Damascus Poor District, February 1192

Malik had only heard Altaïr scream twice in his life.

The first time was when he had failed a Leap of Faith on his fifteenth birthday and had shattered his leg in several places, with shards of the femur protruding from his shin. The second time was when he was being tortured with the Piece of Eden by Al Mualim. Both times, Malik had been within earshot and both times, it had terrified him to the core of his soul. He would have to have been tortured himself to admit it, but Malik idolised Altaïr and to see his hero in agony like that broke him inside. His heart thumping and his blood roaring in his ears, Malik ran faster than he ever did in his whole life, following the sounds of his friend in devastating anguish, howling like a wounded beast. Unsheathing his scimitar, Malik sprinted into the square that the noise was originating from, pumped with adrenaline and fear and ready to slaughter anyone who would even think of harming Altaïr—

--and his sword dropped to the ground with a clatter.

The square was strewn with the corpses of men. Most were disembowelled, dismembered or decapitated; one man was lying on his side with his guts spilling out of a crater in his stomach, with his hands trying to push them back in his death-throes. Malik’s hand shot to his mouth instinctively as bile rose in his throat and he actually choked, stumbling backwards from the scene of carnage. There were cracked skulls dribbling brains and clear fluid, men with jaws half hanging off and teeth smashed in, skin ripped and burnt off. Malik fought back his overwhelming nausea by staggering forward to the centre of the bloodbath where Altaïr was on his knees, clasping his face, writhing in pain. He sank to his own knees, skidding slightly in the pools of blood and gripped Altaïr by one shoulder, sweat cooling in the night air and panting with disgust. His friend was literally convulsing underneath his touch, hands shielding his face, hood casting his features into shadow.

“Altaïr!” Malik cried, fruitlessly trying to make himself heard over the assassin’s bellows of pain and throwing back his black hood, “Altaïr, what’s wrong?! What happened?” His fingers dug into his skin. “Look at me, God dammit!”

“Jesus Christ, Al-Sayr, make it stop! Make it stop make it stop make it stop! Malik, make it stop, please, for the love of God!” Altaïr was actually shrieking, voice cracking in terror and clawing at his face with his fingernails. “It’s burning!”

Malik seized one of his wrists and yanked it to one side, pushing back Altaïr’s white hood and staring with mute horror at what had been done to his face. There were searing, livid red burns raked across his face, with agonising crimson blisters splashed across his cheekbones, forehead and dripping down to scorch his eyelids. The fleshy line where eyelid met eyelid had fused together, melted and grotesque. His dusky European pallor had gone utterly bone-white in shock and whatever burned him had scalded some skin and hair away from his temples and scalp, revealing raw flesh underneath. There was no fresh blood, only congealed clumps and clots of it. Altaïr was desperately trying to open his eyes, his strenuous efforts visible by his terrified whimpers and straining eyelids.

“Malik, I can’t—!” Altaïr was sobbing. “I can’t open my eyes, I can’t see!” Malik had gone as stiff as a statue, still holding his hysterical friend with one hand, eyes wide and unblinking. There was the distinct sound of hissing, as if his very skin was being eaten away by something corrosive. “Help me, Malik!” He howled.

Jolting out of his shock-induced reverie, Malik jerked into action, ripping off swathes of fabric from his outer robe and soaking them in water from his flask. He pressed the drenched makeshift bandages against Altaïr’s enflamed flesh as gently as he could, but his grey eyed friend was still shuddering with the shock and hissing with the pain. Malik was mumbling deranged, stilted words of comfort, still traumatised himself and desperately draping saturated rags against Altaïr’s face, hand curving against his cheekbone like a lover’s, feeling the bubbling and deformed skin underneath his sensitive fingertips. Like a bolt out of the blue, whatever residue that lay still on Altaïr’s skin seeped through the material and burned Malik’s fingertips, making him jerk away and swear, sucking it automatically and soothing it with his saliva. Just as quickly he forced the sensation of searing pain to the back of his mind and ripped off more of his robes to steep in tepid water and hold against Altaïr’s face. Thankfully, after ten minutes or so, the assassin had ceased to scream, but he was shaking wildly now, whimpering under his breath – in any other situation, he would have rather died to emit such pathetic sounds. He sounded like a wounded animal. Malik bit back his own tears as Altaïr tried to swallow his tearless sobs.

“W-what happened, Altaïr?” Malik whispered desperately.

“I… I d-don’t…” Altaïr swallowed hard at the sound of his own hoarse, trembling voice. “I d-don’t know. I don’t know, Malik. Just, please… more.”

He was referring to the soaked bandages. Malik hastened to obey, put in his place by priority. As he carefully laid the dripping scrap of material across the left side of Altaïr’s head, gently moulding it to the ruined contours of his face, out of curiosity, he touched the tiny fraction of the assassin’s face that had not been burned, on the lower part of his right cheek. Malik bit his lip as Altaïr shuddered and quickly snatched his hand back. “Altaïr…” he said softly. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Altaïr shook his head violently. “God, I don’t know,” he said throatily, head tilted towards the direction of Malik’s voice and his accelerated breathing. “I… I left you earlier… for the mission, didn’t I? I got my target and I was coming back for... for you.” He was breathing hard at this point. He felt Malik squeeze his shoulder in reassurance; an extremely rare gesture, it had to be said. “The last lucid thing I remember is that informer we met... he offered to buy a drink to celebrate. I must have passed out… I woke up and it was night-time. It was like I was drunk with fatigue…”

Malik recognised these symptoms instantaneously; the same thing had happened to Altaïr too…? “I was just stumbling around the city, trying to find… find you and these… these men ambushed me. I was still half-asleep; I wasn’t fast enough.” Altaïr grit his teeth together. “I killed all but one, but he caught me by surprise and threw this liquid that burnt like hellfire into my face. I don’t know what it was… and I started screaming. He ran and I just fell to the ground. I thought I was going to die. And then you… you came.”

“Oh, God, Altaïr,” was all Malik could say. His voice was wobbling dangerously. Altaïr’s stomach lurched in surprise as he was folded into an awkward one-armed embrace and he did the only thing that seemed right at the time: he rested his head in the crook of his friend’s neck and gingerly hugged him back. “We need to get you back to Masayf.” He heard Malik whisper. “We need to get you back home.”


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Masayf Hospital Wing – May, 1193

“By Buddha and all his giggles, Europeans heal like greased lightning,” Sa’id whistled lowly, probing Altaïr’s healing skin tenderly. Malik hung back in the doorway of the hospital wing of the fortress, biting his lower lip and looking for all the world like an anxious parent. The Twins were an excellent example of what assassins could become as well as killers, as both had become the fortress’s resident doctors. “You, my feathery friend, have all the healing capacity of a demigod. It’s remarkable, really.”

“I’m healing that well?” asked Altaïr hopefully.

Sa’id gave Malik a questioning look, crooking an eyebrow. Malik nodded his head feverishly, eyes wide and poignant. Sa’id heard his silent message and replied readily, “Yes, you’re healing that well. Your new skin has come through and most of the burns are well on the mend. Even your hair’s growing back, though, to be fair, it’s like ugly duckling fuzz.” To this, Altaïr snorted. “We know your eyelids were melted together with some form of distilled acid, but we – as in, Ra’d and I – decided to give you lots of time to heal, so we did nothing about it. Until today, that is.”

“Meaning…?” Altaïr sounded apprehensive.

“Carefully, carefully,” Sa’id replied calmly, “We’re going to cut your eyelids open.”

“Go to Hell,” Altaïr blurted out, sounding horrified. “I won’t allow your strange crossbreed fingers anywhere near my face, let alone with a razor-sharp scalpel.”

“Big talk coming from a hybrid himself,” Sa’id bit back sharply, tetchy about his mixed Oriental and Arabic heritage. Malik smiled to himself, amused at the nostalgia: Altaïr and the Twins had always been at loggerheads about who had the most eclectic racial background. “Now do you want to be able to see again or don’t you?”

“I’ll be able to see again? Permanently?”

Again, Sa’id turned to the Master for guidance. Malik shook his head this time, looking saddened. Sa’id sighed. “Altaïr, I’m going to be frank: no, no, you won’t. Not permanently. But… there’s a slim chance that for a few seconds – no more than sixty, and that’s being optimistic – you’ll be able to see very blurred images. You’ll regain your sight temporarily before your eyes give up the ghost and your sight will fail. Maybe you’ll be able to see in years. Five, ten, fifteen, who knows? Maybe more. Time heals all wounds, after all.”

Malik loathed that cliché but said nothing. There was a silence. Altaïr turned to where he assumed Malik was – eerily, he was deathly correct, even to the precise angle and centimetre. Since the accident, Malik had not been more than a few feet away from him, so he had become more acclimatised to his friend’s behaviour and mannerisms in a few months than he had in fifteen years of friendship. He had learned his subtle shifts of his body thanks to the sound of his rustling robes, his breathing, even the slight nuances and fine accent of his voice when he spoke. “Well, Malik?” Altaïr said. Only two mere words and suddenly the weight of the world was on the brunette’s skinny shoulders.

“I want you to get better,” was the simple reply.

“Then that’s good enough for me.” Altaïr said. “Slice me open, Sa’id.”

“So crude,” blustered the doctor. “This is a delicate operation that involves meticulous planning and precise surgical perfection.”

“You’re cutting my eyes apart.” Altaïr said mordantly. “There’s no finesse to it.”

“Shut up. Now…” The Twin held up bundles of painkilling drugs and herbs in each hand. “Do you want these to knock you out or not?”

“If I’m unconscious, I won’t be able to see,” Altaïr cut in, looking worried.

“If you’re conscious, you’re going to be screaming all the way through it,” countered Sa’id.

“I don’t care. I want to be conscious.”

“Fine.” Sa’id said sullenly, apparently very put out that he could not drug Altaïr into a sleepy stupor and picked up his scalpel that had been simmering in boiled water to sterilise it. “Hold still, clamp your jaw shut and if you start bawling, I’ll get Malik to punch you.” He gripped Altaïr by the chin with his left hand, tilting his head back and poised his scalpel over his eyes carefully. Malik, squeamish, looked away uncomfortably, focusing on a tree blossoming near the window. He watched one branch shake its petals free as the sounds of Altaïr grunting in pain and breathing sharply through his nose broke his reverie. He looked despite himself. Sa’id had his jaw set firmly, unblinking as the sharp metal broke through the conjoined skin that had melted the edge of Altaïr’s eyelids together. Only a single drop of blood oozed out, slow and thick, down the assassin’s face as the skin was carefully torn apart. Sa’id paused for a second. “Altaïr, I’m going to make the final cut now. Is there anything in particular you want to see so we can go get it for you?”

Altaïr’s hand uncurled and pointed with unwavering uncertainty at where he could hear Malik. “Him,” he mumbled through clenched teeth. “I want to see Malik.”

The brunette took a step back, pointing in vain at himself as if to say “who, me?”. Sa’id made that universal head jerk movement to indicate Malik should hurry up, mouthing “get over here, pretty boy.” Sa’id had absolutely no regard to the Assassin’s hierarchy, referring to the Master like that, but Malik let it slide. He hurriedly walked over to Altaïr’s sick bed, sitting awkwardly down at the foot of it and fiddled uneasily with his robes as Sa’id made the final cut warily. When Altaïr felt the tension lift, he hesitantly blinked, hissing at the stinging sensation.

“Go,” he grunted to Sa’id, who muttered something derogatory, no doubt, bowed and left.

Sight came back slowly, blurry, indistinct and washed out like a watercolour painting, but it was sight regardless. Malik’s thin form swam into view in front of him, all sad dying autumn colours against the splashes of soft cherry pinks and creamy whites of the blossom trees in the window behind him. Altaïr lifted up a hesitant hand, only to be surprised that Malik had met him halfway with his own hand. Both too embarrassed to let it drop and say it was an accident, they instead chose to swallow their pride and sit there with loosely laced fingers. Malik was very grateful Altaïr had sent Sa’id out. This situation was dreadful enough without the Twins spreading rumours about them two.

Altaïr could not stop staring at his friend. He could have chosen to look at anything else: he could have chosen to look out of the window into the beautiful Paradise gardens, or over the waterfall, or even find a mirror, but he was quietly content with just analysing his friend with his blurry grey eyes, like a man fascinated with a work of heavenly art. Malik shifted, obviously embarrassed and even flushing a little, before snatching a glance at Altaïr, who, desperate to say anything at all – anything to break this silence! – opened his mouth and quietly stated, “You cut your hair. I don’t like it.”

Malik snorted softly in amusement. “You regain your sight after months of blindness and you comment on that of all things. Really, Altaïr, so superficial. I was expecting something wonderfully insightful, maybe some philosophy or divinely inspired haikus.”

“I’d rather talk about you,” Altaïr said, frowning. “I don’t like how your hair is. It’s too short. I liked it when we were young and you had it long. Grow it out.”

“Yes, dear,” said Malik sarcastically, before clearing his throat uncomfortably and flushing wonderfully. Altaïr smiled. Forget not seeing nature’s wonders or awe-inspiring architecture or beautiful women, when his sight failed again, he was going to miss Malik’s endearing facial expressions most of all. His shy blushes, sarcastic frowns and put out pouts, along with the wonder of wonders, his smiles. “Anything else while you’re at it?”

“No, I’m good,” Altaïr said, content. He fiddled idly with Malik’s long elegant fingers, running a callused thumb along his knuckles. “I will miss seeing you, dai.”

The familiar respectful and amicable title, along with the heartfelt compliment and poignant sorrow lacing his words, melted Malik’s heart. “You won’t be getting rid of me that easily,” the brunette retorted brusquely, “You insisted on staying around me when my arm got amputated, now I’m going to stay by your side and thoroughly irritate you until your sight returns. That’s what friends do, Altaïr.”

“Friends.” It was neither a statement nor a question.

“Yes, Altaïr, friends,” was the mildly exasperated reply. “We’re friends.”

Altaïr’s eyesight blurred even more. His grip tightened on Malik’s hand. “Smile for me.”

Obstinate to a fault, Malik retorted, “Give me cause to.”

“I’m glad you’re the last person I’m going to see.”

The smile came willingly. Shyly, fleetingly, almost guiltily, but it came.


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Master’s Chambers, Masayf Fortress, August 1196

Since he lost his sight three years ago, Altaïr’s other four senses developed exponentially and on such a dramatic level, it terrified him occasionally. He would wake up in an empty bed to utter darkness and feel his sheets crinkle like a hurricane and each touch of his pillow would be like being encased in the soft stranglehold of cotton and linen and he would smell strong spices and smoke in the air from miles away and taste it vividly on his tongue. Each novel experience was like drowning in sensation and it was driving Altaïr insane. He would often be caught doing something ordinarily mundane, like stroking a strip of silk idly with a callused thumb, eyes blank and staring, or wander around, following a particular snatch of jasmine perfume wafting through the air like a determined madman. To keep him sane, Malik – patient saint that he was – read to him.

It sounded foolish. It truly wasn’t. Miraculously, it was not as embarrassing as Altaïr thought it would be: as a matter of fact, he would look forward to it.  He would be dozing in his bed, alone in his chambers, where a knock on the door would jolt him out of his apathetic reverie. Without even asking who it was, Malik would just stride in as if he owned the place and Altaïr would hear that smile in his voice as he enquired as to his health, then feel the depressed pressure of the mattress as the brunette calmly clambered onto his bed as if he owned it, folded his legs and opened his book. As soon as that velvet desert accent that reminded Altaïr irrevocably of gold and chocolate and sunlight and all the good things in the world hit the air, all his troubles would simply disappear. He would melt into a blissful nirvana where only Malik’s voice and just-there touch existed, where his mind was nourished by his sumptuous crimson consonants and decadent violet vowels, sinking into a world of words and whispers.

Sometimes Altaïr would not speak at all, just letting Malik read from whatever book he had brought along from his massive library. He had no preferences as to genre or plot, just thrilling to the sound of his friend’s diligent and serene recital; often Altaïr could hear the rasping of the paper as Malik traced the pages with his fingertip, as was his habit. Sometimes he would speak French, Latin, Italian, the gorgeous languages of the Romantics, fluently and masterfully. And although both were now defiant atheists, one firm favourite were the holy books of the major religions. Murmuring the scriptures of the Quran in the original Arabic or the Bible in ancient Hebrew, they were like stories for the soul. Altaïr would listen on tenterhooks, enthralled on these philosophical musings of men long dead. Once, Malik almost fell asleep halfway through Ecclesiastes and Altaïr gingerly but obligingly propped him up in his arms as the brunette groggily muttered the rest of the chapter. The next night, Malik allowed Altaïr to fold him in his arms – as a pre-emptive measure, they both amusedly assured, in case either should fall asleep. Interestingly, this ‘pre-emptive’ measure carried on night after night for two years.

Malik yawned, candles burning low and bubbling in the melted wax collecting in their brackets, his fingers gliding over the parchment of the Bible. It was so late at night, it could have been considered the morning. Altaïr was currently gripped on Corinthians 1 and Malik obligingly recited it again, eyelids drooping.

“Verse 13; I may be able to speak the languages of men and even of angels, but if I have no love, my speech is no more than a noisy gong or a clanging bell. I may have the gift of inspired preaching; I may have all knowledge and understand all secrets. I may…” Malik yawned again, eyelids heavy. Altaïr caught the yawn automatically and followed suit. “Sorry. I may have all the faith needed to move mountains, but if I have no love, I am nothing.” He read drowsily, “I may give away everything I have, and even give up my body to be burnt, but if I have no love, this does me no good...”

Altaïr grinned as he heard Malik drop off to sleep with a quiet snore that amused him to no end. The book slipped from his fingers, landing on the bedcovers with a soft thump, spine up and pages askew. Altaïr heard his friend sigh and settle down into sleep in his arms, breathing gently, his head against his chest, body across his stomach and arm on his hips. He must have been exhausted, Altaïr thought guiltily, and I forced him to stay awake. Fumbling clumsily around with his sensitive fingers and trying desperately to keep still as to not wake Malik, Altaïr groped awkwardly for the book and set it where he presumed the nightstand was, thinking how angry Malik would be if he woke up to find his book ruined. Carefully, carefully, he folded his strong arms protectively around the short brunette and sighed into his sweet smelling hair, memorising the faint scent of dust and jasmine and parchment.

I may give away everything I have, and even give up my body to be burnt, but if I have no love, this does me no good.

“I have nothing left,” Altaïr whispered into the ear of an oblivious Malik, smiling against the curve of his cartilage, “My body is burnt. But I have my love… so I am content.”


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Paradise Gardens, July 1200

When Malik woke, dressed and left his chambers, he literally crashed into a lurking Altair, who froze, said foolish things and thrust a bedraggled bouquet of half-dead yellow wildflowers at the astonished Master. “Many happy returns,” the assassin muttered self-consciously before stalking off.

Malik looked suspiciously down at the posy of parched weeds to check for thorns, poison sacs or any exotic jungle flowers with jaws and teeth. He was surprised to find none. He was under an obligation to keep them alive, so he poured the stems into a thin necked vase full of tepid water and glared them back to vigorous life again before leaving, very pleased.

None of them can believe Malik had turned thirty. Shula, at the grand age of five decades, spent most of the day drunk and whining to her husband that Malik looked like he just turned twenty, without a single line of grey in his hair or a line on his face. Altaïr, upon hearing this, would have sold his soul in a second to see what Shula was describing. Instead he used the deplorable excuse of blindness to slide his hand down Malik’s arm from the shoulder and to grab for his hand, folding his fingers firmly between his and leading a startled, if not mildly amused, Malik away from the festivities in the fortress to the quiet part of the gardens, overlooking the great waterfalls, cliffs and lakes.

They walked in a comfortable silence, Altaïr remarkably leading the way as he knew the routes of the gardens like the veins on the back of his hands. The two men came to a standstill underneath the fittingly named weeping willow. Malik, ever the obsessive-compulsive one, reached up to pluck an errant leaf out of Altaïr’s hair. Quick as a flash, Altaïr had his friend’s skinny wrist in his grip like eagle claws and brought Malik close to him. So close that they could feel each other’s breath on their lips.

“Al-Sayr,” breathed Altaïr. “It’s been thirteen years. I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Malik wasted no time in delivering a trademark Al-Sayr response: a hard slap across the face.

Of course: Altaïr never saw it coming.

Neither of them ever spoke about their time underneath the weeping willow tree again.


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Master’s Chambers, September 1203

Surprisingly, it was Malik who made the first move. Most unlike him.

Altaïr found him naked, cross legged and waiting on his bed one night, drawing vague patterns in the creases of the bed sheets. He could tell he was naked because he could not hear the rustle of clothes. He was cross legged because he was that shy, or more to the point, was a tease in all aspects of his life. He had been waiting a while because he was quiet and his breathing was patient and Altaïr could hear him turning pages of a book that he theoretically had propped up on his knees.

The first thing Malik said was a soft statement of “I’ve figured it out, Altaïr.”

Altaïr had never heard more wonderful words in his entire life.

When he walked slowly over to his bed and knelt down and cupped Malik’s face in his callused hands, he felt long curls of silky brown hair caress his knuckles and the nape of the one armed assassin’s slender neck. Altaïr released his held breath in one long shudder, his thumbs stroking Malik’s jaw line and face. “You grew your hair out.” He said simply, feeling a knot build up in his chest where his heart hammered fit to burst.

“Well, you did ask me to.” Malik replied smoothly, “A decade ago. I remember these things, Altaïr. I remember a lot more than you think.”

“If I knew a decade ago that this would happen… well.” Altaïr trailed off vaguely, still at a loss for words. Notably, he was still cupping Malik’s face, still idly stroking it: like a lovesick fool, Malik had his hand on top of Altaïr’s, with a small smile on his face, rubbing small circles into his skin soothingly. “If I knew a decade ago I would be sleeping with you, I would have made a lot more demands.” Altaïr mused, a grin flickering on his face like nervous candlelight, just like his old confident swaggering self. “Like harem girls in skimpy outfits and exotic fruit and—”

“Sorry to be such a disappointment.” Malik replied wryly, reached up with his one arm and unbuckled Altaïr’s belt and helpfully aided him in removing his shirt and pants. Inwardly, he was ecstatic that a fragment of the old arrogant, cocky Altaïr that he knew and missed and loved dearly was surfacing yet again. “Now, are you sleeping with me or not?” He asked in a very business-like tone, very crisp, sharp and efficient, gripping Altaïr by the hip and yanking him forward. “I’m very sorry that I’m not in your fantasies but I’m a grumpy, one armed, foolish old man that desperately needs to have some sense fucked into him and, Altaïr, I think you’d be perfect for the job.”

Vintage Malik, thought Altaïr affectionately.

“Let’s see here,” breathed Altaïr as he felt his way onto the bed and carefully straddled Malik’s hips. He leant forward, hands brushing over the smaller man’s ribcage, fingertips running over every contour and pressing his lips to the hollow of Malik’s collarbones. Their noses touched and he felt Malik’s eyelashes flutter shut and his lips smile against Altaïr’s. He had wanted to feel this for nearly fifteen years now. He was so drunk on Al-Sayr’s presence and intoxicated by the mere touch of his skin that he didn’t know how to continue. “I think this is a yes.” Altaïr said quietly.

Altaïr closed his useless eyes as Malik kissed him lightly and gently, pressing his mouth against his softly and making a satisfied humming sound in his throat as Altaïr opened his mouth and made the kiss exquisitely deep and ardent, tongue slipping out to caress the other. Altaïr heard Malik sigh contently into the kiss, his arm wrapping around the other man’s shoulders and drawing him closer so they lay chest to chest. They kissed for a long while, heartbeats in synch, hands buried in each other’s hair, both clandestinely stunned that it was happening at all. The sensation of lovemaking was heightened extraordinarily by Altair’s hypersensitivity to taste and touch and the emotionally charged atmosphere. Altaïr was shamelessly close to tears when Malik pressed gentle butterfly kisses down the burned skin of his face, as if his touch alone could heal them, silk fingertips mapping out the ruined contours and horrifically scarred skin, lips brushing over his mottled eyelids. Altaïr, overwhelmed by this silent act of utter acceptance and love and adoration, staggered mentally and reciprocated in the only way he knew how: his clumsy fingers felt for the stump of the brunette’s amputated arm and he lowered his proud head to lay apologetic kisses against the tanned skin like offerings to primordial gods, with trembling whispers of “forgive me, forgive me” in every breath.

As they lay entwined together in their mutual afterglow, Altair put the situation very succinctly:

“I’m dreaming,” the blind assassin murmured.

Malik seemed to always have an answer.

“I’m flattered,” the one armed assassin replied drowsily.


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Master’s Chambers, May 1213

Some servant had obviously left the window to the bedroom open again, because Altaïr shot awake with the mere sensation of a stray blossom petal grazing his nose. Irritated, he opened his eyes in vain out of pure habit alone and brushed a vexed hand vaguely through the air in front of him as if to dispel any forthcoming audacious plant life. Judging from the startled sounds of liquid birdsong breaking the silence, the mild yellow heat of May sunlight and the slight breeze, it was very early in the morning, barely sunrise. Altair stretched out in bed, hearing bones pop and making satisfied noises as his muscles strained wonderfully. Sometimes, he felt his grand age of forty seven years more often than not, but this was definitely not one of those times. His body had not changed much; seeing as he was no use for academia, Altair had focused primarily on the physical. Thanks to that, his body was as fit as it was twenty years ago. His face, on the other hand… Altair reached up automatically to touch the soft scar tissue on his face. The burns had healed well over time, or so the doctors had told him, and congratulated him on his patience, saying that the scars were faint and barely there, just tracing idle discoloured patterns on his face. Sadly, he could feel frown and smile wrinkles too. Altair smiled wryly. Malik had assured him that he was aging well, shortly before reprimanding him teasingly about the use of vanity to the blind. The grey eyed assassin sighed contemplatively. It had been twenty years exactly since he lost his sight; and twenty years since he had last seen his lover’s face and smile.

Sometimes Altair wondered how he got so fortunate: he had lost his sight but gained Malik. Through the loss of his pride, had love been able to enter his life. Fair trade off, Altair thought and grinned. He truly had changed dramatically: twenty two years ago, he had been miserable and arrogant and would have scoffed in the face of someone who would dare ask him which he would rather have: the ability to see or a steadfast lover. How the mighty have fallen. Altair turned on his shoulder and stretched out an arm to pat on the other side of the bed, looking for Malik. He frowned in disappointment as he felt nothing, not even vague warmth to suggest he had been there recently. He tried to shrug it off, ignoring the pang in his heart. So dependant on him, but Malik said he didn’t mind. God, he was such a good person. He could have gone off with anyone; that beautiful Templar from years ago, any gorgeous woman that walked his way, anyone he wanted… and Malik chose a blind, conceited, hypocritical, emotionally shallow murderer with an ego a mile long.

Even when they were making love, Malik would be so gentle, so thoughtful, that it tugged at Altair’s heartstrings. More and more frequently, the brunette would be dominant, but tenderly, going so slow and steady that Altair would not mind being submissive, rocking into every thrust and groaning softly and feeling Malik’s lips at his ear, whispering beautiful things and nipping and licking. There was one time when they were making love in the darkness, Altair on his back and Malik impaled from the front, chest to chest and occasionally kissing, tongues darting out to wet each other’s lips, when the brunette whispered ‘Altair’ fervently, name drawn out in pure ecstasy as he came and the assassin moaned quietly and spilled inside his lover, panting. Malik just sat there, straddling his hips, gasping for air and revelling in that perfect moment, with seed pooling at Altair’s hip bones and sweat dripping off both of them. Malik, following a decade’s worth of tradition, stooped down to kiss Altair’s scars, pressing his lips lovingly against the damaged tissue, but broke the ritual by murmuring “I love you” to the elder assassin. Stunned, Altair could only whisper those beautiful three words back to him, convinced that he would remember that one night until his dying day.

They rarely fought anymore. Any insults or derogatory names were either for show or affectionate. To use the old cliché, they were older and wiser. The Altair and Malik in their twenties would never believe it would happen. That thought made Altair smile and snort softly in amusement.

“1 Corinthians, Verse 13:” He quoted out loud, from memory. “Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs; love is not happy with evil, but it is happy with the truth. Love never gives up; and its faith, hope and patience never fail.”

Altair harrumphed. He was not one for religious conviction – which was ironically hilarious seeing as he had to follow a “creed” of his own, after all - but whoever wrote the Bible certainly had a good grip on what made humans tick. So why did they have to build a religion around it again…?

The assassin swung himself out of the sheets and felt carefully around for his clothes, putting them on with care, before walking out of the chambers. His sensitive ears were not picking up much activity, save for a lone servant dutifully tidying up Malik’s uncharacteristically disorganised office. Normally, things were colour coded; now it was like a tornado had gone through it. Altair cleared his throat twice so that the servant shot up and gibbered a polite “good morning, sah”. Sheaths of parchment were clasped in the servant’s trembling hands, crinkling nervously. Altair lamented inwardly. He was forty seven now. He had not killed anyone in years and he was sure that everyone had forgotten that one time he had thrown that servant boy out of the window because he asked him where his cane was. “Oh, calm yourself,” Altair said irritably, “I was just wondering where Malik was.”

The servant had to pause and think before coming to the conclusion that Malik equalled the Master (and had done for twenty two years now) and brightened up. “Oh, the Master left very early this morning. He said he was going out for a short walk… uh… and that was about three hours ago,” the man said sheepishly. Altair’s stomach constricted in anxiety. “Why do you ask, sah?”

“Was there anything strange with his behaviour?”

“…he spent ages on a letter that he was writing. He gave it to me for safekeeping, but it’s sealed shut with the Master’s mark. It’s addressed to you.” The servant elaborated. “And, uh… does crying his eyes out count as strange behaviour? Because he does that quite often.”

Something snapped. “Why does no one tell me these things?!” shouted Altair in frustration, “Christ, that could have been a suicide note for all you know, idiot, hand it over now!” Fury and fear had clouded his ability to think rationally and the servant actually whimpered, before ripping out a letter from his pocket and stuffing it into the blind assassin’s waiting and outstretched hands. Altair grit his teeth in satisfaction as he heard the servant run for safety down the corridor, before going cold with a horrible realisation. What use was a sealed letter to a man who couldn’t even read it?

“Fuck!” Altair screamed feverishly, crumpling the letter into a ball in his hand.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He crashed his clenched fist against a stone pillar, sending jolts of tight hot pain up his bones and muscles. “Why am I so fucking useless?!” Too proud to call the servant back, he stormed over to where Malik’s desk was and slammed the letter down onto it, agitatedly flattening the creases out of it and tearing apart the red wax seal, which he knew without seeing had the wildcat’s insignia on it. Altair started futilely down at the letter, tracing over the ink reverently. “Come on…” The assassin muttered desperately. “Come on, Malik, you wouldn’t do this to me… you wouldn’t, not after twenty years, you wouldn’t, would you? Please, don’t do this to me, please.”

And here Altair Ibn La-Ahad was, begging to a piece of paper. The assassin bowed his head. So much for his supposed pride. “This doesn’t make sense.” Altair said. “Malik’s clever. Why would he lie to a servant saying he’s just going out and not return for hours? Why does he address a letter to a blind man? He doesn’t make mistakes like that. Unless there’s a reason to it, of course…”

Altair stared blankly down at the paper, before his vacant eyes narrowed. “Fucking… words.” He hissed,  “I knew they’d be my downfall one day.” He sat down and breathed out shakily. “It’s a test.” Altair said out loud. “It must be.” He fell into a pensive silence. The assassin leant forward, burying his face in his hands and resting his elbows on the desk, squeezing his empty eyes shut. “If this is a suicide letter,” He said miserably, mumbling incoherently, “He would be dead by now. Maybe it’s his resignation… maybe it’s him leaving me. Maybe it’s nothing. But I can’t possibly know. Come on, Malik, please don’t do this to me, stop taunting me, stop playing mind games with me, I know it’s what you’re good at, but, Christ, please don’t do it to me again.”

Altair rested his forehead against the paper, eyes still closed, as if wishing the words to seep through his skull and into his mind. “Come on, come on, come on, I can read this, I can read this, I can’t read this, don’t be stupid, yes, I can read this, come on,” He chanted underneath his breath, “It’s for Malik, it’s for Malik, I’d walk on water for Malik, I’d dance on the surface of the sun for Malik, I’d cut off an arm for Malik, so why can’t I read this God damned letter for him?!” Altair roared, his eyes snapping open and flashing as he smashed his fists down on the desk.

Malik had once read the Bible’s Genesis to him. Altair knew it off by heart. Then God commanded “Let there be light” – and light appeared. Altair had found it amusingly convenient at the time and had called it a deus ex machina.

There was light regardless.

Altair stood there, panting, eyes wide, pupils contracted in clear grey eyes, shocked black circles in pools of silver. Blurry light was reflecting kaleidoscopes of colour on his eyelashes but he dared not blink them away. In that blissful minute twenty years ago, the world had been an indistinct watercolour, but this time, the colours were too bright, too strong, too powerful, too intense. The once mild yellow of the candlelight flickering in a bracket on the desk was now a vivid flaming topaz. The Assassin flags draped from the ceiling were like drooping brilliant white and pure angel wings with bright scarlet emblems splattered on them like blood. The sky in the window opposite him was ferociously azure and burning blue and the sunlight seared his fragile eyes like a god’s divine brilliance. It was like stumbling onto the world at its creation, when the earth was clean and pure and untouched.

Staggering like a drunkard, Altair raised his hands slowly to his face, trembling, probing his healed eyelids tenderly, scarcely daring to believe it. He tilted his head to the left, indulging in this miracle and saw pages of parchment pinned to the walls, fluttering in the breeze. There were reams and reams of script in Malik’s handwriting; some letters, some poetry, some finished, some barely started, some quotes from books, some diary entries, some messy, some neat and all addressed to Altair himself. The dates ranged from the year 1193 to a few days ago. Twenty years of writing that Malik wrote with the hopes of Altair reading them one day.

“1 Corinthians, Verse 13…” Altair leaned closer to one, whispering the words to himself as his brain eagerly began recognising the nearly forgotten English language. “Love is eternal. There are inspired messages, but these are just temporary; there are gifts of speaking in strange tongues but they will cease; there is knowledge, but it will pass. For our gifts of knowledge and of inspired messages are only partial; but when what is perfect comes, then what is partial will disappear. Meanwhile, these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.”

Altair Ibn La Ahad stared and stared and stared. Then he shamelessly began to weep.

He fell to his knees, tears shining on his face and dropped his eyes to look at Malik’s letter.

There were only two words on it, in the brunette’s unique languid curly italics.

Well done.