both, worn. Altaïr doesn't seem to care though, and this is proof, for another man would have just scoffed, but Altaïr's response is a nod, a slow run of his hands over the worn handle, and a sincere,

“Thank you.”

and Malik nods at him in return,

"Safety and peace, Altaïr."

"On you as well."

and this is proof, that Zayn was wrong.

Chapter Text

Slowly, but surely, winter is beginning to creep on them. And Altaïr has good reason to fear and dread the cold.

-

"I understand, believe me, I do-"

And Malik wants to kill Bassim. Inside his heart, Juno is laughing,

It's life for life, for an al-Kas.

And behind his desk, Altaïr looks down; in front of him, Malik now frowns. Inside his chest, Juno now warns him,

Kill him, and you will owe me two lives.

She is so loud tonight, so loud. Altaïr bends his head with it, lest the brightness show past his eyelashes, lest Malik see, misunderstand,

But he does that already, doesn't he?

And yes, today, oh, how Malik keeps on talking, always, always, that is what this man always has done. Altaïr, tired, tries to bring up Hama, tries to bring usefulness to this event,

(Because he claims to understand; but doesn't.)

then Malik humiliates Zayn's skills as Rafiq, insists to keep them cooped up, like animals. He ignores the risks, ignores the young ones; ignores what Hama might do to them. Ignoring that they're out there, fragile and cold, that traitors still know of and hunt Latakia's Order,

It only matters if it is his own blood. He doesn't care about the rest at all.

Malik talks, and Altaïr's temper burns,

(Liar.)

and Malik does not understand a single word. At last, Juno reminds him,

He tried to coop you up as well.

Right as Malik says,

"Neither will leave Masyaf-"

And Altaïr is tired, so tired, of them both.

"Because you will not let them leave, Malik."

At last, silence.

Then,

"I didn't mean-",

but Altaïr is so, so tired of lies tonight. He tries to say it kindly, but fails,

"Get out."

he hisses at the man, just as Juno's cold words now burn him,

(his first warning)

He speaks these words to you, and you allow him? How interesting! The two of you are so close now, it is quite fascinating, really.

Say, Wielder.

Do you remember that you still owe me a child?

-

The second warning came later, over a cup of mintleaf tea and a book of poetry. It was Juno's voice hissing in silence:

I am still waiting for the child.

Sinister, it cast loose drops of Altaïr's warm mint tea, and this was mark of his surprise, for,

Adha is not back yet, Juno.

And? It was not she that promised me.

The chill he felt had nothing to do with the weather; and there was only one argument that had kept her at bay.

Do you not wish for the child to have both our bloods?

That was the only truth that Altaïr had held against her; the golden Sight. Both parents as carriers of it, a more tempting offer than just his own blood, and this offer he leveraged also in the past, a better child, one that she was willing to wait for. But this time, Juno told him,

I do, but I grow tired of waiting. To make a child, you do not need the Cup, she might be barren now anyway-

What? Why would she-

The miscarriage.

And Altaïr choked on his breath.

Even our best designs had defects, you see, and both of you have taken damage. I want that life. Yet you delay it. Foolishly.

The drop was cold, by the time it spilled on his skin, by the time it fell on his uncovered arm, by the time Altaïr found enough voice within himself to tell her,

You rush to conclusions, Juno, be a little more patient-

But Juno was hot and horrifying, boiling hot when she snapped,

Why? Why can you not make me one?

And it was not his own hand (it was Juno's), that wiped drops of loose mint tea off of his arm.

-

On that first night, Altaïr snuck out, under the cover of the dark, he slipped, careful, past the gates of Masyaf; there, on a moonlit meadow of Jabal Ansariyah, he found a flat, round-shaped leaf bunch. A familiar plant.

Aristolochia rotunda.

Looking down, he reflected that he never used this one, never had reason to. An impotent poison, a slow-killing one, bothersome to decoct, easily replaced. Also used in medicine-

You wouldn't dare.

-to delay a child. Delay heats, too, if truly need be. A birthing agent, a poor herbalist would call it. In truth, an abortifacent, and a dangerous one.

Back then, a necessity.

(And oh, how hard she tried, to stay his hand; but he was ready for her-)

Stop this, you-!

-

That night became the first night spent fighting against Juno since the siege of Acre's past.

(But not the last, oh, not the last.)

That she does not want him to drink this, it is a good sign, he thinks. That, even now, she keeps trying to move his fingers, to push them down his throat to vomit, is even better; and the tea is so bitter, even still, Altaïr pushes her (his) hand, steadily, downwards, even as drinks it, sip by sip.

He will not trade his children to djinn like they are just cattle.

They are, though, you promised, you promised me one-

He did, yes, he traded a promise, and with it he saved a citadel's worth of lives. He broke his Creed once, his own oaths; and today, Altaïr reflects, what is then, this, a second one broken? Against a being like Juno?

Has Adha truly lost their child to the road?

He would kill you, kill you if he knew!-

Ah.

In this alone, Juno is right.

Malik would be horrified. Self-sacrificial Malik, who cut his own throat, caring, warm Malik, who gifted him a robe and a soft cloak, law-abiding, just Malik, who would kill him if he knew, that he vowed to break the first Tenet again, traded with an innocent's life, even though it was to save so many lives,

Malik would beat him, exile him, kill him if he knew of it;

but Altaïr has come much too far now to die.

(Has come too far to lose Malik, also, to see him turn black-red-like-blood.)

And so, Juno burns him, tries to control him; and down on his knees, Altaïr trembles against her, he bears it all down, the tea and the burning, the payment for sins, for promises unkept. His children, not cattle; Masyaf's lives, not lost. Against it all, his defiance is a small price.

And Malik would not understand it; thus, he can never know.

-

Over the coming days, Altaïr feels himself weaken.

And he knows the reason for it, even as the cold now comes; even as his shoulder begins hurting, a wound not properly closed. God bless Nazik, but a healer she was not; and his breastbone is aching, a first sign of the snowstorms. A sign amongst many; and a burning that, blessedly, does not yet come.

The tea is still working.

(But for however long? At this pace, you will die, Juno whispers, acidic. But that is her game, lies; so he ignores her. She still tries to,

It is my payment, my right-

control him, but less strongly; she is saving her strength, and, for what, he knows not. And that is her game, her lies and her deception,

Because you will die if you keep drinking it, that's why I want you to stop-

to bring his guard down, make him weaken, oh yes; because the tea is still working.)

Altaïr does not stop.

-

On some days, he feels more tired than usual; on others, he stumbles as he walks. It takes one time, however,

"Altaïr? What happened?"

Of near-falling with Malik on one of their usual walks, to rethink what is safe to do and what is not; Aristolochia is a poison he is not immune to, and he must be more careful.

(He tries to limit the walks, the time he spends with Malik, who looks so suspicious, who has a good nose. He might smell the birthwort, he might come to know; and so they walk the crowds less often, Malik just cannot know-)

Less tea, then. He adjusts it, more risky; but it works. The heat is not coming, Malik does not frown at him anymore, and Altaïr thinks: this is fine. Less tea, until Adha comes, he will ration, he can do this.

You cannot.

Juno lies more than most.

-

On a chilly evening, they begin talks of grain taxes, of building up the food stocks in advance of the first snows, and Malik, not for the first time, pays him no attention; Malik stares at a wall, and ignores him, and he reeks of misery so sour that,

(had he not known better)

Altaïr would think the man injured somehow.

"Malik."

The alpha is stubborn, unlike his name; when questioned, Malik is not king, but mule, he has the gall to say,

"It's just the cold-"

As if Altaïr is an idiot.

"I know you lie."

And, at last; another toll that Malik now pays, a pain that is not his to pay. Malik lost his arm, and Altaïr paid with the rape that he bore; but this new pain, too, is of Altaïr's doing; and this pain must be paid back as well.

"The cold is coming, it's just normal-"

"It's not."

As if a cut arm is somehow natural.

Yet despite it all, Malik never looks at him with hatred. He lies, and snaps back, bitter, as is his right,

but not once does red-black-like-hatred break the filigree of cobalt-and-gold.

-

On that evening, Altaïr tells Karim, before retiring, "We must go foraging soon, this year's last harvest before winter comes",

and when he drinks the tea, later, he feels so nauseous that he almost, nearly hurls, so badly he shakes that he almost passes out. A new hike in the mountains, and it is getting so cold, so, so cold outside, he is so, so cold these days,

So do not go! Stay inside! And throw up that damned-

But he swallows fear, bitter, a slow sip-by-slow-sip, and steadies himself. Juno fights him fiercely, she keeps seizing his arms, his legs,

Throw up, foolish child, or I will hold you down-

His whole chest, really, but his father taught him how to meditate; and this is a torture he knows how to fight. Inside his mind, Altaïr makes a list now, a list for a salve. Malik once used one on him, and it worked quite well; what did it contain? Mint, and some touch of wolfsbane, some carrier oils-

Al-Kas is not one, but two, you defiant one,

-some clove oil, perhaps? He thinks that it smelled nice, that it was fragrant and soft-

You think I need your fool wife to make on you a child?

-maybe a touch of datura, to dull the aches more, his own innovative touch, would Malik even notice, no, surely not-

Keep fighting, and-

-a high voice in his head drones on, but Altaïr cares not. Sunk into himself, curled into a ball on the floor, he hums as he thinks, on scar-pains once dulled with gentle hands, and of salves he can concoct to bring back those memories, and put rights where there are wrongs.

And things will get better, he must hold onto this; as long as Malik stays by his side everything will be fine,

as long as Malik does not know.

-

Three days later, when Malik comes to him, thick-clothed with a basket and teeth clenched in pain, Altaïr, half-dazed and shoulder hurting already, feels shame and asks, somewhat meekly,

"Please, just... stay inside."

-

It is midway through the foraging that he feels the heat first; within the cold of his body, a warmth starts burning in his bones. The contrast is so sharp that it cuts him down, mercilessly; and in the cold-damp of the meadow, Altaïr chokes on empty air as he stumbles, and falls.

Finally.

"Mentor!"

He tries to get up, scratches with weak hands at the hard soil; but when heat expands and curls up in his body, the shock steals his breath once more. Then, as another's hand pulls up, around his front,

"What happened? Are you okay-"

And Zayn, too, curls under his right arm and lifts him,

"-Mentor? Talk to us, hey-"

Altaïr is frozen, for a long moment,

"I..."

And from somewhere in the momentary panic, Karim's voice finds him first.

"Deep breaths."

Sometime in his distraction, the assassin must have switched sides, switched tones, also; from his back to his left, and from there dark eyes find him, calm and focused,

"Deep breaths, brother. Look at me, breathe with me."

And Altaïr has obeyed many orders in his life; in the cold air of the meadow, two bodies breathe out twinned plums of fog.

"Take your time, and tell us: what is wrong?"

"I..."

"Not yet, Zayn, no, let him be. Keep breathing, yes, just like that. Just breathe with me, a little more..."

After a time, Altaïr loses count, gets lost in the lull of Karim's voice; and that is when the younger assassin looks at his brother, a face mirrored in mute concern, and nods his head in gentle guidance.

"Come on, let's take our Mentor home."

-

Two pairs of eyes look down at him. They're worried, kind souls, Altaïr does not quite sigh, but he tells them:

"I'm fine, brothers, it is just tiredness."

And if Malik used it, then why not.

"Can you stand?"

"I can", again he believes it.

How do they fall, for such bad lies?

What does it matter; Altaïr rests for a while, "just tiredness", again he tells the boys,

Drink water, rinse the poison off-

And as night comes, Altaïr makes an effort and stands up, paces the room and gathers some of their herbs.

"Dry these off, macerate the others, I will take these ones. Make a list of what you gathered by tomorrow."

As if tomorrow will be normal; as if the heat does not burn, subdued by the birthwort, but not for long. And Karim, loyal, careful, is already tying up stems around the rafters with cords.

In that, he is alone.

"Are you sure you are okay?"

Zayn steps forth. His nostrils flare.

"There is something... Something smells wrong on you..."

Against himself, Altaïr is proud. Zayn is better than he doubted him of.

"It is a tea, Zayn, that is all."

"A tea? What tea? You're not in heat."

And the yound alpha narrows his eyes.

"Are you?"

"Not yet. But I will be. Very soon."

Zayn is not convinced. At his side Karim, too, abandons his bundles, and adds his own doubts to the pile,

"Why drink the tea already, then? You taught us they're for when the heat has already started, not before it's due."

"Because we are in Masyaf."

And he hopes that this settles it. Masyaf is not a safe place for them, for him, they know it both. With Malik on their side, the red is thinning, it matters not today, still too little, still too slow; and Juno wants from him a child.

Without Adha, he cannot.

"What tea did you drink? I do not know this, it smells unusual."

"Not all plants are the same as in Latakia. Small changes, they are of no great concern."

"Which plants?"

"Zayn."

"Which plants, Mentor? Tell me-"

"Zayn-"

"Let go, brother."

Karim steps forth.

"Tell us tomorrow, will you? Teach us what other teas you brew. A good Rafiq knows many medicines, today we gathered some for that salve you told us about. Would you like us to start working on it? Decoct it, while you rest tonight."

"That would be good, Karim, thank you."

And he feels it crawling higher now; the heat that flushes his chest up, that sets in with a wave of cold sweat. Too early, too strong; Altaïr shudders.

"On second thought, here. A list, for the steps you will take."

And he reaches for an empty scroll.

"Prepare it all, in case I cannot-"

He writes it, speaks it as he does so, with Karim attentive by his right, with Zayn doubtful, watching him from his left. And the calligraphy he manages is a far cry, a pitiful attempt from his usual font; when the quill leaves the page, Altaïr's hand is trembling.

"I think... I think it might be sooner, actually... I need to rest, the heat is..."

"Near on you. I can scent it."

Karim's hand is too-warm when it sneaks on his back,

Zayn at his left then tells him,

"You look too sick for this to be just heat. Please, let us help you-",

And Juno hums,

They're a bit too young for that.

And Altaïr feels a chill engulf him all over.

"I want you to leave me alone."

"Mentor-"

But Altaïr takes a step aside, where Karim once was; the boy pulls away. Altaïr forces, makes his scent go as sour, as hostile as his trembling frame can play at,

(Lying with scents is not easy, but still possible.)

"Please, leave me alone."

"For how long?", Karim asks, and Altaïr thanks him, in silence.

"Three days, at least. I will take food, take water, do not disturb me, guard my door."

"And what will we tell the assassins?"

"Tell them that I am sick for a few days, that I will not be disturbed. And make some salve for Dai Malik, give it to him when you see him next."

Let this trial now test them, then, test their loyalty.

(Malik said that he could order Karim's will, after all.)

"I am your Mentor, Assassins-"

He swallows, once, bitter, and painful too.

"- and this is my order; let none come in. No matter the cost."

Even though his body is crying with it. The heat is now starting; will take soon over. And Juno, now, crying, and begging him too,

Do not drink it, again, do not-

makes Altaïr lose patience.

Or you'll do what? Use my body to be bred by an Alpha? Perhaps Bassim, your precious blood. My own young boys? You'd like that, wouldn't you, you'd like to force me, make me scream-

Wielder, stop this foolishness-

You'd like that, Juno,

but no more. I will not be trapped by anyone. Not even by you. You will have this child from Adha and I, or you will have it not at all.

-

Inside his chamber, Altaïr falls.

First, on his knees, then once again; but he doesn't need to stay up long. After all, this, he knew it'd come; and he is ready. Aristolochia did its job, delayed the heat, but it will wane too fast.

Strychnine will not.

Mad one, stop this! Stop it at once! Forget the child, forget everything, you stupid-

It's just eight steps, from door to table, to the locked box he keeps his vials in.

(With Juno fighting to control him, it might as well be a thousand. And she fights him, on every one.)

This was really a child's game, stealing the strychnine from the apothecary's stocks - if he survives this, Altaïr vows, that man will never touch a herb again. Negligent with his own supply, Masyaf is low on many things, strychnine now, also, he missed some heat tea herbs, the herbalist did not supply them.

But with this trip, he has everything.

No!

First, the heat tea, then the salve, to disgust them if they do come; then, Aristolochia, to make him barren, for just a day; and, finally,

No, stop, STOP-

Altaïr has not kept his immunity to any of the paralytic poisons, not since he ran,

for the first time in over five years, strychnine burns, bitter, so bitter and thick on his tongue, and he has three minutes-

VOMIT IT, NOW-

to fall in his nest; it's so cold, so, so cold,

Altaïr keens as he feels himself stiffen, a stiffness even Juno cannot force him to overcome, even if she takes over his body, even if she crawls outside his bones, she cannot move him, make him, use him,

she will not force his body to serve and seek another, even after the Aristolochia is done,

Altaïr feels himself grow taut and fear is cold, so cold,

he closes his eyes,

his candle burns out,

and in the Mentor's Quarters, there is nothing but

cold,

still,

poisonous silence.

------

Stuck inside the Apple, the ghost of she who was once Juno of the Isu screams. This was her bloodline, her way to bring Aita back, her turn to be reborn, her gamble, and the Calculations said that it would work, that he would give into her words,

but the human did not, is still now, and silent,

and the ghost of she who was once Juno screams now, alone,

alone and unheard.

Chapter Text

A quick conversation, an agreement on who sleeps first, some blankets brought over to make their bed for the night; an hour after the doors close, in the atrium there is silence.

-

Two hours after the doors close, and a foot tapping on the stone steps; by the doorway two assassins idle away the time as they wait.

-

Three hours after the doors close and, at last, Karim speaks up.

"We need to work on your interrogation skills, brother."

With a yawn, Zayn turns towards him. "And why is that?"

"Because you pushed too directly; he would not have given you anything. You should have acted as if you believed the lie."

"I would not. Our Mentor appreciates my honesty."

Karim sighs, "Yes, but when has your honesty earned you anything from him?"

And this makes Zayn frown.

"What's your point?"

"My point is, when allies do not know what is better for them, you should answer their lies with lies, and this is for their own sake, to find out more about why they lie. My point is, you can tell when people tell you untruths, Zayn; but you know not how to respond to them."

Now enlightened, Zayn huffs, amused, visibly a little offended also. "Well, forgive me, then, rafiq; what would you have done better than me to make him talk?"

"Exactly what I did, what I am about to tell you to do also."

"And that is?"

"Disobey."

------

In the halls of the Masters, Malik tidies up his tabletop, having wrapped a long, thick scroll; an updated map.

(A few days ago, Altaïr had asked of him:

"Alibek used a map when he guided us forward, away from Latakia. His guidance was wrong, though; and we fell in that trap.

If you won't let Zayn go to them, could you draw them a map? A new one, a true one, so they are safe on their way back.")

The request was a token of peace, the least he could do, and all things considered, a relaxing task. In light of their latest tensions, Malik welcomed the chance to do something, anything, that Altaïr once more would like, for Zayn said he liked the robe; and Malik knows he is good at his job.

(And perhaps, he should show him the map, just for some added peace of mind?

Surely, Altaïr would like that.)

------

Zayn's stare is silent, but it conveys enough.

"He is sick, brother, and we should not have left him alone."

"He is starting his heat; you heard what he said, the tea-"

"Was a lie."

"Was it? He told us what it was, yet you are so very sure, you accuse him that, what?"

"That he lied. My mother, Zayn, he was an omega also."

"So?..."

"What I don't know is the why. Mother was unhappy, did not want more sons, and father beat him often, badly, for using that plant; but our Mentor? I don't-"

"Karim, take it slower; which plant are you talking about? Altaïr, what did he drink?"

"Aristolochia. It smells bitter, tastes bitter as well. It's both poison and medicine; poisons the blood, but it prevents a child. Delays heats also, for a price - the heat afterwards is messy, long, a more intense one-"

"So then, that is that? A bad heat?"

"Are you deaf, Zayn? A poison-"

"But surely, he stopped now. You need to calm down, the delaying is done; he's won't take anymore, he has isolated himself, will conceive no one's child-"

"'Because we are in Masyaf', did you not hear that? Perhaps he will keep drinking it, a paranoid precaution, and I'll tell you what, I'll go and get-"

Out of nowhere, Zayn laughs.

"You will get nothing, Karim. You will remain here and guard that door as you were ordered, right where you are."

------

Right as he picks the scroll up and extinguishes the remaining candles, Malik gets a bad feeling, and he doesn't know why. Perhaps it is nothing, just tiredness weighing heavy,

perhaps it is anxiety, at whether this will be enough,

whether this will prove to Altaïr that he did not abandon anyone, that he would never do that,

that Tizin was not a lie, that when he said, "we shall meet in the safety of our home" he meant it, wholeheartedly, and that he also cares about the little ones; that it's really just best if Zayn should remain in Masyaf for now.

(And maybe Altaïr will believe him this time,

maybe he will acquiesce, also, on the matter of Bassim.)

------

Karim, caught in the adrenaline of planning, of doing instead of stalling (and lying), chafes at the command. And perhaps it is proof, that there is heat in the air here; without conscious intention, he tenses as he frowns,

"Why would I do that?"

Zayn shakes his head.

"Because he told us, 'no matter what'."

"And you'll follow that? Even if he is dying, inside there, right now?"

His brother frowns, too, unhappy, and Karim attempts to open his mind,

"How long will you wait, Zayn, until the poison is too much? Until he keeps drinking, and passes at last? Will you guard his corpse, also? Just picture, his blood-"

(Zayn whispers, "enough, brother-")

"On your hands, as he's dimming, and there's nothing to be done. No antidote for this poison, picture him-"

(Zayn says, "I said that's enough.")

Karim does not smile. But he closes his eyes, hopeful, "Listen to me, then, and let me check, at least, that he will stay alive-"

And Zayn hisses, "Just you try."

------

In the end, Malik decides he will just pass by, yes,

just a short visit before bed, to see how foraging worked out; to check on the novices, wish peace on their minds.

(And if Altaïr is also made happier by his second gift, well. That is that.)

------

Karim's eyes open with a snarl.

There is a tension in the air, ugly and foreign. Karim, also, does not feel himself, is not himself, truthfully; there is an anger that surfaced, when he recognised the stumbling act, when he smelled the bitterness, when Altaïr smiled as he lied,

just as his mother did, through the pain-tears, and then he laid there, ice-cold-frozen and, slowly, died,

and Mentor made him promise,

he will not abide another pointless sacrifice.

"Zayn. I will tell you this once, and only the once."

Zayn, too, is a foreign being; the gentleness of his frame gone, his eyes shining, pupils wide, an animal more than man, who now leans slightly forward also, tensing.

"Let me open the door, let me see that he is alright."

"Or?"

"Or we will fight."

------

Malik is walking, slowly, steadily, through the cold that heralds snow, protecting the scroll as he is going; seeing peace already established, starting to, even, think of his warm bed now-

Then, on the path, he meets another one; and Rauf frowns as the alpha approaches,

"Heading up there, tonight?"

Malik nods. "They did a trip to forage today, I am just passing by. Checking how it went."

"I see...", Rauf lies.

------

And Zayn hisses.

"Don't. Don't do this, think, brother-"

"'No matter the cost'. That's what he ordered us!-"

"You fool!"

"You traitor."

There is a blur of action, of reason, between a second and the next. Karim knows not when they abandoned words, when they ditched understanding for the scuffle on the floor, all he know is the door and Altaïr is inside, like his mother, and Zayn is holding him down, Zayn will not let him cross-

(At least they are not using their swords.)

Other than the sound of their fists colliding, there is nothing, nothing left in the room, no reason for why this is happening, no important knowledge but that Altaïr is inside, Altaïr might be dying-

(Somewhere, there is the sound of a door, colliding with the wall behind it.

"Novices!")

Even the sound of Dai Malik's voice does not matter that much.

-

"What is wrong with you!"

One moment, they were fighting; the other, they are not. Zayn is now held down, arms pulled behind him as he thrashes and snarls; and Rauf's face is furious as he pulls harder still.

Knee on his back and throat choked by the arm around it, Karim is not faring much better.

"Why are you doing this? Answer me!"

Because, "Altaïr is-"

"-in heat!", Zayn hisses.

"-dying", Karim chokes out.

And the arm around his throat loosens, just minutely, right as Rauf says,

"That would do it, wouldn't it? The scent of heat. I expected better, though, you are rafiqs, he is your master-"

"Shut up, Rauf," Dai Malik hisses, and the arm loosens more.

"I will let you go, Karim, but do not betray my trust. One wrong move, and I will beat you. Do you understand that?"

Karim tries to nod.

"No, you answer that."

"I understand."

And the arm gives fully; at long last, Karim's face falls down, and he breathes in a big gulp of sweet air. Just one, though, for the knee on him presses down, and Dai Malik's voice is very low as he orders:

"Tell me now, in full detail, and you better speak fast. Why is Altaïr dying?"

And Karim starts to talk.

-

With each explanation, Dai Malik's face grows paler, and Karim spares him nothing: the trip and the evening, the plant and their fight-

"And you are sure, that it's that? This... Aristo-"

"Aristolochia, yes, I am certain, my mother died from that plant. I would know its foulness anywhere."

"Why did you say nothing before?"

"Truthfully, I didn't notice the scent on him, not until tonight."

"And, Zayn?"

"I don't care! He said, he ordered, nobody enters the doors, no matter what. He used the tea to delay his heat, that's all fine, but he wouldn't keep drinking it! It's absurd, you're just greedy, brother-"

When the full intent of those words settles, Karim's eyes widen. "Why, you whore-born piece of-"

And Dai Malik slaps him,

"Pull yourself together, novice."

Right as Rauf's palm collides with a snap.

Zayn's hiss is more on principle than anything; hand over the nape of his neck, his fellow rafiq is crouching in a ball on the floor. Rising from the same floor, Karim is looking up, hopeful, despite everything, (after all, the biggest obstacle to the door is neutralised, now,) because Dai Malik is watching him very closely.

"Do you trust me, then? Do you understand why-"

But Rauf's sigh interrupts his words, and the Veteran Assassin, having dismissed Zayn's form to the floor entirely, comes to them both next, crouches down. (And in the dim light of the Mentor's atrium, the tourmalines in his scabbard shine so-very-bright.)

"Karim, I hear you. Truly, I do, and what happened to your mother was terrible. My condolences for what sounds like a strong man-"

"But?" Karim's eyes narrow, impatient.

"But take a step back. Do you understand what you are asking us to do now?"

"Save a life-"

"No."

Rauf shakes his head, then looks up, right into Dai Malik's eyes, "It's like you trained him, Malik, are all your kind like this?"

And then, he looks back down, and runs his tongue over his teeth, pensive before he talks. "No, Karim, what you are asking me now is to open the door of my friend, vulnerable, open it, and let two-"

Dai Malik hums.

"Three alphas inside. You were fighting over him, not a moment ago, and you want to see him now?"

Karim's lips part-

"Do you want to get closer to him?"

His breath catches-

"Do you want to check on him, Karim?"

And his nod is not a thoughtful thing, near-desperate in its eagerness, "yes! Yes, that's exactly right-"

"Of course it's right; how about we open the door, let some fresh air in, hm?"

Karim's eyes widen with realisation.

"You think I want him, also. You think the threat is just a well-crafted lie? You would-"

"Do what he tells you, Karim."

And Malik's voice sounds defeated, tired,

"Nobody is accusing you of anything, not in my presence; settle down. Let's step outside, and there we can talk some more, with a clearer mind. And as for action..."

Dai Malik frowns.

There it is; his ally, at last. He doesn’t have to say it for Karim to see it, in flushed cheeks and darkened eyes. And if Rauf is right, if the barest scent of heat has taken their minds over enough to make two brothers fight,

what is it doing to him,

to him who is the father of Altaïr's child?

------

"Rauf...?"

The beta is looking up at the night sky, and Malik wishes he would look back to him, if only to find guidance for what he is thinking,
(if only to discover what to think, himself.)

"Be honest with me, Malik."

"Of course."

"Is", and Rauf exhales sharply, "is this why you came here tonight for? His heat?"

Oh.

"No."

He shouldn't be so offended by the question; by all means, Rauf has lived enough to have earned the right to suspect him. Even still, Malik's voice is harsh and bothered, because a 'no' should suffice, but,

"God be my witness, do you think, if I knew, I would have allowed him", a gesture at the atrium, "to do this? Allowed them to fight? Rauf, I-"

"I believe you."

And the man looks at him.

"But, Malik, what..."

is happening,
what do we do now,
what is this?

Rauf sounds lost, a hundred questions. And the truth?

"I don't know."

"Do you believe the rafiq, then? Karim?"

"He believed what he spoke."

"But would Altaïr actually go through with it?" Or was it just the heat's influence talking? Rauf doesn't say it, but Malik smiles anyway, bitter.

(How laughable, really.)

"Yes."

(Because Altaïr is a paranoid creature, fruit of his father, Eagle of Masyaf; because Altaïr drinks poison regularly, Altaïr brews a special poison just to burn away his heats,

because the Altaïr that saved Masyaf would be insane enough, stupid enough to do this-)

"Then we open the doors?"

"No."

"No? But-"

"He doesn't want-" and he knows this, too, damn him. "He knew what brewing that plant would do; he is Al Musamin. He knew that it might kill him, Rauf, he simply doesn't want us with him."

And Rauf looks so startled.

"Are you mad, Ibn Faheem?"

But Malik is quite calm.

"This is the fourth time, Rauf."

"What-"

"The fourth time," and Malik continues, "that he'll be dying in my arms, in the last two months, if I step inside that room - and I can't make him stay."

(And again Rauf asks him, "what-", doesn't matter,)

"I tried everything."

(And he did.)

"I tried everything, and you know what he told me, Rauf? On that night, after he ran away to Alamut? He told me he was afraid, tired of fearing everything in this God-forsaken citadel. But I asked him, anyway...

He wanted to leave, and I begged him to stay."

And what else is there to say, really?

In the silence that falls after, Rauf's voice is a startling thing.

"Alright, then; you'll stay outside."

What?

"Keep those two also with you, keep an eye on them, will you? Altaïr's heat seems to affect you all, and, well..."

Rauf now turns away from him.

"If heat makes you such imbeciles, you shouldn't be at his side, anyway."

Chapter Text

"Rauf!"

What a mate you would have been, Malik. If only benedictions were measured in self-pity, in the shouting of lessers' names; Malik, who would be king at this game, now tries to follow after him.

Rauf closes the door in his face.

"Get up", he looks down at the two assassins. "The Dai is outside, go and join him."

"But-"

"No buts and no ifs. You started fighting. I'll see Altaïr first."

Sitting by the stone arch, Karim looks dejected, somewhat he is hopeful, mostly confused; but Zayn looks up, and, oh. The bruise is now nothing, a mere mottling shadow, even, against the dark flush of his anger, and. For all that they acted like adults,

(because it's adults that hurt each other)

Rauf remembers; they are not. Malik's lamentations drew his ire, but Zayn is not here to take the blame. For him, Rauf softens his voice.

"It's because I'm not an alpha. See?"

It is an easy thing to bend his throat, show skin thick callused by sand and leather armour; and not a softer patch to be seen. Right now, its absence is a strength. Yet, as if Zayn could not tell by his scentless presence, narrowed eyes still study the edge of his cowl. And he is not pleased.

"Betas still mate with omegas-"

"Oh, for the love of God, Zayn!"

Rauf doesn't even have time to think back a reply; Karim grabs his poor brother's tunic as he stands up, pulls on it with a scowl, and Zayn tries to fight back,

"But-!"

"But no! Just shut the fuck up-"

"Outside, now! Both of you!"

The shouting freezes them; and these are Altaïr's children. Would Altaïr have beaten them for disobedience?

Calmer, Rauf tries to be better than him.

"I will call you back in after I've had a talk with Altaïr. Zayn, I will not touch him, I promise; Karim, teach me what I should do. What do I look for, what's a threat?"

"You need to break the oath you just made; you need to touch him."

(And at his vision's edge, Zayn tenses.)

"Check if he's colder than normal, if he is, check if he has some tea leaves ground down around somewhere, and take them from him. Do it all by force if you must, he will not like it."

"But-"

"I don't care, Zayn! He wants to die, he can go jump off cliffs! I won't stand guard for a corpse!" And the tension rises once more, with Karim gesticulating for emphasis. But the tremble of his voice betrays his distress.

And Rauf pities him.

"Next, try to give him food, make him drink water, he should have some inside. Flush him with some good liquids, if he can swallow, it's a good sign. See if he can speak with some coherence, see if he is having any pain, see if he needs, or wants, anything. Lastly..."

Karim looks up, right into Rauf's eyes.

"Tell him that we care about him.”

"I think he knows."

"But tell him anyway."

Before he notices, his hand is on the boy's shoulder, and the gesture distracts him. It makes Karim smile.

"For the notice, I still think this is stupid. Our Mentor will be fine-"

"Oh, Zayn-"

And, well. If it has to happen.

"Outside, boys."

So they go. There are steps, hisses, a door closes behind, and somewhere distantly, Malik is surely handling it. The silence falls at last, and Rauf is left looking up.

The door, monumental, seems to stare back at him.

"Altaïr, if Karim is right, if this is now your grave, so help me God..."

A deep breath, for balance; prayers, unanswered. And in the grand scheme of everything, the door's handle seems so fragile. Then Rauf presses it, almost afraid it will break him-

And he gets nothing.

The door doesn't budge.

Rauf tries again, harder; rattles it as he pushes his weight in, maybe it is stuck, and,

A third try, a fourth, and then finally, Rauf throws himself full body at the wood; raises fists when it stays still, and bangs on the door.

(He placed the boys as sentinels.)

"Altaïr, you asshole! Unlock the door!"

-

"Is everything okay?"

The shouting attracts voices, a crack in the door. And before he can tell them to keep their distance,

"Is the door locked?"

Yes, Malik, thank you for noticing. Rauf still ignores him, keeps thinking, if Altaïr will not answer,

(perhaps Altaïr cannot answer)

How do they get inside, how do they reach him? And the chill of the air is now lingering about, a gust of wind they brought when they came in, which then gives Rauf an idea...

Who would be mad enough to try?

(The answer is him.)

(Of course it is him.)

And Rauf sighs.

-

"What are you doing- Rauf? wait, you can't just ignore us- RAUF!"

Try me.

Rauf does not pause for explanations. Soon he is outside, where he circles round, to the edge of the cliff on which the Mentor's Quarters perches; to the first ledge he must now climb. It is hard, in the darkness, and with the cold all encompassing, there is numbness in his fingers and a sense of dread around, and Malik shouts at him,

"Come back, Rauf, have you lost your mind?"

Perhaps I did,

but also,

there is no other path.

And ledge by ledge, brick by brick, with wind howling at his back, with Malik howling, too, Rauf's path goes forward, ever so slightly, towards his target,

"Just wait and see, when I get my hand on you, Altaïr-"

it keeps his lips warm, as they're moving; and climbing the side of the Mentor's Quarter at midnight, with a fall of thousand meters at his back, Rauf curses Altaïr out in all the words and languages known to man. Curses Rashid, too, that vanity-encrusted dog,

Why, oh why, you motherless, traitorous whore, Rashid, why the fuck did you put the windows to your bedroom so far away from the door?

-

By sheer miracle, Rauf survives. The window to Altaïr's bedroom, alas, does not.

"Altaïr?"

And Rauf expects an unfriendly welcome; the man was silent when he knocked but, surely, this? Would wake him up.

But Rauf does not expect the darkness, the lack of fire; the room is freezing, scentless and warmless and so devoid of all life. Inside this place, there is no candle, Karim was wrong, there is no food, no water, not even an incense bowl; all stays so still,

And then he sees it.

"Altaïr!"

A mound of pillows, by the dead fireside. A nest, a large one, various cloths; and over them lies a black silk sheet, thick and shroud-like,

which Rauf pulls back...

Oh.

"Come on."

"Come on, don't do this, come on!-"

But despite slaps, despite his shouting, his friend stays sleeping in his black cloth, stays sleeping and is not responding,

"Come on... wake up..."

His cheeks are cold.

-

"Karim! Zayn!"

The boys both twich up, and Malik with them.

"Go bring wood, now! We need a fire-"

"He's dead, isn't he?"

And Karim laughs.

"Let me see him", says Malik,

Zayn just throws his shoulder in,

"Hey, calm down, hey, hey!-" Rauf tries, fails, to hold him this time,

"Malik..." they shouldn't see him.

(Nobody should see Altaïr like this.)

"Rauf."

(But Malik's voice is-)

"Is he still breathing?"

Rauf grimaces.

"Rauf, is he breathing, or is he not?"

And Rauf is honest.

"I'm... not sure”, right as Zayn shouts,

“Altaïr!”

And the noise Malik makes at that is terrible.

-

First to leave the cold room, Rauf is last to return, with the wood in his arms and wariness on his face,

(Because the room needed to be made warm, but none would budge from the nest's side,)

and he prepared for quite some bad news; but the tone inside is oddly soft. It's quite peaceful, really, and quiet but for Zayn and Karim's murmurs.

Malik, by sheer contrast, does not seem to do, or say anything, or even really exist in the space anymore. He is just kneeling, staring, numbly, at Altaïr's now-exposed face, and his hand is moving into spasmodic twitching, softly curling into brown locks.

(When did Altaïr's hair grow so long?)

"Malik."

On Altaïr's other side, Rauf finds a pillow more loose than the others, and on it he kneels also,

"Tell me."

"His heartbeat is very slow."

Malik's voice sounds empty of all things.

"Karim says there is no remedy. His mother was not stiff when he died, he was awake; but Altaïr is not. They are not sure why."

"Malik."

"Maybe it's better, in this way? This way, it doesn't hurt."

"Malik, come up, help me with the fire."

"Did you know that he told me once? He said, he hated pain, he said he always did-"

"Malik."

And that makes him look up. But life does not return in the alpha's voice.

"What?"

"The room is freezing, we need to warm it up. Give him a chance to-"

"A chance to what? Survive?" And from somewhere inside him, a sigh loosens out. "Look at him, Rauf. He's giving in."

"And you will let him go, just like that?"

"I cannot stop him."

Rauf thinks,

"This is why I told you to wait outside. You are no help to him by giving up, Malik."

"I can't help him."

"But you must."

And Malik sighs.

"Because I love him?"

This makes the rafiqs grow silent; it makes Rauf's expression change.

"If so, I am tired of loving him. I am tired of chasing him. If Altaïr wants to die, let him, I cannot..."

Malik stands up.

"I cannot help him. I never could."

And he begins to leave.

-

Left alone with just the two rafiqs, Rauf feels oddly out of balance.

"Is that true? Does he...?"

But much as Rauf wants to entertain the idea, that Malik's obsession with Altaïr could fall under the meaning of love, right now is not the time.

"We need to focus on Altaïr."

Then,

"Is there really nothing else to be done? Karim?"

But the boy looks sad. "I'd love to tell you more than I did earlier, give more advice, give you anything, but my mother died, Rauf. He did not live."

"But he was different, no? Malik said-"

And this brings a frown on Karim.

"Indeed. It's odd, you see? This stiffness," and for emphasis he points at Altaïr's softly cleched fists, "shouldn't be here. He's all tensed up. Aristolochia should not have done this."

To which Zayn asks, "What if it's not birthwort?"

"What do you mean? I smelled it earlier on him."

"But you said he was paranoid, yes? That he did something this idiotic", and Zayn sniffs, "because this place-"

"Scares him, yes. Your point is?"

"My point," Zayn looks up, "is that he might have taken some more, something else besides. Think, Karim - what causes this kind of paralysis?"

"Hemlock."

"What else?"

Rauf decides that, well, this conversation isn't for him. And while they talk, the fire gets lit, and it's pervasive, the warmth of it; the room warms slowly, steadily. The wood cracks, breaks the air's stillness, he then moves onwards, covers the windows, or what is left of one of them, and as he does the boys just talk, and then they stand up also, and round the room they start to search. Gently, the mood picks up a little, and then there is a shout,

"I found it! Here!"

And Karim draws forth, Rauf, too. Curiosity, if nothing else, because they're staring at a vial. Have they found, at last, a solution?

But Karim's face turns into a scowl.

"What the fuck? Why?"

"It makes no sense-"

And Rauf feels out of his depth.

"What's wrong? Isn't it...?"

"Yes, it is, but," Zayn repeats it, "it makes no sense. No sense at all. Why would he drink strychnine for a heat?"

"Strychnine means nothing for me, Zayn. What does it do? Does it have an antidote?"

"I don't think so, but..."

"He's still breathing. And that means-"

"Yeah."

"Explain?"

"If he does not die in the next hour" and Zayn does not smile, but still, "if he keeps breathing by the sunrise, he might-"

"He might just make it. Strychnine kills fast, but he's still here-"

And Rauf sighs, tuning the rest out.

-

The friend Rauf used to have is missing.

It is perhaps quite cynical to say it, especially here, by Altaïr's body; and yet, the sooner he meets the realities of this new foreign landscape, the better Rauf thinks he will conform to the demands of its battlefields. It is quite plain to say that he is unprepared; that the simple rapport they shared together, the easy camaraderie that kept them close, is nowhere to be found. That the same Altaïr he once joked with is the one that lies now curled, so small, fragile, in here,

that in these large fabrics, with novices of his own, with all this foreign talk of poisons and all their new and foreign armour, that this Altaïr is the same man that he used to know,

Rauf finds hard to acknowledge, even harder to believe.

(But he promised, once. No matter what.)

And so they settle in, bringing more blankets from outside. Altaïr has Rashid's bed, which he has barely used; and while, scentless or not, Rauf will not take it, he makes Zayn strip it down. Together, they settle down by the fireside, so very close to Altaïr's nest, and find a way to lean onto each other, inside a nest of their own making.

Time passes; the children fall asleep.

With the crackle of the burning logs the only noise in the room, in the silence of the firelight with no soul left awake save for Rauf's, the beta looks forward, and he thinks. Thinks on what's coming; on what this gesture means, on Masyaf, and on Malik. On the long day that they all had, on the long fight Altaïr is now fighting. He looks so little like himself, Rauf thinks. The cape over him barely rises, the body underneath now barely breathes. Why did you do this to yourself, Altaïr? And was it worth it? Then, lastly, before also succumbing into sleep, Rauf looks on and he, just, thinks, a stupid thought, but there it is,

in the firelight, the silver on Altaïr's cape gleams beautifully.

Chapter Text

Zayn wakes to the sound of struggling.

"Come on... Just take a little sip..."

For a moment, he is confused; odd noises, scents, and where is he? Then eyes open, the light too bright, and he becomes aware, quite quickly, of three very important things.

The first is that this is not his room.

The second is Rauf's bent back.

The third is a familiar groaning; and that wakes him like nothing else. Altaïr groans, and Rauf moves slowly, his hand dips muslin cloth into a bowl. This white cloth rises, dripping wet, and he is bent over the nest now - without much thought the alpha rises, already prepared to lunge at him,

(You promised not to touch him, Rauf)

Then Karim grabs him.

"Wait."

Despite his brother's whispered tone, Zayn hisses; but Karim holds, and like iron, he doesn't let go. The other alpha moves instead, his face comes close, a bit too close, and he can see the grey in his dark eyes as Karim tells him,

"It's just water. Rauf is making him drink."

This close, it's not the words that do it; but the pleading look of his brother's face, the scent that begs him, so familiar, and Zayn thinks, perhaps too loudly:

"He doesn't want to drink, Karim."

"He doesn't. But..."

"But?"

"But he has to."

He took too much strychnine; they both know this. Altaïr's groans are quite clear, though.

"Just part your lips, a little bit..."

Rauf, he cannot see him anymore, from Karim's back he hears him though, he sounds tired and yet insistent, he keeps trying, a splashing noise, another try,

"Just a small sip..."

But Altaïr just groans in protest, and then he groans a little more, and Karim waits for his reaction, because.

Because Zayn could tell them: stop. He could argue, He doesn't want to!, just let him be. Do what he wants. But he did that,

he fought Karim, to do what Altaïr wanted of him and,

he trusted their Mentor, who lied to him. What if he won that fight instead, what if Rauf didn't come to check on him, what if he trusted Altaïr fully...

"Alright", this time, he trusts his brother, thus Karim smiles, and lets him go.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet..." Karim keeps smiling, and Zayn asks, cautious,

"Why not?"

"You'll see."

With these omnious words, Karim leads him up and away, away to a small chest with dried herbs, on which lies a familiar, small box. Karim looks at it meaningfully, and Zayn tilts his head, a curious manner, and asks, feeling a little lost,

"What are we meant to do with heat cream?"

-

Minutes later, Rauf's crusade against Altaïr's will is met with a resounding defeat. The omega keeps his eyes shut, his lips shut too; bar forcing a knife between teeth, there is nothing more they can do. Maybe he cannot unclench his jaw yet? Better not risk it, in that case.

And in the meantime, by the fire...

"This is foul", Zayn can't help but complain.

"We have to do this", answers Karim.

Rauf just watches curiously.

"He trained you well. Is it truly that bad?"

"No wonder betas like omegas, you cannot smell anyt-"

A pinch inside his inner thigh; Rauf pretends to not have seen it. His brother's tiny smile is awful, though, and Zayn too reaches behind him, slowly, right under where the plates of armour end-

"Hey!"

"Don't ditch it if you can't take it, Karim."

"I'll lather you in heat cream, brother."

"Oh, you can try," and they both laugh.

(Even though his nose screams foul things now, under their noses the cream went, and, he will not smell anything else for months-)

Then there is a knock at the door,

(and the room seems to dim a little.)

"Rauf?" and of course it is Malik, the Dai that just cannot stay away, and see, that is the thing, Rauf is one thing, beta, a friend,

but now the shock is over; Zayn is fully awake, conscious, acutely aware that, once upon a time,

Malik raped Altaïr.

"Don't let him in!" But Rauf is already sitting up, as if deaf to his warning, and Karim seems to assess the situation, lighting-sharp, because the smile is gone from him too,

"Be ready."

As if it needed to be said. Then the door opens, Rauf says something that sounds suspiciously like, "Come in, you fool,"

He hears the exact moment Karim sees it too; their gasps ring out in unison.

And Dai Malik looks terrible.

"What happened to you?"

The dark gaze of the elder alpha comes to rest heavy on them both, but it does not cut well, not because Malik doesn't mean it but rather because his eyes are bloodshot, dim and glazed, the Dai is visibly straining to stay standing, even, and indeed, they get no answer, no,

Malik is not there for them.

"Altaïr-"

"Wait!" Karim's mind moves faster, at his side his brother stands up with a start, and where he was gripping at a blade he now handles the heat cream like a weapon,

"Put this under your nose, his heat is-"

"I know Altaïr's heat better than you, boy; take your poison away from me."

"But", Karim is not an easy man to stagger verbally.

"Sit down."

And Malik's voice is absolute.

To Zayn's amazement, Karim sits down.

"Why are you here, Malik? I thought you left." Rauf's tone is an unsubtle accusation. Malik looks up, from Altaïr's sleeping form, to him.

"I did."

"And yet, back here you are. Second thoughts?"

A hundred things Malik could have said in return, a thousand, and Zayn would not be surprised. But rather than a sharp retort, or an order, the alpha just looks back down at Altaïr, says nothing, instead he just kneels, runs fingers over the ends of the silver-bound cape that, no, absolutely was a courtship gift,

And Malik sighs.

"Alibek killed the Dai of Hama."

-

It takes them all a moment to process that the sounds they just heard form a coherent sentence, and of the four of them, it is Karim, surprisingly, that just goes,

"...what?"

Malik shrugs, but he gives no more details. And in the numbness of the news, none of them noticed when, exactly, Malik's hand rose from the cape's edge to Altaïr's hair, where it now rests; Zayn hisses,

"Stop touching him."

"No."

As if to prove his point, Malik's hand moves gently through Altaïr's curls, soft like a feather; and Altaïr?

He sighs.

"Malik!" Rauf's eyes narrow, a warning, as if the hand on his sword was not enough, and the oddities of the day seem to continue, because rather than react in any logical, normal manner, Malik just looks up slowly at the beta, blinks, and tells him,

"Don't shout, Rauf."

Rauf's face darkens with anger.

"It scares him when people shout, you know? Omegas are sensitive to these things in their heat."

"Malik, I swear to God..." but, insanely,

(all of this is insane, actually)

Rauf now whispers. Not that he was loud before, mind; but it is almost like they forget who this man is, what he did, what he is doing,

(and his hand is still petting Altaïr's hair)

and fine, if this is the game they all are playing.

"Why would Alibek kill a Dai?"

Malik smiles, as if the implied threat is a joke that he enjoys now. "Your guess is as good as mine, Rafiq of Salamiyah - why do you think he did?"

Zayn thinks there's a thousand reasons, none of which he would like to share.

"Are you even sure this is Alibek? It could have been an accident, I told you, he was a poor herbalist." And again, Malik chuckles at his words.

"They found him clawing at his throat, don't even try pretending at this, Zayn. I would say that, if you won't tell me, I can get the Chief Dai of the region to ask you, but, well..."

Malik's hand lowers, and the back of his fingers brush, so brief, over the sleeping omega's arm,

"You can't exactly interrogate your rafiq right now, can you?" and his voice is so tender, soft, as he whispers to Altaïr.

"Wake up, Mentor. Your children are in trouble."

Blessedly, Altaïr is as obstinate in his sleep as he was while awake; he does not obey, makes no sound, his breath stays the exact same, and Zayn tells him, a hiss-whisper,

"Don't wake him!"

Malik's hand keeps moving downwards.

"Trust when I say that I know what it takes to rouse Altaïr when he's like this. I could sneeze, for example" and for some reason, this makes the Dai smile, "last time, I did". But then he continues, somber,

"This is a problem, rafiqs."

"Which part is this?"

"All of it, Hama, and now him..." His tone sounds like an accusation, to which Zayn says,

"Be patient. When he wakes, he'll answer-"

"I didn't think he'd wake at all." And Malik's hand is by a hip now, even as he asks, "Why the bowl?"

The change of topic gives him pause. Then Malik clarifies, "The water."

And, ah. "We tried to make him drink some water, expel the poison in him faster, also because this one makes people thirsty, dries up the body as it goes. We drank it too, Karim remembers." And so does he, scruching his nose. "It kept us going through a mission, and made us raisins afterwards."

Karim nods, "I was very thirsty." And Zayn says, "But he is not."

"Isn't he now..." and Malik looks down, thoughtful, as his hand finds a stop. "Would you let me make him drink instead, Rauf?"

"Why ask me and not them, Malik?"

"Because I know that you outrank them, and that they both would tell me-"

"No."

"-that."

And yes, him and Karim say it both, but Rauf only sighs. "Let him try, boys."

"Why? What could he achieve, that you did not? Altaïr trusts you!" but Malik huffs, annoys Zayn.

"Have faith, rafiq, permit me this. After all, you know what the Creed says..."

How silly; right as Zayn, once more, starts to say, "n-",

Karim concedes. "Then try. Be gentle."

"Thank you." And Malik nods. "I always am."

This time, it's Rauf's turn to frown.

-

It starts quite oddly, with Malik slowly taking the cape off him. Zayn only interrupts once,

("Why?")

but Malik's glare silences quickly, and Altaïr remains sleeping, so. It's not bad. Then Malik moves to a clenched hand, which the morning loosened a bit, and again nothing really happens, except that Malik takes his hand in his. But then,

"Mm," Altaïr makes a small, protesting, sound as the Dai pulls his arm out and open, and all three men watch closely as he fiddles with his bracer. Again, Zayn asks,

"Why?"

is rebuked, and Karim, Rauf, too are watching, whatever he does can be stopped. It takes this gesture to notice that, under the dark cloth of a Dai, his own bracer is now missing, it makes him wonder why, briefly, but then, at last,

the gauntlet loosens, Altaïr's leather straps part gently to each their own side. In Malik's lap remains the blade, then, because Altaïr, in an odd show of wakefulness,

now tries to pull his hand away.

"Shh..." whispers Malik, from behind him he sees when, unlike before, Altaïr's eyes flutter open a little. "It's fine. Relax. It is alright..."

It doesn't seem to reach Altaïr, whose feeble hand keeps pulling away, and Malik allows him the small gesture, whispering all the while, "it's okay...", even as he holds onto his arm.

"Malik", tries Rauf,

"Hush!", comes the hiss, and this makes Altaïr flinch, visibly, which then makes Malik coo some more at him. "Shh..." as he unwraps his heat bandage, it only then strikes Zayn that this is dangerous, because a whiff of heat roused them earlier - but Malik does not misbehave or give any indication that the heat affects him, Malik simply keeps talking to him softly, and "remember Hama, Altaïr...", it makes no sense to Zayn's logic. "Remember that night, what we did..."

Then, at last, a pale wrist is naked, bandage and blade both in his lap, and Malik's thumb rubs the cream away, then, oddly, he says for a last time, in a voice deeper than before,

"Relax."

Malik brings their wrists together gently.

And Altaïr just... loosens up.

It's eerie, how his body changes, how his clenched fingers now lie so flat, there were muscles that didn't look tense, but obviously they must have been, Altaïr now just looks... so deflated, like a puppet with his strings cut, and is this bad? Should they stop Malik?

"Will you part your lips a little for me?"

Malik's next whisper gives him pause. Because, before, Rauf tried so gently, he tried harshly, he tried all ways, and nothing worked, nothing convinced him, now, however,

"Swallow" rings the soft order, and Malik's hand dips in the bowl. He picks a few drops of clear-cold water, "Swallow", and he lets the drops fall, fall down onto Altaïr's lips, which part, indeed, and then

"Good. Drink more," and the rhythm goes on.

Each turn, Malik picks some loose water. Each turn, he lets it drip down Altaïr's throat. Each turn, they hold hands as he swallows. And their Mentor, so obstinate before, now closes his eyes and he just does, on each beat, what he is told to do until Malik, at last, slows the pace down and tells him,

"Sleep, omega."

All the while, his hand remains bound to Altaïr's, except now Altaïr's fingers, too, curl and clench each time, feebly, around Malik's arm. And then, slowly, within the silence,

Altaïr's breath begins to level,

and he's asleep.

"What-"

"-the fuck,"

Malik glares at them both, but the expression on his face is odd, and strained.

"There, he drank water. Satisfied?"

"Will he be angry at what you just did?"

Rauf's face is devoid of emotion. Calculating. And Malik laughs. "Extremely so."

"But it's all worth it, you will see. He'll see it, too, if given time."

And then, he moves to pull the cape back on him, gets closer in the nest as he does, curls over and whispers something in Altaïr's ear, something that sounds like, "Forgive me" and then. With a push, he rises.

Too quickly.

Karim shouts.

"The Apple!"

And Malik runs.

------

The knives keep missing.

"Stop, or I'll shoot you!"

With what bow? He gallops faster, and all the while the Apple screams,

Just kill him, Master!

he rides faster, and Zayn screams, and Malik thinks, that night in Hama, Altaïr's heat, the same story,

a story under different stars,

"Is it your heat, bothering you?"

"None of your business, Malik. Go back to sleep."

but it was heat and something more,

"Why is it so bad? You were not like this the days and night before, has something happened?"

"It's not just the heat, the Apple, also-"

"Is it hurting you, even when you don't use it?"

"But I am using it."

Malik's eyes widened, much too late,

"Then stop! Give it to me, just for an hour, I won't use it, I don't know how-"

"No."

And it took Alibek to notice.

How else would you speak from miles away?

Alibek, and this stupid act.

To delay heats? Altaïr always drank his foul heat tea, or hid away for a few days. Sometimes he hunted, recklessly; he never seemed to hate what he was, never denied being an omega to others, despite his own soft, muted scent; despite everything.

(A peacock, he told Kadar, do not fall for it, brother. Because Altaïr's temptation just had to be his own fault, because the man had to want it. Because youth makes alphas foolish.)

Masyaf scared him, Karim said; and yes, he said as much himself, to an extent, but Altaïr now has life and death in his palm, Altaïr needs not fear anything, and he knew that, he knew it well, he is not stupid. Impulsive? Yes. Disproportionate? Certainly.

But stupid? No.

Each time Altaïr's passions moved him beyond even his own power, whenever overconfidence make him straddle, blindly, death's edge, every time it was not (just) fear, there was always a reason for it.

(Adha. Rashid. Alibek. Ambush. A pattern. Think.)

Every time, he nearly died to avert a near danger, to himself or to others, Malik used to think him most selfish, and perhaps he used to be once upon a time, but, to think of Altaïr this way now would be a very grave mistake; this time, too, there must have been danger, but what? Where? Who did he try to save? From whom?

Why did the Dai of Hama have to die?

In the end, what matters now, really, is not whether he can guess well, because the Apple will reveal things; no, what matters is getting away.

An arrow barely misses him.

And Karim is now catching up.

Karim, the marksman, who rides faster; marksmen must always ride the best, better than the prey that they're chasing, Zayn can aim, yes, but Karim hunts.

And today, Malik leads the wild hunt.

Tonight, though, he won't be their prey.

-

He loses them, but only barely, because last night the first snows fell. Not in Masyaf, naturally - but in the mountains, here, the tall cliffs, the barren plains with stinging wind, where nothing but the ibex dares to tread,

where roads narrow, and voids swallow, and travellers risk a swift death. And the road here is now icy.

"Come back!" a scream, behind him, calls. "Come back and we won't hurt you!"

What's worse is that he knows they won't; for all that Zayn sneers at him, their hearts are soft, their sorrows long gone, and Altaïr was a good mother, was a warm home for these killers, whose lives might end because Malik,

is selfish.

"Leave!" he screams back at them. And he keeps hoping they'll be wise. Wise enough not to follow him. Because he will survive this path.

But they will not.

The Apple's selfish, too, and if he falls, so too it falls. His mare walks like a doll because of it, because such is its awful power, a guidance. Malik keeps going now forward, on the cliff side, the narrow road, until at last there is a silence; the boys, wisely, have left the road.

And then; the yawning chasm awaits him.

"Apple of Eden, talk to me."

The mare is silent as he dismounts, the mare is still as he walks away. To the cliff edge, where he holds the sphere in a gloved hand. And even still, he feels the warmth through his skin, the golden fire burning low inside the center of his palm, threatening to explode and swallow.

Or else?

"Or else we fall."

You wouldn't dare.

"You killed my brother. Tortured my Order. Poisoned my mate."

And Malik laughs.

"You dare to try me now, Shaytan?"

Chapter Text

Why do you think I gave him to you?

When revelation comes, it comes in questions, questions that, at first, Malik does not fully understand - but the Apple's questions, its answers too, are cruel and painful in their sheer plentifulness.

It doesn't stop, though. Not for hours.

The Apple talks, and Malik listens, willing or not, as Death tells him of revelation and blood debts owed, of dues repaid from one's own flesh. The Apple, too, calls Rashid easy and labels him as a weak man, but it tells him, all men are easy, even him, even Altaïr. He made a deal with me, that foolish boy, but, he won't pay...

And Malik burns.

------

Moments before, they rushed outside, Malik went first but Zayn followed, and Karim, too, chased down their trail. The thief ran out, the rafiqs followed,

and Altaïr was left alone.

Rauf looks down at his old friend now as he reaches out for the door. It doesn't take two heartbeats before the too-pale arm falls to the floor, cushioned by pillows, still Altaïr groans, tries again, once, twice, but he strains fruitlessly; his arm won't move. Exhausted, the omega breathes out in shallow, odd, uneven stutters, and Malik said, sleep now to him, even as told Rauf, be quiet now, Altaïr is sensitive in heat.

But Malik's escape was not silent.

"Hush now, there is no point in this", Rauf tries reason, Altaïr ignores him. Then, he tries what Malik did earlier, pulls his robe's sleeve up, bares his own wrist and grabs gently at Altaïr's own.

Nothing happens.

"Altaïr, calm down", but in Malik's palm he saw Altaïr's fingers tighten. In Rauf's own, they remain still. Despite some men's thought to the contrary and his own stagnant, if high, role, Rauf is no stupid man, and he both feels and scents the thin oil that Altaïr's skin leaves on his wrist. The sudden knowledge that he can do nothing on this front chafes Rauf terribly.

"Malik will come back," oh, how Rauf's lips purse at the bald lie. "You just relax, everything will be fine. He will come back, bring back the Apple, until he does, just try to rest. Sleep, omega," unlike Malik, Rauf means it, and the knowledge that this is how heat works disturbs the beta to his core.

But it does work. Altaïr lets go. His struggle comes to a slow stop, and his breath soon begins to even in a deeper, more calm pace. Upset by all that he has witnessed, worried, also, at how this all will end, Rauf thinks idly of Malik's odd words,

("Because I love him?")

and, perhaps worse, he thinks of Altaïr's reaction to the lies contained in his own.

-

Just as the sun meets ground in sunset the two rafiqs, at last, return.

"He ran into the mountains, Rauf! We couldn't follow, not unless we..." Zayn pants out. But Karim tells him,

"It was my call to turn away, we would have died pursuing him. Our horses could not find their footing, the mountain path was too narrow, too filled with ice."

"The Apple, then?"

"Most likely lost."

And Rauf sighs.

"Then go join the guards at our gates, go and stay there, keep watch in shifts. Explain nothing. If they ask why, say Malik sent you, say Altaïr approved of it. If they ask why you ran this morning, say that Malik will explain all on his return. Stay there like guards, and keep a watch...", Rauf then stalls.

(A watch for what?)

But the boys both just nod and go, and Rauf stays with his own questions, without answers. With his own questions, and with Altaïr, who stays still and silent by the fire, his eyes closed shut yet his ears open.

In the noise of their departure, his soft hiss is a thing unheard.

-

More hours pass, and in the morning, Altaïr speaks out a single word.

"Water."

This time, when Rauf approaches, there is no frown, there is no groan; Altaïr drinks like the Sahel, and his thirst seems near neverending.

"B-bring...m-more?" he stutters, later still, Rauf obliges, silent, grateful, at a chance to get out and see to his own duties as Masyaf's trainer as he does so. When he returns, a fair bit later, Rauf marvels, for Altaïr, oddly obedient, drinks this as well.

"Now, that's enough..." he drops the cloth. "I will bring food, rest, you'll drink later."

"No." Altaïr's eyes close. "More... then s-sleep." Karim was right, the water's working, Altaïr's words now form sentences. But, "water", once more rings out the order, and Rauf sighs.

"If you insist..."

A second day, and Altaïr does not eat food. But he does drink, plentifully.

-

A second night, another bowl, too, emptied of contents, and it finds Rauf curling in his own nest by the fireplace, stifling a yawn.

"Good night, old friend", rings out the call. Then Rauf, tired from a day broken between duties that gave no rest, marvels a bit at how nice nests actually are, how warm and comfortable. Maybe he, too, should make one in his home, and with that silly thought, the beta sleeps.

Altaïr waits, silent and still. He hears a snore.

(The water worked.)

And then...

-

"Altaïr?"

Rauf wakes up before the sunset on the eve of the third morning, and he cannot believe his eyes. The room is dark, he blinks once, twice, perhaps this way he'll see better - and then he just stares, both numb and dumbstruck, at a pile of now-cold clothing. Their owner left a disarray.

Rauf is too amazed to even form a coherent curse.

--------

Strichnine, like many other poisons, does in fact have an antidote. That antidote, for all small doses which do not kill, is rather simple.

Lots of water.

Altaïr's hand shakes on the nightstand as he paws at his wooden box, the reserve where, by mere miracle, none of his traitors had looked too close. There are some vials here to help him, and he looks for aristolochia first, tells it by how it glows gold in the dark, a powder mixed in a thick paste that he prepared as an oversight. It is less than a cup of tea's worth, only a few shallow teaspoons held in a corked vial, and he should not, he knows, she's gone-

Then a leg threatens to give under him, and this in turn makes the assassin aware of how hot his entire body burns, it makes him so delirious with fever that for a brief and stupid moment he can hear Malik cry,

"Don't drink! There is no need for this-"

Altaïr sighs, pockets the vial, takes a few more from the box as well. A sideways look; Rauf still sleeps. He glows a blue so vibrant that, had this been another day, another time, another space, he would have smiled, but all Altaïr can muster is a sad frown, too-well-deserved.

Because of him, he lost the Apple.

Because Rauf opened his door.

With shaking steps, Altaïr puts his white robes on, with shaking fingers he straps his hidden blade back to his arm and coats it, careful, in an old poison, a poison he has not used in years. The throwing knives, too, he gathers close, coats them as well. The Eagle sword. With a last look, Altaïr leaves the room behind, locking the door for good measure; the boys are stuck on gate guard duty, this way, Rauf will take longer alerting them. It might just be enough, for him to find...

A bitter sight.

I trusted you.

Altaïr's eyes turn molten gold.

-

Malik returned.

It does not surprise Altaïr particularly that he would do so, for while he slept the snows have come in and now they court the valley's towns. Despite recent proof to the contrary, the alpha isn't stupid enough to run too far away from home.

(And wouldn't that be quite ironic? Their roles reversed, without his eyes Malik would perish in the snowstorms.)

That the guards did not spot him coming is a good sign; he must have used the Apple's power, and with some small luck, the Apple will still be there for him to find. But then, as Altaïr follows the path outlined by Juno's bloodline to his target, the luck runs dry very abruptly.

Altaïr looks up.

Against the shy shades of coral heralding the first traces of sunrise, the Library of the Masters is covered in dark shadows and reddish light, a bad omen. It seems that Malik has, in fact, decided to hide where most wouldn't check, inside his own rooms - it's a good choice, if cowardly, and Altaïr commends him for it.

Rather than risking a fair fight, Malik has chosen as his allies also the demons of their past.

------

There is a knock outside his door.

"Rauf, if you-" the door rattles, and Malik grabs for a long knife. It had to happen, sooner, later, he would not send a novice here, the fight Rauf wants is personal,

"Rauf, just leave! I won't open-" a stop, and the noise outside ceases abruptly. Malik frowns; has he given up this easily?

But then, a clang rings out. The noise of a blade slowly twisting, of a needle pushing at mechanisms...

Before the alpha can as much as sit up, run and find somehing to barricade the door with, before he can do as much as shout or dodge out of the way, the door rolls open with a loud clack, a blur of silver in the light, a blink of a dark eyes in confusion,

a thin knife lodges in Malik's arm.

Dumbstruck, the Dai stares down at the handle. He notes that, had he still had a left hand, he would have plucked the weapon out. It burns oddly, Malik's brain slows down...

A last glance up reveals nothing.

-

"Swallow."

The voice, unknown, wakes Malik up; and the first thing he does is frown. Around his arm there is a bandage; around his wrist a rope chafes him. Around his throat, too, the rope coils tightly, and with two loops the two are bound by a taut bond which he tests out with a soft tug; there is no give.

"Swallow, Malik," the voice tells him, and then Malik becomes aware that on his throat there are fingers. They rub down gently, coax him, mindless, Malik obeys the odd command, and something bitter, from a vial, runs down his throat and makes it cool as he gulps down.

"That is enough", and the glass leaves now all his senses; Malik remembers he has eyes, tries to open them, sees nothing, takes a sharp inhale.

"You are blindfolded."

And the voice clicks; Malik's eyes widen.

"Altaïr?"

"Where is the Apple?"

"Altaïr, what-"

"Shh, Malik." The hand is back on his throat now. This time, the caress is less gentle. Malik notes that the fingers tremble. "Just tell me where you hid the Apple, that's all I want to hear from you."

"Why are you here-?"

Altaïr slaps him.

"Just tell me, w-where-", a sudden silence, and Malik cannot see or touch, but he can hear Altaïr wheezing. And then, it is as nothing happened. Altaïr's voice turns back to steel.

"If you won't tell, then I will kill you."

"You are still sick," Malik tells him. "Why did you leave-"

Another slap. This time, Malik snarls on sheer instinct.

"None of my targets had your gall."

"But I am not-"

"Targets are gold", Altaïr says now, and his words sound like accusation. He had said much the same thing, five years before this day, and if the djinn spoke truth when she said, your fates were written eons before you were born, then maybe this was meant to be. Maybe this is why his threads and Kadar's have always been the shade they were. But if this is how fate wants things to go, then, Malik spits in fate's golden eyes.

"Kill me, and you will never know."

"Bold gamble," Altaïr remarks. "But you are not the first to make it. You think you can win against me?"

"I do not, no." And Malik lies. "But you are not my enemy."

Altaïr scoffs, prepares to speak,

"She hurt you so much. Tortured you. She tried to use you-"

"And I used her."

"So you did, yes. But at what cost?"

Heartbeats tick by, with no reply.

Seconds.

A minute-

"Did she tell you? About the deal?"

And Malik nods.

"Are you disgusted?"

"Of course."

"I see-"

"You don't. I knew the Apple hurt you, badly, I saw it take so much from you. Jerusalem, Tizin and Masyaf, I knew, and yet, since Rashid died, I turned a blind eye, didn't ask. You used it on me, even still! I didn't ask, you didn't bleed and I thought, everything was fine. Disgusted? Yes, but, let me see, take this blinfold off of my eyes."

Daring to issue a command, Malik expects another slap; instead he gets a sudden brightness. He blinks once, twice, tries to adjust.

"Look up."

And yet Altaïr looks downwards, his long throat bent and his breath slow. His face, like this, is full of shadows, his eyes are sunk, his sharp cheeks gaunt. In heat, his skin should glow; it doesn't. His eyes should be bright and joyful. Instead of that, Altaïr shudders, and Malik asks,

"Please look at me."

At last, Altaïr does; their eyes meet. And Malik says,

"I am disgusted. But not with you-"

"Why do you lie?" Malik's eyes widen, within Altaïr's voice there is now anger. "Why can you never tell the truth? Why do I trust you, every time," Altaïr groans, "that it won't hurt, that you won't force me, that we can win Masyaf, why? Tell me, Malik, and please be honest, for once in your entire life."

"Altaïr", Malik speaks very carefully, "Altaïr, come here-"

Altaïr backhands him so harshly that Malik tastes his own blood.

"If you drink this, then you won't lie. None of the ones who did have lied." In his hand Altaïr holds a vial, and Malik's eyes pause on its size. It is tiny, so very tiny. "I will ask you, a final time. Where is the Apple?"

"Altaïr-" but, once more, Altaïr shudders.

"If I make you drink this, you will die."

"Altaïr, listen-" and he looks up now, Altaïr's golden, saddened eyes, as his right hand rests on Malik's throat, as the omega does come closer. His voice, unlike his eyes, is stone-cold.

"I will listen. Where is it at?" And Malik sighs.

"I cannot tell you."

Altaïr groans. "By God, why not? What tiny difference does your act make? You know that I will make you talk. Why do you insist to die for it?"

"But I do not-"

"Oh yes, you do!"

Altaïr's nose is close to Malik's, enough to feel, not see, the frown, the furrow of the too-pale brow and the shout of short-lipped frustration. Then, Malik asks,

"Do you remember, on that night, when you ran away to Persia? Do you remember what I told you?" and Altaïr's expession changes. Malik continues, undeterred.

"If you are right and I failed you, then do what I told you to do. End what started in Jerusalem."

"Malik-"

"I swear on Kadar's grave, I do, I'll say nothing under your torture. You wish to try? Then go ahead. Poison is strong, but I am stronger, I will take my words to my grave. And then, Altaïr, listen closely," Malik's breath rasps, breaks for a moment.

"Listen closely: this is no end. In spring, Adha will come here to you. She is a Chalice, one of many, she will know, always, where Eden lies. She'll show you where I put the Apple."

Altaïr's eyes widen impossibly, none of the gold, just honey brown, and they look shocked, they look surprised, as Malik says,

"Pay back your debts then. In your spring heat, make a new child. Adha loves you, she will accept it-"

"Malik!" but he just talks, undaunted.

"-and then everything will be fine. You have enough support by now, you will be Masyaf's Chief Dai. You're strong, Umm Darim, stronger than most men. You will survive until spring comes."

Then, at long last, Malik is silent. He watches Altaïr's lips move, open, then close, open, then close, and yet no sound or air escapes them. Until, at last,

"You foolish man."

And Malik sighs.

"Foolish? No. Tired. Dead or alive, I did my part, I kept my word. A better end. Now it is your turn, so do decide. Will you kill me in your quest to find the Apple?"

Malik's voice stays calm, and his scent too. His trainer told him, "you will go far, young ibn Faheem". The Apple, too, mentioned it briefly.

(You lie so well, Death was impressed.)

The truth is that Malik knows nothing, save that Adha has golden eyes.

-

Minutes pass by, without a movement. And then, at last...

When Altaïr's blade leaves its scabbard, Malik's eyes squeeze shut. "So be it," and he tames his fear down. "No need for the knife, I will swallow."

"I do not want to do this, Malik."

"Then do not. Cut my bonds instead."

"But I... the Apple... tell me why. What do you care?"

"You would have died."

"I would have not. I know these poisons."

"Not of poison, no. Exposure. Thirst, without drinking for a whole week."

"I would not have, like Alibek, hurt in Acre, whose blood the Apple kept in him, who would have died, who should have died, yet he did not, I would have lived. She cares too much about our deal" and Altaïr spits out the foul word, "to let me die so easily."

"Was that your bet?"

"It was."

"How stupid."

Altaïr frowns, but Malik says, "You have three sons. She wants a child? Wait twenty years."

Altaïr's eyes widen. "But-"

"Listen. When Kadar died, she could have used me, I held the Apple in my palm. But she knew of your blood already, yet did not save your own beloved. Do you know why?"

There is no answer.

"Because Kadar..." and Malik stalls, swallows the soft words. Says what the Apple said to him.

"Because Kadar would not have raped you. That's what it said. And that is why..." Another sigh, soft and mournful.

"That's why Kadar, not I, bled out. If I had died, you would have married. Kadar would have been angry, yes, but he would not have asked for a child. You would have had no descendants."

"Malik, she lied, she always lies, she did not care for me back then-"

"But it makes sense, that I survived. She knew I would ask for your head. It was so easy, she said proudly. So easy to make Rashid sell you. So easy to make a child my right-"

"Hm." Altaïr hums a short, low noise out, and he rolls from his knees to his feet. "So what?"

Malik's eyes narrow. "So what? She killed-!"

"So what?" Altaïr stares down. "Kadar cannot come back, Malik. It does not matter who killed him, if I did, she did, or De Sable, Kadar is dead. But you never accepted that. You never learned to let us go."

The next part of Altaïr's movement was clearly meant to be graceful. But Altaïr is not what he once was; and as he tries to take a step, perhaps to pace as he says his part,

his knee gives out from under him.

Malik watches as Altaïr falls. He watches and, he whispers sadly, "Come here. Release me from these bonds." But Altaïr's proud shoulders crumble.

"I c-cannot..." and again he wheezes, much worse than before. It sounds like he, in his fall, injured something. "I c-cannot risk my family, because", a cough, "y-you are angry with her. Juno is evil, this I k-knew..." silence, and for a few seconds Altaïr does not breathe. "I knew what she was, I a-agreed,"

"Come here", again Malik says, trying to pull at his bonds which tie him, uselessly, in place. "Come here, and let me look at you."

"J-Juno... needs me... f-for my children." A strangled sigh. "A-and, for them too, I need her help. So please-"

"Refuse her." And on the floor, Altaïr laughs.

"H-how easy... when y-you don't have children. When y-you don't need... to r-run... away..." Altaïr coughs up something liquid. "I want to go home..."

"You are home. This is your home," Malik tells him, and once again Altaïr wheezes, this time longer, before he asks.

"Isn't...t-that bed... w-where you raped me?"

"No, it is not. I threw that one away."

"It... u-used to be my b-bed, as well."

"I know." Slowly, so very slowly, Malik becomes aware of a hard truth, which rests in his throat now like a bone. And the truth sounds something like this,

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

Not the Apple, he does not add.

Altaïr sighs, for a time says nothing. It makes an odd and tragic sense that, of all things, this is what finally convinces the omega to approach him, and his warm body leans heavily on his right side. A hidden blade's release, finally,

"Don't hate me," Altaïr sighs as he sets Malik free at last. "Just... don't hate me, Malik..." and his cowled head lays on Malik's shoulder as an arm wraps around his own.

Why would I hate you, Malik doesn't ask, why is your fever running so high, why can you not find your peace with us, there are a thousand thoughts in his head, and they are skittering like insects.

Instead of trying to free them, he holds Altaïr closer now, shifts their weight as he does so. Begins to lay both of them lower, his back resting on the cold stone, Altaïr breathing uneven onto him, shivering, too warm and yet still cold. But on the bed, there are some blankets, a pillow, even, he could use. The herbalist will have herbs for his fever. Altaïr can now swallow food. And Malik thinks, now, of solutions.

"Altaïr?"

"Mm."

Over them both, the sun is rising on a new day. And Malik asks, as he holds him close,

"Will you tell me of your children?"

Chapter Text

One moment Malik asks him questions, words whose meaning he cannot grasp, and there is something deeply wrong, twisted, like the air itself is not quite-

Altaïr blinks.

-

The room reforms. Under his cheek, stuffed and foreign, is something soft, and at his back he feels a fire, a warmth whose muted crackle highlights silence. And all seems right, if quite strange and new, but then. Then, Altaïr opens his eyes.

"Altaïr."

Malik's voice rings somewhere, and he tries to blink again,

again,

again,

nothing; with a sudden shudder comes understanding, remembrance, and the sour taste of long-gone memories.

--------

"Altaïr," Malik's head turns to look at the omega finally stirring awake. With a sigh, for his knees have gone sore waiting for the other, he rises and moves closer to see Altaïr, see if his speech is still slurred and his fever high. But where he expects Altaïr's waking to be a slow, transitional process, he sees instead a shudder course through the man, and then a widening of his eyes. Fear etches on his tired face.

Malik rushes closer.

"Hey, hey," but the omega keeps blinking and looking at him, yes, straight at his face, but not with any understanding, "Talk to me. What is wrong?"

"I cannot see", Altaïr chokes out.

Oh.

He did hit his head, and this is not abnormal. But Malik moves his body to the side and next his right hand, first left, then right, and, well. Nothing. Altaïr's fearful gaze moves along with all of it. Blind he is not; and Malik frowns.

"Can't you see at all? Or is your sight blurred? Or-"

"Malik", Altaïr's voice rings out again. Clearer. More even. "Tell me why am I here."

"You don't remember?"

Altaïr nods, "I do know why I came to this room. But not," his hand waves to himself, "not how I came to be like this."

"You cut my bonds free. Do you remember that?" The point of peace between them, that was, and Altaïr nods yes, so Malik continues, "afterwards, I asked something, and you didn't reply. Instead," Malik gesticulates, "the same as you did in my bureau in Jerusalem, with Adha and with Alibek. When we argued. Do you remember that as well?"

Again, a nod.

"That happened. You lost consciousness."

A pause.

"I see."

In a slip of judgement Malik smiles, without meaning to. "I thought you couldn't."

But Altaïr frowns, oddly, he nods, "I cannot," irritated, as if this has some deeper meaning, and then, before Malik can ask for clarification, he props himself on his palms. "Has Rauf come here? The rafiqs? What time is-"

No, not again.

"Altaïr, sit down."

To this, the Eagle's eyes narrow with a hint of violence, "You dare order me to remain here? In this room?"

And Malik inhales. Rauf is a man of wisdom. Rauf opened his mind that night, Rauf called him an imbecile for bowing to Altaïr's suicidal wishes, Rauf was right, and this time Malik has removed Altaïr's bracers while he lay sick, sleeping, because to do so was safe, thus he says,

"Yes, I do dare. You will sit down. If you try to rise up again while poisoned, I will, by Allah", Malik thinks. Tilts his head for a brief moment. Pats his bruising cheek. "I will repay this."

Altaïr hisses, but remains sitting.

Malik just sighs.

"I'm glad we agree."

--------

Outside their room and somewhat far away, Rauf, too, sighs with aggravation. Focuses.

"Come on, come on-"

And his blade slips. Again. Again.

Rauf curses, puts down his knife. Back when they were all novices, this was a skill that some could learn, and some did, yes, Altaïr amongst them; Rauf did not, curses the man also, with no real heat behind his words, but with concern and great annoyance.

The door stays locked.

It has been hours.

Then...

"Rauf?"

He looks up. Shouts back, "Karim!"

"...wait, what?" Zayn's voice, muffled through the wood of the door's thick front, and also,

"Shit, it's locked, here, look," a key twists loudly,

(Really? Did he just leave the key inside?)

and then the two boys' faces greet his with sunlight, and Rauf winces. It is too bright.

"What happened? Who did this?"

"Guess."

Zayn looks past him; Karim frowns. "How? Did someone sneak in?"

"Don't insult me. The door was locked from the inside."

"But, he was-"

"Karim. He left." Again. Zayn looks at him.

"What do we do? We can't just ask..."

Of course they can't, whatever happened, Rauf guesses none saw Altaïr. In heat, he killed Rashid ad-Sinan. In heat and injured he may be, but when he left, he was quiet. But why?

"He hid somewhere. Go and look where-" then Rauf stops. Narrows his eyes. "Why did you come back here? I gave you orders, clear ones."

"Yes, about that," Zayn cuts in, "there is a rumour that he came back. We didn't leave the gate one moment! We swear, but, somehow, they say..."

"That Malik came back?" And Zayn nods.

Rauf thinks twice.

"Then go back to your gatepost, verify this, ensure this rumour is trustworthy. And if it is, then," the Apple, he used it, the dog, "go and return to your chores. Keep an eye out for Altaïr, but act as you used to be, normal. Do not incite any further rumour or suspicions. Wait and work with the other novices, until I come and fetch you."

"And then?"

Rauf smiles, unkindly.

"Then we must cause an accident."

--------

"Malik, you cannot leave."

"Do not be stupid."

From the makeshift nest that is Malik's pilled up bedding, the omega pokes his head out, shakes it and repeats, "You cannot."

"And why is that?"

"Because they will kill you."

Malik's nose wrinkles, offended. "Your boys have tried, yes?"

"Clearly not, they have not-"

"That's enough." Malik's tone tries to be soft, but fails. "You are not of sound mind. You are sick, you need herbs, you need tea, food and rest, and yet you keep stalling me. I must fetch these things for you to have them, do you understand?"

"I do, yes, but you don't; give me my belt back-"

"I won't."

Malik snaps back and instantly regrets it, bitter, reflexive with anger. Altaïr's belt holds only poisons, and that is why he took it first thing after Altaïr's fit had passed, Malik was and remains convinced of this, that nothing healing ever comes from that satchel, but instead of using hostile words, he repeats, this time more calmly,

"I won't, I will not let your own hand hurt you."

And yet. Despite his very-carefully-calm tone, Altaïr still huffs, so intensely angry, flushed with the indignation of being ordered around.

How upsetting Altaïr's mood proves to be against his. Not without little irony, Malik thinks idly that he perhaps preffered it better when Altaïr was still quiet, demure and in his rooms and every bit a victim, easy to pity and mourn and easier still to coax. Like this, he is annoying and stubborn and unreasonably distrustful. He wants to drink poison to lower his fever; he thinks Rauf angry, and murderous too. He thinks Malik weak and so easily defeated. He thinks he knows better, better than them all, and Malik is just tired, tired of the familiar, youthful arrogance of this man who has changed so much and yet not at all.

But there is one thing, one thing true and tested, that has remained constant, no, has amplified, in the years they were parted.

"Altaïr."

"What?" comes the narrow-eyed, stiff reply. Face stony, yet eyes alive with feeling, Altaïr watches him warily as he walks closer, as he kneels back next to him from where he had once stood up, to pace and argue and (unsuccessfully) leave. But Malik makes no move to step beyond the boundary of his own blankets, only holds out a hand.

"If I promise to stay, will you let me touch your wrist? Try to make you rest this way?"

"I can sleep", comes Altaïr's quick reply. Malik shakes his head.

"You can pretend, but you won't sleep. You did not sleep when Rauf had watched over you, either. Will you drink some water, then? I have some left here, for when I feel sick, it is not fresh but it should do, and some flatbread too-"

"Malik, I am fin-", on the last vowel, Altaïr's breath catches; a lesser man would not have noticed. But Malik's lips press together, all the same.

"Please. I grow tired of having to beg things of you, omega, but please-", Altaïr flinches, and Malik stops, and Altaïr's voice is but a whisper,

"Don't call me that."

Malik's mind races for a moment. "Omega? But that is what you are, you-" and once again Altaïr flinches, and says,

"I will drink of your water and eat of your bread, if you swear never to call me that again."

"But why? I will not make you do this," Malik pauses, recalls memory but for a moment, "I have called you omega before and you did not dislike it, on the contrary. I do not know why you frown at it now and so I will promise you, I will not, you do not have to do anything in return. That you dislike it is enough. Just tell me why."

"I..." Altaïr's voice turns unsure, hesitant. "Do I have to tell you?"

And in that moment, Malik makes a decision.

"No."

Zayn had said something, something that stuck with him, in the old aviary. He had said that Altaïr had done enough already; in that moment, Malik did not fully understand the boy's words. But Altaïr visibly relaxes now, relaxes fully, as if compelled, and Malik had not even noticed when he had curled up, defensive and tense, even though it is safe here. Even though Malik had made a nest for him also, poor as it was.

Altaïr is not comfortable. This is not a revelation; some things simply cannot be changed.

"You still have to eat, though, or sleep for a few hours. Either that or I will fetch herbs for you, something to ensure that your fever remains low. But you have to do something," and Malik insists, "you have to do at least one of these things."

"Because it's for my own good?" Altaïr sneers, and the words mean nothing; but then Malik remembers, and a cold shudder runs through him. His gaze pins Altaïr down.

"You are better than this."

Altaïr closes his eyes and presses his lips. But he does not apologise, and this in turn prompts Malik to continue, insist,

"Which one will-"

A knock at the door interrupts him.

Both men freeze up, still.

--------

"Hello, Malik."

There is a cool, cold detachment in Rauf's bones at the sight of the man. Malik was given a second chance, a chance to prove himself better; this moment is the catharsis, the consequence of that mistake. Malik had not changed, Rauf has now taken note of this, but at the very least he is no coward; he did not delay by not opening the door.

"Rauf," the alpha calls to him, "how may I help?", even as he stays inside, farther than a sword's long swing. Wise.

"Come with me for a moment."

Malik smiles, unkind. "Why?"

"Altaïr is missing."

"Is he? Why, I thought," and the smile drops off, "I thought you were staying with him. Watching him, taking care of him-"

"Malik, stop this. You took the Apple."

The alpha nods. "Indeed, I did."

"So give it back."

"I will, but not now. I no longer have it on me."

"Malik," says Rauf, feeling his soul boiling, the pretense of civility straining in him, though this is the Library of the Masters and also of the many, many ears, "Malik, why do you lie to me? You did not come back through our gateways, or if you did, none know of it, you will return what you have stolen-"

"Wait."

Malik's face, taken by cold indifference, now colours sharply with emotion. Rauf, too, twiches at the voice. Impossible. And then he sees, sees Altaïr lying down on some old rags, looking hollow and sick and weak, and his body covered all over with blankets, and where civility had been, there is a void now.

"Why is he here?"

"Because he came to me-"

Rauf leaps, without much thinking.

His right fist sinks into Malik's face, and the Dai steps back, turns to backhand him; Rauf dodges, kicks the door on his way in. At last, the wooden thing snaps shut, and Rauf needs no longer stay quiet, each word shouted after each hit,

"You rapist, you dog, you shameless thing! Why is he here?"

but Malik turns sideways, left, and the whole thing seems much too long, even though in fact it is moments. Rauf strikes out, again, again, though the snake dodges, until at last Rauf once more sinks a punch in, and then Malik hisses, grabs his wrist, pivots, pushes inside towards his face, and his foreheads crushes Rauf's nose as his fist knocks air out of him,

but then Rauf steps away, to get the space for a swing,

and Malik, too, backs off, now hurt, but still standing, still facing him,

and between them-

Too slow.

"Rauf!"

-steps Altaïr. The punch meant for another catches him right across the jaw. And Rauf falters, stunned.

Pauses.

Adapts.

He wraps his arms around his friend, and turns. Cowers away from Malik's arm, shields him from the monster. Curiously, Malik does not strike his back, but a loud snarl escapes the alpha, which Rauf promptly just ignores. He has no sword, can cause them no harm, and there are other, more urgent priorities.

"Altaïr, you should not have run," Rauf rasps out, now catching his breath. "Why are you here? What did he do?"

But then he looks down; Altaïr does not respond. Just looks back at him. Stiff and detached, there is a bright bruise forming on his cheek, and adrenaline keeps Rauf's questions coming,

"What happened, why did you lock me in? You should have woken me up, I could have..."

"Let him go," Malik speaks to him from behind, "now, I told you-"

"Silence!"

He bristles at the mere idea, how stupid, how foolish a thought; Altaïr would never. His rapist? The Apple's captor? Bah. Were he not beta, he might hiss; even still, his words tremble,

"Do not speak to me again, you worthless-"

"Rauf."

But Altaïr speaks out, at last.

"Rauf, please. Stop."

Both men in the room fall quiet.

------

Malik watches through rage, through the voice screaming in his brain,

(He hurt your mate! He is yours! Take him back, protect him!, his instincts are loud and Malik feels mad, feels about to tear Rauf to shreds for his daring, in his house, in his den,

except Altaïr said, stop, and that word is sacrosanct,)

as Rauf puts his arms under Altaïr's and lifts him, helps him rest against a wall, where Altaïr himself immediately straightens and pulls his face into a semblance of stony authority. It is a poor facade, even without the angry bruise now on his cheek, for the omega's face is gaunt and pale and starved for energy. Even his eyes, now fixing on Rauf pulling back, standing between them, look flaxen and dull, and Altaïr keeps blinking, again, again,

oddly,

have they always been this way? But then something else, something important occurs to him, even at the smallest threat Altaïr's eyes would blaze, paranoid, sharp Altaïr, fruit of his father and Eagle of Masyaf, his eyes are things of legend and accursed whispers and tales, his eyes are what Rashid would have starved them all to the Saracens,

yet his friend hit him, his best friend, by accident but he did, Rauf has never before turned even a word against Altaïr and surely it must hurt,

but oh, the Eagle's eyes are dull and dark, and still they blink, trying to focus on a sight he cannot see,

because Altaïr is blind,

Rauf, stubborn oaf that he is, asks again his dull questions and Altaïr says something in reply, in slow-spoken and rasped quips, confirms facts which Malik knows already so he pays them no special mind, no, his focus is away from useless chatter and fully on Altaïr's face, the near-obsessive pattern of him blinking, as if there is road dust in his tired eyes,

and then he thinks nothing, because Rauf is shouting.

"He is not dead!"

and Altaïr flinches, replies, "I know-"

"Why? If you came here for this, you could have told us! We acted as your allies, protected you-"

"Protected me?" but Altaïr laughs, "You didn't!"

"Altaïr!"

"You opened, opened that door, I told them-"

"You would have died!"

And then Altaïr shouts,

"So what?"

a dead silence, and Rauf recoils, as if slapped, except Altaïr continues, now shaking, stepping forward and near-hysterical with rage, "you had no right! Are you my husband? My father? My superior? I ordered them that, I told them both-" but Rauf is no longer talking, merely shakes his head, and then his voice is a whisper,

"So be it."

And it silences Altaïr.