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It is a swelteringly hot day. Malik grimaces as he drapes his cloak over his dark Dai's robe. The weather had been pleasantly cool for almost a week, but he really should have known it wouldn't last. It's almost like the reason for his current mental turmoil also brought the bad weather with him.
Malik snorts. If he were the superstitious sort, he would believe it.
But the discomfort in the air is not just from the blazing sun or the bureau's latest visitor, because the entire city is abuzz with the upcoming executions. Inside the bureau it is even more fraught. Losing a brother in the field is not unheard of, but a public execution of one of their own is rare enough that an undercurrent of anxious fear pervades every conversation. Malik does not hear them all, but he knows enough. Over six months in this bureau, and he has a knowing finger on its pulse already. He doesn't like how uneasily its life beats now.
His cloak and turban in place, Malik readies to leave. The news has most of the informants running scared, but there remain a few still willing to work with the bureau. Malik has a few journeymen collecting information, but also ventures out himself as often as his work allows him. He does it because it is a sign to the rest of the brotherhood's agents in the city: now more than ever, he will take an active part to help rescue their brother, instead of retreating in fear. As a relatively younger and less experienced Dai, he knows he needs to make indirect statements like this every now and again.
As he turns his back to the inner courtyard, he feels a fleeting sense of resentment because he cannot use the rooftop access anymore with just his one arm. The feeling is dimmed compared to the howling pain and grief in the first few weeks as he adjusted to life with one less limb. But he is used to it now. Malik is many things, but he is not unadaptable.
He adjusts his pace and posture as he enters the outer room open to the public; the bureau has the facade of a humble paper and ink shop that takes occasional mapmaking commissions. Malik is already used to being underestimated for being a cripple, and he has discovered that shuffling along with his head bent low makes people overlook him even more.
Still, he feels not a little annoyed when someone shoves him roughly into the doorway as he is leaving the shop. He throws a discreet but venomous glance over his shoulder, and freezes.
He knows the set of those shoulders, clad in the white of his brotherhood.
Even as Malik is deliberating on whether he wants to say anything about it, Altair also looks over his shoulder. And also freezes. He opens his mouth, but no words come out for a moment. Then he mumbles, just loud enough for Malik to hear, "I… Apologies."
Before Malik can so much as blink in response, Altair whips around and makes his way into the bureau.
Malik's business with the informant is done sooner than expected. One of the journeymen had finished his own task early and picked up Malik's intel. Malik runs into him at the arches bisecting the Middle district from the Poor district.
"Did I mess up your schedule, Dai?" Hamid asks as they slowly make their way back to the bureau together.
"Irrevocably," Malik mutters. The young man is familiar to him, one of Kadar's old friends.
Hamid huffs a quiet laugh. "You are free to enjoy the afternoon now."
"In this heat? Unlikely," Malik drawls and Hamid laughs again. They walk in companionable silence for the rest of their short walk back. Hamid was always one of Kadar's quieter playmates. A year or two older than Kadar, he has always spoken to Malik with shy but playful eagerness. Now that Malik thinks about it, it is not dissimilar to the way Kadar used to speak to Altair.
And isn't that something? That the young man's awe has not lessened in the aftermath of… everything, is surprising.
"It is good to see you so unchanged," Hamid says as if he has read Malik's mind.
"Unchanged?" Malik raises an eyebrow and shrugs with his left shoulder subtly as he divests himself of the turban and cloak.
"Of course you would not let something like that affect you," Hamid says with much more enthusiasm than Malik believes is warranted. "You remain as formidable as ever, Malik."
The smile on Hamid's face is small but earnest. Malik gets a sudden, overwhelming sense that he needs to end this conversation, not least because he can feel eyes on him. He glances to the side: they are in the empty inner office of the bureau, and the courtyard beneath the rooftop entrance has only one occupant. The person is huddled in a corner with their hood down, but Malik knows who it is. Of course.
Irritation flares up in Malik's veins. "Go rest with the others," Malik tells Hamid with an impatient nod and strides into the courtyard without waiting for a response.
"What is it?" He demands as soon as he is standing in front of the hunched figure.
Altair stirs only slightly; his head tilts up a little but his hood remains drawn. "What?"
Why are you back already? Malik wants to snap. Why were you staring? Why are you here?
Instead, he finds himself asking, "What's wrong?"
Altair jerks his head down so quickly it's almost a flinch. "Nothing," he mumbles.
And Malik is staring. A flinch? He suddenly recalls Altair stumbling into him at the bureau entrance. A stumble and a flinch. He has not seen Altair do either in a long time.
"Are you injured?"
Altair somehow curls up even more inwards. "No."
A new emotion is rising within Malik, something akin to concern. He doesn't want it. "Then what is the problem, novice?"
Altair lifts his head, his golden eyes boring into Malik's own with an intensity that almost makes him step back. "There is no problem."
Malik opens his mouth to snap something back at him, but stops. Altair's robe, from hood to waistband, looks damp.
God knows it hasn't rained in the city for some time. And there is no river in Jerusalem.
Deciding not to waste more time by asking questions that Altair will not answer, Malik goes to push Altair's hood down.
And freezes, because his wrist is caught in a vise-like grip. Something twists in Malik's gut, his breath catches in his chest. He hadn't even seen him move.
"Let go of me," Malik says, low and dangerous. Altair's eyes flare like he means to maintain his hold, but then he does loosen his grip, slow and jerky. Malik shoves Altair's hood back with more force than necessary and withdraws his hand in a flash. Like Altair is some cornered animal that could lash out at any moment.
And that's when Malik realises how true that is. Altair does look physically unharmed, but the look in his eyes is a mix of desperation and wariness.
His hair is still wet.
"Tell me what happened."
Still Altair remains silent. Malik leans down.
"Where did they try to drown you?" He murmurs.
Altair throws himself to the side so abruptly Malik takes several alarmed steps back. He watches, silent, as Altair fumbles off his knife belt and tears off the upper part of his robe, baring his scarred torso. His skin is still gleaming, and Malik doesn't think it's from just sweat.
Altair's apprehension of bodies of water is something of an open secret in Masyaf. When they were teens just shy of earning their blades, Malik remembers the other trainees had tried to push Altair into the river by Masyaf. None had succeeded. Altair had evaded them and fought back with a ferocity that was almost frightening. That spoke to the level of fear Altair himself must have harboured, and it seems, still does harbour. A persisting weakness in the dazzling armour of Altair's competence.
"Are you still afraid of the water then?" Malik asks. "I would have thought you'd have grown out of it by now." He makes no effort to hide the disappointment in his tone. Most of the Assassins have been trained hard enough to discard their childhood fears. It makes one ineffective. Of course Altair wouldn't bother bettering himself —
"There are things one does not 'grow out of'," Altair mutters, low and vicious. He turns slowly, eyes still blazing, despite the minute tremors in the exposed muscles of his belly. "You would not forget if you had drowned before."
But that is ridiculous. Malik almost scoffs out loud. Altair is clearly alive in front of him, surely he didn't drown —
"They grabbed me, four of them," Altair continues, still in that low, terrible tone, "and pushed my head into a fountain." He leans back against the sun-warmed wall and closes his eyes. "Luckily, I still remembered what it was like to drown. I went still and they let me go far too soon. They paid for their mistake." Altair opens his eyes and the look almost makes Malik take another step back. "That is what happened, Dai."
I stiil remembered what it was like to drown. Malik has known about Altair's fear for many, many years now. How long ago was it? How many years has Altair been haunted by it?
"When?"
Somehow, Altair understands. Even stranger, he answers. "I was almost six years old."
Six. "Who?"
Who would drown a child so young? Because Malik is certain someone did this to Altair. Whatever Altair remembered, it was clearly him struggling against another person.
But Altair only looks away. "What does it matter now."
But it does matter. One of their core tenets is to stay their hand from the flesh of an innocent, and who could be more innocent than a child? And Altair's deflection can mean two things: the person or people involved are already dead, or they are someone whose reputation Altair cannot or does not want to affect.
There are very few people whose reputation can withstand Altair.
Malik's eyes choose that moment to focus on a silvery scar on Altair's abdomen, so close to the waistline it is almost invisible. Altair flinches, again, and turns away.
Several thoughts pass through Malik's mind like lightning, interconnecting like an intricate tapestry. He has, of course, become intimately acquainted with the anatomy of wounds and scars lately, and he knows that the scar on Altair's stomach is less than a year old. Six months, perhaps. It is clearly from a stab wound, and the colouring indicates that it must have been a deep wound indeed. Deep enough to incapacitate anyone, even Altair, for some time. To Malik's knowledge, Altair has not been out of commission for that long in the past year. But then, Malik's knowledge does not cover the weeks of hazy grief and pain in the immediate aftermath of the events at Solomon's temple.
And Altair turning away from him is yet another deflection.
Malik's mind is still churning, and he hates what it is thinking up.
Still without turning, Altair gathers up the robe he had flung away. "My investigation is not yet complete," he says, looking at the floor, his voice carefully even. "I only returned for a moment of rest. I will be out of your hair soon."
Malik finds his voice again. "The others are resting in the sleeping chambers." On a day as hot as this, he was not surprised to find the bureau empty, and could guess where everyone was. "I'm sure there will be some space available for you."
Altair scoffs lightly, and Malik feels the anger rush back. "What, too humble for your own refined standards?"
Altair finally turns back to face him, his expression set in the now-familiar stony mask has taken to wear ever since his fall from grace. "And you? Why are you not resting, Dai?" He sits up. "I am sure Hamid will appreciate the company."
Something about the way Altair said it makes Malik snap, "What I do or not does not concern you."
There had been a spark of challenge in Altair's eyes, but that fades away now. "Yes."
Malik flounders for a tenth of a moment: he doesn't know if he's glad Altair has backed off or angry that he isn't arguing back the way he usually does. The way he always has done, until…
Malik whips around and strides back towards his office. "Do as you like," he says, stopping at the doorway. "But do not take too long in your investigations. The execution is almost upon us."
Altair tips his head, face still in that mask, voice still inflectionless and calm. "I understand."
Malik only turns away and enters his office. He goes right back to the maps still open on his desk and makes himself focus on them entirely. He does not look outside at the courtyard again; still, he hears the soft shuffle and creak of the iron grating that signifies the sound of someone leaving.
Good riddance, he tells himself, despite knowing it is a blatant lie.