Chapter Text
Put the tip of your blade here ...
The whisper was constant in the depths of his mind. An inescapable reminder of the lessons drilled into his very marrow from years-long repetition.
Now... push -
His arm jerked forward without even a moment's thought or hesitation. Automatic. He almost wasn't aware of doing it.
- hard and fast. That's the way, Altaïr... Always make sure you're quick and efficient. Kill before they even have a chance. He could still feel the large hands on either one of his shoulders and the breath against his neck as he pulled his blade free.
"Altaïr!" Malik hissed in outrage as the old man fell to the ground, a bleeding mass of flesh. Already dead. Quick and efficient. Just as he'd been taught. Altaïr blinked under his hood, not entirely sure what Malik's problem was this time . The man always seemed to have some sort of problem with what Altaïr did. "We do not kill innocents!"
"He would have screamed and sounded the alarm," Altaïr said. Really, it was obvious. One couldn't be seen if there was nobody alive to do it. True, it was technically against one of those tenants that the others went on about, but Altaïr couldn't help but find that excuse flimsy at best. Who in this world was genuinely innocent anyway? Children, he supposed, but Altaïr couldn't imagine a situation in which a child would be in his way. Malik brought up the Creed far more often than Al Mualim did, and Altaïr found it an annoying hindrance. There were always exceptions to the Creed. He'd been given plenty of examples of them over the years by Al Mualim himself.
Malik was visibly angry with him, but Altaïr still had no idea why. Killing the man broke one rule to preserve another, after all. Instead of fighting, he ignored the situation (he didn't understand it anyway) and continued. They had a task to do, and Altaïr loathed failure. He wouldn't miss the window of opportunity. He could not miss it. He had refused to suffer the consequences of failure since he was a child.
Altaïr ran through the plan in his head as they slipped through the tunnels. Altaïr could handle this himself, really, but he'd been given unnecessary help, so he would do as he was told and adjust his methods as best he could. He didn't like it, though. He worked best alone.
As he skipped over gaps in the tunnel, Altaïr focused on the task ahead of him. Altaïr would be the distraction, Malik would sneak through to get the treasure, and Kadar... well, honestly, Altaïr wasn't sure why he was even here. He wasn't needed. Altaïr could handle this, and Malik could cover any unforeseen circumstances. Kadar was a possible liability. But Al Mualim had been clear so Altaïr would figure out something for the young Assassin to do. Perhaps he could be a lookout.
As they reached the meeting place and Altaïr actually saw the situation before him, he frowned. There were more people than anticipated, and the one in charge was no ordinary guard. He held himself like a seasoned warrior. Robert de Sablé. Not that Altaïr was worried. He'd never met anyone that could best him. Still, a rapid recalculation took place in his head. Altaïr would focus solely on Robert. Malik would handle the other guards, and Kadar would snatch the treasure while everyone else was distracted. Then, they would make their way out. It wasn't subtle, but there wasn't enough cover to do anything more clandestine. Especially not where the lights were placed in the room.
Plan in place, Altaïr jumped down from his perch. The fact that he didn't voice even a single of those thoughts aloud to the others never occurred to him as he crossed the room to engage one of the order's most hated enemies. Altaïr heard Malik hiss his name, but it was far too late to change tactics. Plus, he jumped down only a moment later, so Altaïr figured it was fine.
It was around that point that everything went wrong...
Altaïr came to consciousness with a groan of pain. He knocked the various bits of rubble away as he pushed himself upright. His head was throbbing from where it hit the wall, and Altaïr took a moment to cradle it in his hand. He pushed his hood back to feel the back of his head. Altaïr's fingers brushed the bump immediately, and a bit of stickiness in his hair. His skull had cracked pretty hard, so that wasn't surprising. Still unpleasant, though. Altaïr pulled his hand away and cursed at the red on his fingers before pulling his hood back on and getting up. Luckily, he didn't seem to be bleeding badly, and the cowl was double-lined, so it probably wouldn't show through. Hopefully. Blood seeping through the Assassin's garb was always a dead giveaway, both for enemies to attack and for other Assassins to know something had gone wrong. Plus, it stained, and Altaïr really couldn't stand that. It took hours to get blood out of the white fabric.
Looking at the blocked wall that he'd come through, Altaïr thought that perhaps he could hear fighting on the other side. That was hard to tell for sure, though, because his ears were ringing from the impact he'd taken. Altaïr reached out to the wall. He pushed and pulled at several spots, but it was all firmly wedged together. He couldn't get back.
Despite the horrible throbbing in his head and the strange double vision that would come and go as he rode his horse, Altaïr rushed back to report what had happened. He had no idea how long he was unconscious; he didn't think too long, but there was no way to tell. There was no time to waste. Altaïr had no desire to admit that things had gone badly, but Altaïr didn't lie. Especially not to his Master.
The trip back to Masyaf was a blur, but Altaïr didn't dare stop. Not even when he had to muscle his way through his wavering vision and aching skull. The ringing in his ears had at least faded after a while. He also didn't have too many other bodily aches and pains. Considering he went through a wall, Altaïr was surprised he seemed to mostly get away unscathed. He hoped the brothers had as well. Though without any sign of them, it didn't look promising.
Things only proceeded to go from bad to worse as Altaïr returned to Masyaf. Al Mualim was angry, as Altaïr knew he would be. Still, Altaïr was somewhat taken aback by the exceedingly long list of reasons that were given. Al Mualim had never said such things to Altaïr before. The opposite, in fact. He usually praised Altaïr for thinking outside of restrictions to ensure his task was completed.
Altaïr was glad to see Malik had survived... for about a half-second because the other Assassin immediately started yelling. Altaïr wasn't fond of loud noises. Never had been. And he was even less happy to be the one being shouted at. Bad enough that his Master was already scolding him, but now Malik was as well. Altaïr couldn't entirely stop himself from yelling back, which should have proved to them how upset he truly was since he didn't do that. He only got out a few sentences in his own defense before they were interrupted.
Robert de Sablé had found them. Altaïr knew he hadn't been followed. It was far more likely Malik had been. But Altaïr wouldn't argue the assumption that the others made at the moment. There were other matters far more pressing.
There was still a pervasive pounding behind his eyes as Altaïr fought all of the invaders. He nearly lost his balance as he looked down off the platform he was supposed to leap from, and the world swayed, but he was confident in his abilities and blindly jumped. He was glad he hadn't broken his leg like the other brother had. Then, it was a simple enough matter to let loose the logs that were poised over the rest of the invading force, sending the survivors scattering.
Altaïr's head was really becoming far too painful. He hadn't stopped to rest at all or check his head more than that cursory first touch. He felt as if his skull was ripped open, and his eyes would pop right out of his sockets, there was so much pressure. More and more often, his vision was wavering. And yet, there still wasn't time to rest because Al Mualim immediately started in on him again.
After everything that had happened and the pain still pulsing in his head, Altaïr found himself trying to defend himself from accusations that didn't even make sense. Al Mualim was going on and on about the Creed for the first time that Altaïr could remember. Al Mualim had barely ever mentioned the Creed, not even before they had begun their special private lessons. He implied it was a flexible sort of guideline rather than hard rules. And then he accused Altaïr of being a traitor when Al Mualim, of all people, knew how loyal Altaïr was . Altaïr's Master demanded nothing less than absolute loyalty, and Altaïr had given it. He always had given it. He followed orders, even when he didn't understand them. Even when following commands gave him pain.
Altaïr tried to pull himself free of the two Assassins holding him, but it was more difficult than he imagined it would be. He didn't like to be touched. He would stay there even without their help. He had nothing to hide or run from. Altaïr just wanted to be let go and stop being yelled at!
He saw the flash of the dagger, and he felt the searing pain in his ribs. He let out a noise of pain. Behind Al Mualim, he saw a brief glimmer of golden light that burned his already blurring vision just before everything went dark.
Altaïr was surprised to feel himself coming around. He had been sure he was going to die when he felt the blade slip between his bones. But he wasn't. He felt weak and shaky, but surprisingly good despite that. None of his limbs were restrained, which was also quite shocking. Altaïr opened his eyes and felt something in his chest freeze with an unfamiliar feeling. Fear.
There was nothing in front of him.
Misty black smoke that swirled dark and impenetrable was all he could see.
Altaïr lifted a hand to his face but found nothing was over his eyes. He could feel himself blinking, but there was very little difference between them open or closed. A low noise escaped his throat as he sat up on what felt like a thin cushioning of straw. His eyes moved back and forth, and he realized there was a slight definition. Not much, but he could see that he was in a small room. A cell, really. Slowly, the fog cleared until he could make out the room's door. There was still definitely something wrong with his eyes, though.
The world was so much darker than it should be. And the straw beneath Altaïr's body was drained of color. Just like the stones. Blue-greys and blacks with a haze over everything.
Before Altaïr could process much else except for the fact that his vision was so terrifyingly incorrect, he heard footsteps coming near. There was the rattle of keys, and then the door opened. Altaïr could really only tell it had from the sound of the hinges and the very slight change in color of the wood moving away. The ever so minor way that the room became a touch easier to see as Altaïr assumed some light got in.
Then, a silhouette of a hooded figure stepped into the already dark opening. "You're up," an only vaguely familiar voice said. Altaïr recognized it as another Assassin, but he couldn't place who, and the near blackness of his form meant Altaïr couldn't even guess based on facial features. (Not that he was particularly good at that either, but that wasn't the point.) "Al Mualim has said you are to be brought to him as soon as you waken."
Half of Altaïr wanted to demand answers, but the other half was wary of asking too many questions and revealing he couldn't see correctly. Altaïr wasn't dead yet, but he didn't know the conditions of that. He needed to figure out what was going on before he admitted to seeing mostly shadows instead of full pictures like he saw before he passed out. "Come on," the Assassin at the door said impatiently.
Altaïr got to his feet. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Two days. You took your time. Let's go."
Altaïr hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. Luckily, it seemed as if his depth perception was still mostly intact. The floor was how far he thought it was when he put his foot down. Altaïr didn't rush, though, trying to place where he was despite lacking so much detail of his surroundings. The other Assassin seemed impatient, but Altaïr barely paid him any mind. It would be far worse if Altaïr tripped over something or ran into a wall because it was hard to see.
The hallway stretched out in front of him and only got darker and more impossible to see. Shadows moving in the dark fog, he guessed, were people going about their business. It was impossible to tell how far the hallway went with the strange veil over his vision. He couldn't even tell where in the fortress he was yet. The corridor wasn't distinct enough, especially without him being able to see the finer details of the stonework.
Every time they passed a window, Altaïr could see a little bit further and clearer around them from the increase in light. Perhaps out in the open, his eyes could figure out what he was looking at. And most hopefully, his vision would go back to normal. He remained silent as they walked, and then they reached some stairs. Altaïr couldn't help but be apprehensive but tried not to show it as he followed the guide upwards.
The stairs were disorienting. More so than Altaïr thought that they would be. His balance still felt slightly compromised. He was glad when he reached the top of the narrow staircase with only a few scuffs from his shoes that his guide didn't seem to notice. They stepped outside, and although Altaïr was momentarily blinded by the light, he adjusted and was able to see better than before. It still wasn't right by any means, but he could see more definition.
As they walked further and further from what Altaïr now realized were the holding cells near the back of the fortress, they started coming across more people. The majority were all shadowy dark figures with little definition. But, on occasion, some flared up with an almost blinding intensity. Red and blue and white as bright as stars right in front of his eyes. He had always associated colors with different types of people, but this felt somehow felt a little... more. Even clearer than he'd ever had it in his mind before, because this time, it was a literal color he could see.
Altaïr didn't understand what was happening, and that made his heart thunder out impossibly loud in his chest. He was sure that the others could hear it, but they said nothing. Perhaps they were just trying to be polite? That seemed unlikely. Especially with the flashes of red that he could see among those who were supposed to be his brothers. Red was always a danger in his mind.
He was brought to his Master, was publicly and humiliatingly stripped of every rank, and then berated again. It was only through years of practice that Altaïr was able to not react. Well, not much. He couldn't entirely stop trying to explain himself, but he was forever horrendous at that. Al Mualim seemed as unamused with his words as he always was, and Altaïr did his best to bite his tongue. Talking back would end as poorly as it ever did.
Al Mualim didn't want to listen, so Altaïr didn't speak. And he certainly didn't bring up the wrongness of his eyesight. Al Mualim had never liked it when Altaïr made any mention of injuries or confusion. He had threatened more than once to put Altaïr on different duties if he wasn't up to standards. Altaïr didn't know how much further he could fall in his Master's eyes, but he wasn't looking forward to finding out. Eventually, the only remaining punishment would be death.
So, Altaïr hid it. The darkness and the blinding flashes of color. The way his head would ache to unbearable levels. More than once, while he sought to slowly relearn skills he should know but strangely couldn't remember, he had been reduced to a quivering mess in some dark corner -brought low as his eyesight failed him entirely and his head was filled with red-hot knives. Altaïr quickly learned to recognize when the pain was imminent. It would start behind his eyes a faint throb when he tried to use them too much- and then it would spread. If he didn't stop immediately upon feeling that throbbing, then he would be in agony in under half an hour. Oftentimes, he had to use that half an hour to find a rooftop garden or out-of-the-way alley to hide in.
It took days to do what should have taken mere hours. He was slow now, not trusting his own body as much as he once did. Altaïr had fallen multiple times when he misjudged distances or the strength of a bit of roof he was looking to land on. And then, of course, he found he could barely work at all at night. The dark of night made his own vision even worse, and the brief flares of color from people -that still sometimes startled him if he were honest- were not enough to do what he needed.
Days turned to weeks, and Altaïr still didn't mention his eyes. That would be foolish. Like exposing a wound to an enemy. Altaïr didn't like thinking of his brothers that way, but he had seen those flares of red all around him when he was released from his cell. Altaïr wasn't in the habit of ignoring those sorts of mental warnings. So Altaïr hid it, which was not easy. He quickly learned he couldn't put his hood down -his eyes weren't focused properly, and the others would notice, and Altaïr had no good excuses since he didn't drink and didn't want to hint as to the real cause.
The bright colors filling people were painful to look directly at, so he couldn't do it for long. Therefore, he also stayed further back from people when talking to them, keeping them from realizing that he didn't look at them. Luckily, Altaïr had never been good at the eye contact thing, so that was something the others dismissed easily. When he was resting, even if he wasn't asleep, he would keep his eyes closed. It helped keep the headaches at bay. The few times he had been caught doing that, Altaïr had been accused of falling back into 'old arrogant habits' or not caring, which Altaïr couldn't actually defend against without spilling his secret. He was always paying attention, but they didn't believe that.
Still, Altaïr did his best to adjust. He found out just how long he could push his eyes before the pain would start. He found the best places, quietest and darkest, to hide when he was brought to a sobbing mess from the pain. He even went to doctors as discreetly as he could. The ones furthest from any bureaus that asked no questions and little money. None of them could explain his vision or tell him if it would get any better. Some sold him things for the pain but put him out of commission for the rest of the day. Altaïr also got injured more often now that his vision was wrong, and he had to hide those, too. Cuts and scrapes, bruises, and sprains; he had even broken bones, which he hadn't gotten in years previously. Luckily, most of the bones were ribs or fingers, which was nothing anyone else would notice.
Altaïr was proud of himself for managing to halfway memorize the cities he travelled in again with his eyes as they were. And even more proud of actually killing his targets. Especially since he had to try and work with one of his senses nearly crippled. Nobody had caught on either, which was an odd mix of good and upsetting. Altaïr didn't think he was that good at acting, but nobody had figured out he couldn't see correctly. Even Al Mualim, who knew him best of all, had not noticed that Altaïr had not actually walked away unscathed from the fight in the tomb.
And then Altaïr came to Jerusalem.
He hadn't thought much about it. Just another target to kill to try and earn back his scraps of respect. His eyes were bothering him more than usual, but Altaïr ignored them at least until he got to the bureau. He needed to get that far before he gave himself a rest. He didn't remember enough about the city to find anywhere else that was safe with how different it all looked. His vision was already blurring, and his eyes aching like they did before the pain hit, so Altaïr knew he couldn't go out that afternoon. He would be useless soon enough, so leaving safety would be a bad idea.
When he dropped down from the roof, however, Altaïr was greeted by someone he hadn't thought he'd encounter again. At least, not so soon. Malik had always had a vicious tongue, and now he had absolutely no reason to hold back. Altaïr didn't even blame him for it, but his head was starting to ache more with each passing moment, and he just wanted to escape.
When Malik had finally finished talking and had dismissed him, Altaïr found himself a seat in the darkest corner he could and closed his eyes. "What are you doing?" Malik demanded.
Altaïr tried not to be annoyed, but that was hard when his head was throbbing. "Resting," he answered, purely because if he didn't say something, Malik would pester him.
Malik almost seemed to sputter. "Resting? It's barely midday!"
"... I'm aware," Altaïr said as evenly as he could. The pain was only getting worse, even though his eyes were closed. He could feel it like a dagger slowly pushing deeper into his skull.
"I've considered you many things over the years, Novice , but this laziness is beyond even you. Get up and perform your tasks," Malik snapped with no small amount of authority.
Altaïr forced himself to take a slow breath even though it didn't help much. "I'll leave soon." If he had some peace and quiet, he might be functional again in perhaps an hour. If he got lucky. Malik let out a noise of frustration but thankfully went back to whatever he was doing at his desk with only mutterings.
Malik's displeasure was palpable, and sooner than he wanted or was really capable of, Altaïr decided to spare them both his presence in the bureau. He waited until he was pretty certain he heard Malik go into the backroom before getting up unsteadily and leaving. The sun was like a million needles in his skull, but he ignored it as best he could and clumsily climbed up and out of the safety of the bureau.
Altaïr was a stumbling mess that almost fell off a clothesline but caught himself at the last moment. He managed to find a rooftop garden to take refuge in for what little that was worth. The crippling pain he was fighting against swept him under the tide, and he was left whimpering and trembling under the inadequate protection of the cloth canopy. By the time the ache had faded enough that Altaïr felt he could function, it was dark, and he couldn't see enough to be useful anyway. So he gave into the exhaustion brought on by pain and slept in the cold of the garden. Not ideal, but what else could he really do? It had been made clear he wasn't meant to use the bureau yet.
He spent the next day remembering how the city was laid out and figuring out where the best dark places to hide were. As night began to fall, Altaïr was tempted to go back to the safety of the bureau where he'd at least not be sleeping in the streets or a garden. But, facing Malik was uncomfortable, so he didn't. Altaïr didn't know how to deal with that. Avoidance was the only thing he could think of doing. Still, he would have liked a bed...
Do not be so weak, Altaïr, Al Mualim would say. You do not need bedding. The room is safe and secure, so sleep. I will wake you at dawn, whether you have been asleep for a few minutes or a few hours. One day you'll be glad for these lessons.
Altaïr had dutifully learned how to sleep in a cold, empty room just as easily as a comfortable bed, and he'd used that skill frequently over the years. He still wasn't sure if he was glad for the lesson, though. He never slept well, and he'd discovered since his injury that a miserable night's sleep made his head hurt more frequently the next day. But Altaïr pushed past that to focus on his task.
Despite his best efforts, it took Altaïr a further two days in the city to gather the information Malik had required before he'd allow the assassination. When Altaïr reported to him, Malik had been quite clearly (even to Altaïr) aggravated. "What has taken you so long?" Malik demanded. The colors around him were sparking red in a way that made Altaïr want to gouge his eyes out. Colors didn't usually flicker different colors like that, and Altaïr didn't like it. "Are you really so incompetent that you cannot even do simple reconnaissance yourself in a timely manner?"
Altaïr tried to not cringe and remain blank. That was always the safest for him in the past. Not reacting usually limited Al Mualim's displeasure. But it was hard. Malik's words and tone and, well, everything about him currently hurt. Altaïr wasn't incompetent. He knew he wasn't. But he still hadn't gotten entirely used to his new limitations. He'd fallen from a roof just on the way back and was pretty certain he'd sprained his ankle upon landing. It throbbed with each beat of his heart, but Altaïr wouldn't let onto that. Never revealing discomfort was drilled into him as entirely as which ribs to slide his blade between. He never let anyone know he was in pain or any form that wasn't peak after Al Mualim's training sessions or punishments, and he wouldn't do so now.
Malik was still snapping and snarling, but Altaïr wasn't listening to the words so much as the tone. He would stop at some point. Altaïr just had to hold out until he did, and then he could go curl up somewhere and process. Hopefully, somewhere quiet and peaceful.
"Novice!"
Altaïr flinched despite himself. He hadn't been called that in that disapproving tone in a very long time. He hadn't been ready for it. Not in the least. Altaïr forced himself back to the present and tried to meet Malik's eyes like he knew was expected. "... what is the matter with you?" Malik asked, sounding odd. Altaïr hadn't heard that tone from Malik before and didn't know what to call it.
"Nothing's the matter," Altaïr answered. Really, Altaïr never understood why anyone asked that question. An assassin really only had one answer to give. They weren't supposed to admit to weakness, after all.
There was an awkward silence that Altaïr had no idea what to do with. He was never good with this sort of thing. Was he supposed to... do something? Ask the question back? Probably not... right?
Malik finally huffed. "You look like a mess. Rest here and go in the morning," he finally decreed.
Altaïr nodded, unable to quite stop his shoulders from slumping in relief. He didn't know how much more shouting he could have handled. Although, thankfully, Malik wasn't as loud as Al Mualim could get. Altaïr found the corner he'd used before, and though it wasn't as quiet and dark as he'd like, it was infinitely better than outside. Altaïr closed his eyes and tried to relax without letting on to the fact that he felt like he might start trembling. For now, he could hold back the urge, but Altaïr wasn't sure for how long.
Altaïr was usually a light sleeper, but several nights on the streets led to him managing the whole night uninterrupted. Malik was not any more friendly in the morning. Still, it was lucky that Altaïr had learned not to expect friendliness in the morning really anywhere. When Malik handed over the feather, he was oddly quiet about it. Altaïr wasn't sure why but got the tingling feeling down the back of his neck that meant someone was watching him. He assumed it was Malik, though what he'd done to get such intense scrutiny, Altaïr couldn't begin to fathom. Nobody else had found anything worth scrutinizing about him lately. Aside from his somewhat lacking performance that he was desperately trying to mask as best he could.
Still, Altaïr wasn't about to ask. Asking would admit to noticing the staring, which would reveal there is a cause, which Altaïr couldn't do. Focusing on the target was a better plan. So, that was what he would do. Altaïr matched the pace of some scholars to make things easier for himself. He would risk running the roofs when he was in a bigger hurry. Right now, feeling the close presence of other people around him that he knew wasn't a threat felt like a cushion of safety that was almost comfortable. (Never entirely so because they would bump and nudge him, and Altaïr couldn't quite fight the urge to pull into himself each time that happened. Strangers touching him was the worst thing ever).
Altaïr had briefly considered poisoning his blade or smuggling something into his target's drink. But that was discarded as an option. Altaïr had no idea why , but they weren't allowed to use poison. It made no sense. Altaïr had been taught extensively by Al Mualim what all sorts of drugs and poisons did. Altaïr could identify some toxins smell alone because he had ingested them so many times in the past. Altaïr knew some were very deadly in the right doses. And with how unsure he was of his own skills at the moment, poisoning would be a safer method for him. But. He wasn't allowed...
So, Altaïr pushed down the urge to make things safer and easier for himself. He was able to get into position by taking his time and being probably overly cautious. His target glowed bright gold in his damaged eyes to the point it made tears build up. Altaïr tried to not look directly at the man, but he had to know where he was to kill him.
The kill went smoothly enough, but someone saw him. Who, Altaïr wasn't even sure, but chaos erupted, and he was forced to run across the rooftops. People were chasing him, and guards speckled around were quick to try and kill him. Altaïr could see the flashes of red all around, and he pushed himself harder. He wasn't entirely sure he was running the right way back to the bureau, but Altaïr certainly couldn't stop to get his bearings.
Pain slammed into Altaïr's side, and he stumbled hard. He hit the ground and rolled, more pain erupting as the shaft of the arrow sticking out of his body snapped off. Altaïr grunted but forced his feet under him again and tried to regain his pace. Each right step was a searing agony, but he pushed that down and focused only on where he was going. He knew there was a cart of hay just past the roof up ahead. Altaïr glanced behind him. A wall of violent red forms was following, and he mentally cursed.
Without a pause to even try and see if he had safety below, Altaïr leapt. Luckily, he was good about remembering where safe spots were and landed deep in the hay. A few quick motions had the dried grasses settled across all of him, and Altaïr held still. His lungs were burning, and he felt hot, sticky liquid seeping into his clothing around where his side was throbbing.
Altaïr closed his eyes and forced his heart to stop pounding so hard in his chest. Wrapping an arm around himself, Altaïr gently prodded the arrow wound. He could still feel the end of the wooden shaft sticking just a little bit out of his skin, flush with the leather of his belt. Fresh hot blood was gushing from beneath his belt, which was very worrisome. Altaïr continued his careful sightless examination. He could feel the arrowhead just under the skin, so it was thankfully not too deep. But, if he removed it, Altaïr feared the bleeding would worsen.
The bells ringing throughout the city eventually fell silent again, and Altaïr realized he should probably get moving. Sweat had built up over his skin, and Altaïr felt his hands shaking. He needed to get the wound treated and fast. He had no idea how long he'd been lying there in the hay, but it was probably too long.
Altaïr pushed the pain out of his mind with the skill born of long practice and hopped as best he could out of the cart. He knew that the white of his robes would be stained (he could feel the wetness seeping down from under his belt), so he tried to adjust his sash to at least somewhat disguise it. It was a painful thing to try, and Altaïr wasn't sure it worked at all. His ability to see colors was limited to the strange, full-bodied glows that he now got. Once his sash was shifted around his waist, Altaïr started walking. He had to figure out where he'd run to. He'd been too preoccupied to keep track while actually fleeing the guards.
A doctor would be best, but Altaïr would settle for the bureau or even one of his hiding spots. He had started keeping some medical supplies in a few places scattered where doctors weren't a common sight or were too expensive. Altaïr didn't get much money anymore to burn through by getting proper medical treatment. Altaïr tried to ignore the tearing, burning sensation from his wound as he walked, but it was hard. He had to fight the urge to put a hand to his side, especially as he felt sticky blood continuing to drip down his side and seep into his pants. He was bleeding far too much.
After a few minutes of walking, Altaïr finally got his bearings. Though the doctor was his preference, he was closer to the bureau. He would have to just endure Malik. Maybe he wouldn't be so angry now that he had the feather proving his success. Altaïr was aware that wasn't especially likely, but he hoped anyway.
Climbing up the side of the bureau was enough to almost make Altaïr fall. His already dark vision was spotted with pure black, but he was getting better at climbing blindly, so he didn't fall. Altaïr understood the reason there were no ground-level entrances to bureaus. However, it was still horrible in situations like this. Altaïr reached the roof and had to pause to catch his breath. Sweat dripped from his face, and his whole body was now shaking despite his efforts. His tongue felt swollen, and his thinking muddied. Altaïr could feel blood all down his side and clinging unpleasantly to his hands. Absently, he hoped that he hadn't left a blood trail right to the bureau, but he couldn't see to be able to tell. At least he just had to get inside, and then he could get the arrowhead out and the wound treated. Malik could close up the bureau to protect it if need be.
Altaïr took another minute to try and catch his breath before shifting across the roof to the trellis-covered entrance. The gate was opened, and Altaïr lowered himself as carefully as possible. Unfortunately, his bloody hand was slick, and he dropped a few moments before he meant to. He landed hard and with a grunt of pain but was glad he hadn't face-planted. Altaïr put his hand to his side again as he struggled to his feet. "Novice! Do you not know how to be silent?" Malik demanded. "The entire city was on high alert! And now-" Malik abruptly shut up as Altaïr made his way to where he saw darkness. Though his side was more pressing, his head was throbbing as well, and being inside would only help. "You're bleeding."
"I know," Altaïr said. Did Malik think him so stupid he didn't realize that? Altaïr almost sighed as he entered the slightly cooler interior of the bureau office and went towards the corner he favored. It was out of the way and dark, although far from the medical supplies. That was fine, though. Altaïr could make do as he had before.
"Novice. I keep the bandages under the counter," Malik said, sounding annoyed.
"I know," Altaïr said again. Why did Malik always feel he had to state the obvious? Although Altaïr was a Novice again, it wasn't as if he'd never done this before.
Altaïr shed his belt and sash before awkwardly removing his robes and the shirt beneath. It hurt to pull everything off with the arrow in his side, but Altaïr did his best to not let out noises of pain. He wasn't entirely successful, but he managed to be quiet about the whimpers and groans that escaped. With the heavy and now most likely ruined clothing gone, Altaïr rested his burning forehead against the cool stone wall to recover from the effort it had taken. His breathing, he noticed, was shallow, and his head felt as if filled with sand. He'd lost too much blood and really needed to stem the loss.
Altaïr felt a hand suddenly on his sweat-slick shoulder, and he jumped. "Stay still, Novice," Malik ordered. Altaïr wanted to protest, but turning would show his damaged eyes, and Malik was too close to hope he wouldn't notice. So, instead, he just nodded and tried to stay as still as possible as Malik's hand moved down his back to his wounded side. At least Malik stayed several inches closer to Altaïr's spine and didn't prod the wound too much. "At least it's not deep. Your belt probably saved you."
"Probably," Altaïr muttered. He was trembling still, and he wasn't sure if that was from the pain or the strangeness of having someone touching his bare skin. So few people had ever done that. Altaïr wasn't sure how to react. It would probably be best to just do as Malik ordered and stay still. Following orders usually ended up... if not happily, at least without punishment after.
"You weren't thinking of doing this yourself, were you?" Malik asked, his voice oddly disapproving, though Altaïr couldn't place why. Surely, Malik didn't want to patch Altaïr of all people up. Not sure how to respond to the question, Altaïr fell back to silence. Being silent was safer than saying something wrong. Malik gave a noise of exasperation, and his fingers touched the outside edge of the angry, blood-slick wound. Altaïr couldn't help the hiss of pain it caused. "On three. One, two-"
Altaïr choked on his gasp of pain as Malik pulled the arrowhead out almost before he'd finished saying 'two' rather than after three. Malik tossed the bit of bloody metal onto the ground beside them and then took a rag to mop up Altaïr's blood. Altaïr closed his eyes again and tried to even out his breathing. He understood the idea behind what Malik had done, even if he didn't appreciate it. Altaïr was perfectly capable of not tensing before pain. He'd had plenty of practice. "Lay down. I'll need to stitch this, and I can't do that with you leaning over like this," Malik said.
Altaïr wanted to protest but was honestly too tired to bother when he knew he probably wouldn't win anyway. Malik could just order him to now that their ranks were so different. Altaïr couldn't stop the heavy sigh that escaped, but he laid down among the carpet and pillows that had been tossed into the corner. It wasn't much cushion, but Altaïr had laid down on worse for much longer. He made sure to keep his back to Malik and his eyes closed. He was without the shield of his hood and couldn't afford for someone who hated him to know he was not operating at his full abilities.
Malik got up and walked away for a moment, and Altaïr took the chance to shift slightly into a better position. It was only marginally better, but he would take it. When Malik returned, he set a tray down on the ground and something down in the small gap between Altaïr and the wall. Malik then wiped more blood off of Altaïr's damp skin with a warm rag. "I brought you some tea. You need to drink it," Malik said.
Altaïr sighed but opened his eyes. The corner was dark, and the cup that had been set down was small, so when he reached for it, he almost knocked it completely over. He managed not to, and thankfully, Malik didn't do more than pause for a second before going back to cleaning Altaïr's skin of blood and sweat. Altaïr quickly drank the tea, noticing the drugs immediately in it as painkillers. Somewhat surprising as he hadn't at all expected Malik to care if he was in pain. "... you drugged it."
"A light dose," Malik said. "I'm not wasting valuable medicine on you, Novice, but I'm not stitching you up without anything, either."
Altaïr wasn't sure what to say to that and decided to say nothing. Instead, he set the cup back down as carefully as he could and closed his eyes again. Malik cleaned his wound another few moments and poured a solution that stung horribly across the wound before starting to stitch. Altaïr had gotten stitches plenty of times, and it was never pleasant. Once he got used to Malik's rhythm, though, he didn't even flinch as the needle went through his flesh.
Slowly, Altaïr felt the trembling in his body stop, although the pain was still constant and made fresh sweat build on his skin. Malik would pause to clean off Altaïr's side again, but even that fell into a soon predictable enough rhythm. Altaïr was just glad that Malik wasn't as rough as he could be. He wasn't 'gentle' but didn't cause undue harm either.
Soon, the heat of the day, oppressive even inside the bureau, combined with the blood loss and medication, had Altaïr almost dozing off. Never entirely because of the pain of his injury being stitched and Malik's hand occasionally brushing his skin. Those sensations were distracting enough to keep him from true sleep. But Altaïr was closer than he thought he'd reach in such a situation. "... you have a lot more scars than I thought you'd have," Malik said.
"I was a clumsy Novice," Altaïr said without really thinking about it. That was what Al Mualim always said anyway. Altaïr was clumsy and disobedient at times. Hence the scars. He'd grown out of it with the help of the discipline and lessons of Al Mualim.
"You're still a clumsy Novice," Malik said.
"I don't try to be," Altaïr murmured.
Malik grunted but said nothing else. Altaïr was able to almost drift off again. He even stopped twitching when Malik's hand would brush over his side or back to wipe away sweat or blood that continued to slowly drip down his skin, although much slower than before. The pain was turning into numbness from how long it had been throbbing at his side, which was a relief. It helped his mind drift away from the situation like he tended to do when things were unpleasant.
"When were you whipped?" Malik asked suddenly.
Altaïr, not having been fully awake nor expecting the question, didn't really think much of it. "Hm?"
"These marks here," Malik said, running his knuckle along one long line down Altaïr's back. "They're from a whip, aren't they?" Altaïr hummed again and nodded. "When did you get whipped?" Malik asked again.
"A long time ago," Altaïr said.
"How long ago?"
Altaïr was confused by the sudden interest but was not feeling up to a fight that he would likely get into if he refused to answer a question from an Assassin of higher rank. "I don't know. A decade at least."
There was a pause. "You wouldn't have even been a Novice then!" Malik said, sounding oddly shocked and upset. Altaïr wasn't sure why.
"Yes?" Altaïr suddenly felt ten times more exposed than he had at first. He wasn't sure why. He didn't like people seeing his body, but he hadn't thought much of exposing it when he was getting an injury treated. Maybe this, too, fell under the modesty that Al Mualim said he didn't have enough of? He never had been able to understand Al Mualim's rules regarding that.
"Altaïr, why-what-why were you whipped so young?" Malik demanded. "For what possible reason was that considered appropriate?"
Altaïr was now entirely lost. He glanced over his shoulder despite the danger there. Malik was sparking so many different colors it made Altaïr feel vaguely nauseous. "I was clumsy," Altaïr repeated. Malik made an odd noise that Altaïr had never heard before, so he wasn't sure how to interpret it. It almost sounded like he'd been hit, but he hadn't, so the reason behind it was a complete mystery. "... weren't we all?" Altaïr asked.
The silence between them was awkward and uncomfortable, and Altaïr didn't know what to do to alleviate it. He was never good with people. He couldn't figure out how they worked like he could a hidden blade or a sword move. So, Altaïr turned fully towards the wall again, and if Malik wanted the silence broken, he could do it. The tension stretched for several more minutes before Malik started stitching again. Altaïr was no longer half asleep and didn't think he'd get there anytime soon. Something about the conversation had unsettled him, but he wasn't sure what.
He hadn't lied, nor refused to answer, or talked back. So, why did Altaïr feel like he'd done something wrong? Usually, this sort of uncomfortable silence happened after he'd made an error and was waiting for the correction. That hadn't been something he'd experienced for years before the debacle in Solomon's Temple. But lately, it had been something he'd gotten to expect again. Although, it was mostly yelling now, which was at least somewhat an improvement. Would Malik start yelling at him again? Altaïr hoped not. He didn't like it when people yelled at him.
Then you shouldn't make such mistakes , Al Mualim's voice chimed in . If you don't like it . Do better.
Altaïr shivered despite himself. He didn't like his Master's tone. Even in his head, it was full of disapproval, and Altaïr hated disappointing his Master. Malik said nothing, but Altaïr wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. Was Malik upset? Or had he just realized that Altaïr had just gotten punished like all children and overreacted about it?
After several more minutes, Malik sighed and tied off the thread he was using. "Sit up, Altaïr. I need to bandage it now," he said, although his voice still sounded a little odd to Altaïr. Maybe it was just from how long they had been silent.
Altaïr pushed himself up, still facing the wall. His pants were sticking to his skin from the blood and sweat, and his side was a large ache. Malik got up, and Altaïr cautiously glanced after him. Malik left the room and then returned a few moments later, carrying what might have been a bowl of some sort. Altaïr quickly looked away again to hide his eyes. Malik sat down behind Altaïr and silently washed the blood and sweat off of Altaïr with fresh, cool water. It actually felt incredibly nice against his heated skin. He even sighed a little before he could stop it.
Malik said nothing about it and kept slowly cleaning the last traces of dirt around Altaïr's wound. Altaïr noticed the cloth moving up his back and washing away the sweat clinging to his skin there as well. It was higher than the bandages would go, Altaïr thought, but he didn't know how to bring it up, so he didn't. Plus, it did feel sort of nice. In an odd way that Altaïr had never considered before.
Suddenly, Malik cleared his throat and pulled the cloth away. "Hold the end in place and then keep your arms up out of the way," Malik ordered as he put the roll of bandages right by Altaïr's non-injured side. Altaïr did as he was told, and after a few times around his middle, he no longer had to hold the end in place. Malik wrapped his injury well and then tied it off. It took longer than it would have if Malik still had both arms, but Altaïr was just glad he'd gotten help at all.
Once he was done, Malik gathered up the remains of the supplies on the tray and then got up. Altaïr watched him leave again, trying to figure out what all the different sparks of colors along his form meant. Altaïr had never thought of nor seen people like rainbow shards rolling around in water before. He didn't know how to interpret it. Was it a bad or good sign? Altaïr didn't know.
Realizing he was staring and having been told people didn't like that, Altaïr trained his eyes on the wall before him. It was dark and featureless, as usual. That was almost becoming a soothing thing, and he was getting so used to it. Even if it made doing things that much harder. Malik was doing something behind the counter, and Altaïr supposed he should deliver the feather and leave the bureau. But the thought of getting up and leaving was frankly exhausting.
He heard something flutter through the air, and then cloth landed near him. Altaïr looked but could only make out a strange dark shape. "Yours is ruined," Malik said. "Don't know if it'll fit, but I don't have many choices of spares around."
Altaïr reached out and gingerly picked up the fabric. It was a robe, much like the one he'd been wearing earlier. Luckily, it had a hood, so after a moment to test which way the seams ran and the hood sat, he was able to figure out which way was front. He pulled it on despite the ache from his side and left the hood up to cover his eyes. It was comforting to have the safety of the hood again, although he hoped it wasn't too obvious.
The robe turned out to be small but not too bad. It clung uncomfortably but didn't seem in danger of any of the seams tearing. And it was only for a short while, anyway. At least the hood was still plenty large enough. Altaïr wasn't sure if he'd be able to repair his belt on his own. He wasn't the best leather worker, even when he could see what he was doing properly. You've never been good with delicate tasks, Al Mualim said.
"You shouldn't stay there."
Altaïr almost jumped at Malik's sudden words but managed to restrain the reflex. Ah. Of course. Silly of him to think he'd be allowed to rest before leaving. Malik disliked him for a good reason. "... I'll gather my things and be gone soon," Altaïr assured him.
"Gone?" Malik echoed. "What in Allah's name are you talking about? I just spent hours stitching your side shut. You're not about to ruin my hard work. There's a cot you can use in the other room was what I meant."
Altaïr was caught flat-footed. "... a cot?"
"Yes, Novice. A cot. I know it isn't the grand room that the Master gave you, but you'll have to deal with that," Malik said, annoyance creeping back into his voice.
"A cot is fine," Altaïr said. He wasn't entirely sure what grand room Malik meant. True, he'd moved into the keep after his father died, but he hadn't been given any sort of special quarters from what Altaïr could tell. But, whenever Altaïr corrected people about things like that, they got angry with him for some reason.
Malik grunted and waved. A flash of golden color that Altaïr only saw out of the corner of his eye. But it was enough to tell Altaïr he was meant to follow. He gathered up his few things and carefully got to his feet. Altaïr didn't allow the groan of pain to escape. He followed Malik through the curtain and to one side. It was hard to see due to how dark it was. There was only one source of light. A tiny sliver of a window and it was at the other end of what seemed to be a short hall.
There was a creak of hinges, and Altaïr thought that he saw a door open. "In here," Malik said.
Altaïr stepped into the room and glanced around, straining his eyes to see the vague shapes as what they really were. He thought that long thing on the side was the cot he'd heard about and dropped his things onto the end. "... thank you, Malik."
Malik snorted a bit. "It's my job to look after idiot Novices."
Altaïr nodded and reached for his belt. It took a moment to find the front and, therefore, know which pocket he used to keep the feather in, and he hoped his fumbling wasn't too noticeable. Altaïr pulled the crumpled and blood-encrusted feather from his pocket and held it out to Malik. "I did succeed at least..." he said.
There was a moment of quiet, and Altaïr watched Malik out of the side of his eye. Malik slowly reached out and took the feather from him, and Altaïr turned away. He wasn't sure what to do now. Altaïr should probably leave, but he honestly didn't want to try riding a horse with a side injured. Plus, Malik said he should stay. He didn't say it like it was an order, but he hadn't said it like a suggestion either. Altaïr was torn.
"Rest," Malik said. "You'll be no good to anyone if you reopen your wound." That was clearly an order, at least. Altaïr nodded and sat down on the edge of the cot. Malik lingered another few moments before leaving the room. Altaïr felt some tension that he hadn't been entirely aware of ease. The room was dark with no windows, and he was the only one in it, which meant he was essentially really blind and not just mostly blind. If he didn't strain his eyes trying to figure out what the vague shapes were, the remnants of the headache he'd been feeling for hours wouldn't worsen into anything serious.
Altaïr wondered when he stopped being afraid of the constant darkness and started wanting it. The change had happened slowly, so he hadn't noticed. But he remembered hating the dark before this. Almost as much as his dislike of large bodies of water. The dark had always been when the worst lessons were taught. He excelled at them. Eventually. But Al Mualim had had to punish him many times before he'd stopped trying to avoid them. But now it was the only place his eyes didn't give him problems.
Altaïr pushed the cot as far into the corner as he could get it and arranged the table just so in front of it with his sword balanced on the surface where he could find the hilt even without sight. A little fumbling found him a chair that he put in front of the door so he'd be alerted if the door was opened. Faint noises would no doubt wake him (he had always been a light sleeper), but Altaïr wanted to ensure it.
After arranging the room properly, Altaïr decided to get some rest. His pants were truly becoming uncomfortable with the blood and sweat drying on them. With a grimace, Altaïr took them off and dropped them near the bed. His borrowed robe covered his bottom half somewhat anyway. Though it wasn't ideal. Not by a long shot. Altaïr laid down with his hidden blade fastened to his wrist, dagger under his pillow, and sword just on the table in front of him. Only then did he find himself relaxing enough to drift off again.
He didn't sleep well. Things weren't ever right when he wasn't in his own room. He'd tried to get the one in the bureau as close as he could, but there was only so much Altaïr could do. But what woke him was the chair being pushed out of the way when the door opened. Altaïr was half upright with his sword held in front of him, his eyes unfocused and sight even darker as things tended to be when he first woke up. The riot of colors he saw and the one-armed form was definitely that of Malik. There was a pause. "Safety and peace, Altaïr," Malik said. "First meal will be ready shortly."
Altaïr forced his heart to slow and took a breath. He nodded to show he heard, but his voice didn't want to be found just then. Malik stayed there for another moment before leaving, closing the door behind him firmly. Only when Altaïr heard the click of the door set into place did he find his grip relaxing. This was why he hated sleeping in strange places.
Altaïr took some time to find fresh pants that weren't covered in dried blood and dirt. He wasn't sure who they belonged to, but they were clean and fit better than the spare robe he had been given. He would have to replace his own clothes as soon as possible. Altaïr really didn't like wearing or using things that weren't his. Still, he would force himself to deal with it as best he could because what other choice did he have?
After an awkward morning meal where Altaïr said little and stayed mostly in his usual corner while Malik seemed preoccupied, Altaïr quickly took his leave. Malik complained and threatened bodily harm if Altaïr ruined all of his hard work, which Altaïr found sort of a strange thing to threaten. But Altaïr didn't think about it too hard since he had no intention of tearing his stitches out. "Altaïr," Malik called just before Altaïr started up to the bureau entrance. Altaïr paused and turned but kept his eyes off to the left where he didn't have to try and look directly at the different color shape that was Malik. Oddly, the shifting was calming down, but it was still enough to make Altaïr's sensitive eyes sting.
There was a long silence, but Malik didn't seem to have any reason to have called Altaïr. But there had to be. Why else would Malik not want Altaïr, of all people, to leave? Perhaps Altaïr had forgotten to do something? Was Malik waiting for Altaïr to realize what it was? There was nothing he could think of. Altaïr mentally ran through everything that had happened and distinctly remembered doing everything required. Feather. Report (such as it was). And said his official farewell. All done.
Malik sighed, and the glaring silhouette that was his form shook its head. "Nevermind. Just don't cause any more trouble, Novice," he said.
Altaïr was still confused but nodded and heaved himself up to the hole in the ceiling. Though he had no idea what that had been about, that wasn't very unusual, so he didn't think about it too hard. He had other things to worry about than whatever Malik had told him to forget about anyway. He wouldn't have done that if it were actually important.
After returning to Masyaf, Altaïr was advanced a few ranks again. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. Why had he been demoted at all if Al Mualim was just going to give him the ranks back for killing a few people? It wasn't as if he had learned anything new. He'd already known the Creed by heart. He just hadn't realized it wasn't flexible. If Al Mualim had explained that to Altaïr before, none of this would have happened. Well, he didn't imagine that it would have since he'd gotten yelled at so much recently over it.
Al Mualim praised him for his work again, but Altaïr wasn't as happy as he thought he'd be for it. The harsh scoldings and demotions still stung. Al Mualim gave Altaïr a new list and sent him on his way. Altaïr was allowed to get some of his equipment back, and he took the time to refamiliarize himself with it. He had to get used to using them without seeing them too.
His eyes, he was beginning to fear, were never going to return to how they were. Every doctor that Altaïr approached had been utterly baffled. They said that while being blinded by a hit to the head wasn't unheard of, the flashes of color definitely were. Altaïr wondered if he was explaining it properly. He'd tried to explain the true colors of people before. To Al Mualim. His Master had just waved off Altaïr's words as childish thoughts and told him to return to his training. Altaïr was reasonably sure it wasn't him being childish but had no better explanation, either.
Altaïr risked a few sparring sessions with Rauf, but the other Assassin had seemed distracted. But that only helped even them out because Altaïr wasn't as accurate as he used to be in a fight. Rauf questioned him after the session and asked if Altaïr was feeling alright. Again with the question that only had one answer. He hated being asked that. Altaïr said he was (like he was supposed to) and then decided it would be best to start on his second list of targets.
The second list was harder to accomplish. The targets were better protected and now on alert because their accomplices were slowly picked off. But Altaïr wasn't intimidated by that. He'd gone after well-guarded men before. Admittedly, he hadn't been handicapped with partial blindness at the time, but he was getting better at working around that.
Altaïr tried his best to put off returning to Jerusalem. It was an awkward place to go for him. He wasn't sure where he stood with Malik after what happened the last time he was in the Jerusalem bureau, and he still didn't know what the riot of colors could be. Altaïr both wanted to know and was afraid of what the answer to the mystery might mean. But Altaïr knew he couldn't put off returning to Jerusalem for too long.