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tacticianFandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Originally a kink meme request that just totally spiraled out of control. AU: Altair is the young king of Masyaf, and he has just acquired two very fascinating slaves. (First pass editing done; probably will be edited further later on.)
Quick Navigation: [Parts 1-4] [Parts 5-6] [Parts 7-9] [Parts 10-end]
the right hand possesses
(parts 1-4)
The market air was thick enough that walking through it was like continuously pushing through a heavy veil, pungent with the smells of foreign spices and oils, things the traders used to cover up the scent of death and disease. But few things in the realm of man were stronger than death, and the odor still pervaded on the edges of the square, where the less-than-prize merchandise was held. Despite the urgings of the sheikh accompanying him, it was to these corners that the man in white robes drifted, face hidden under the pointed beak of his hood.
“You will not find suitable women here,” the sheikh was urging, hands raised in a useless barrier. The man may have been an appointed guide, but he stepped back every time the robed man stepped forward, and not once did he dare touch the other's person. It was like trying to blockade the wind. “The choice ma malakat aymanukum are all in the center, sir. These are of poorer grade; they will not be up to par with your standards – please, I implore you, come with me back to the middle.” [1]
The sellers around the edge were of a rougher sort, unused to doing fanciful business and dressing up their wares with the jewelry of lies. They glanced up as he approached and did not let go of their weapons – long, narrow sticks wrapped in hemp for rapping on wandering fingers and striking against the ribs of the rowdy. They prodded and roused their slaves in light of a prospective deal and only spoke when necessary - a brand of men the visitor much preferred.
“It is not women I need for my country,” said the white-robed man, lifting his head only so far as to cast his eyes into deeper shadow, but they shone gold in the light irregardless. “It is not a queen that will save my neck from a blade.”
“But Master, there are already plenty of able men in our country for that! There is no need to buy a foreigner for that purpose. Look,” and the sheikh swept out a hand, gesturing disdainfully at the 'collection.' “You can hardly trust them. Why, see, that one only has one arm!”
A hand, though singular, shot out, grabbing at the sheikh's wrist, and in one deft motion, twisted it until the man howled with pain, bending over backwards to keep his arm from turning too far in its socket, until the slave-traders lazily, and only leisurely, snapped their sticks against the slave's spine, forcing him to withdraw. These were men that bartered and haggled with the lives of men. A noble's title meant little more than the dirt they tread underneath their feet. They did not apologize, even as the sheikh cradled his arm to himself and hissed, “Infidel!”
“And what an able arm that is,” remarked the white-robed man, appraising and curious. He slowly approached and stared down at the defiant glare the slave was shooting him. He was lighter-skinned than the Africans imported from the southwest, darker than the Slavic peoples of the north. Handicapped as he was, he threw out his arm like a bird spreading its wings, instinctively shielding the slave behind him, a broader-shouldered young man who cast light-colored, hopeful eyes up at the stranger.
“Brothers,” one of the traders explained. With his stick, he tipped up the chin of the younger, tapping him less-than-gently on the shoulders. Unlike the older, more explosive brother, the younger was more docile, not because it was in his nature to be, but because he seemed to understand his circumstances, working with them instead of fighting them. He had less marks on his back than the elder, though whether this was because of his cooperativeness or because of his brother's protection was impossible to say.
“This one is strong. Fast. He can do what work you need.”
The sheikh stared incredulously at the back of the white robes, nursing both injured hand and pride, as his master simply nodded, curt and succinct. “Very well. This will do.”
For a moment, the brothers looked alarmed, glancing at each other before looking up at the buyer, and the one-armed slave's hand clasp firmly around his brother's wrist, raising his eyes daringly as if promising that he would fight to tooth and nail right here and now if anyone tried to separate them. There was no doubt he would, either, and put up quite a fight while he was at it despite his disadvantages, but their seller, callous and uncaring, only hummed agreeably. “I will have him ready for you when you leave the market once you agree to the price-”
“Both,” said the robed man, and he pulled back his hood, grinned with all his teeth. Though a title bought with wealth may have been worthless to these men, the slave-trader halted abruptly, mouth agape and eyes wide. He must have seen something else there, something that the slaves did not recognize, because they cast slightly bewildered looks at the two men, finding it difficult to understand what was transpiring. The world had ceased to make sense ever since their village had been pillaged and razed to the ground, but this was certainly not helping their comprehension.
Understanding his cue, the sheikh finally recovered and hastily drew himself to his feet, fetching a bag from his robes and pushing it into the slave-trader's unresisting hands. It was heavy with something metal, something that clinked inside the fabric as it swung through the air, and that made sense, it was only expected – in that bag was the price of two human lives, after all. “Have them ready right now,” said the sheikh, high-highhandedly turning his nose up at the trader. “And deliver them to the castle at once.”
“Castle?” asked the elder brother, voice deep and unaccented. Despite the fact that slaves were commonly not allowed to speak unless spoken to during the buying process, the white-robed man only canted his head, turning to him.
“Your names,” said the man, more demand than a question.
“Kadar Al-Sayf,” said the younger brother, almost immediately. There was curiosity in the look he shot over his brother's sheltering shoulder, and it was only because he pushed at his brother's back, urgent and urging, that the elder followed suit.
“Malik Al-Sayf,” said the slave cautiously, narrowing his eyes as if trying to discern whether or not this was a trick question.
“Altair Ibn'La-Ahad,” he answered, pulling his hood back over his head, allowing it to fall over his eyes. The peaked hem made him look angry, but he looked dangerous on his own. “I am the king of this country, which is now your home. This land belongs to its citizens, so it belongs to you,” he said, crouching low to meet the brothers at eye-level. Malik did not draw back, but he tensed, hand tightening on his brother's wrist until Kadar let out a soft sound of protest that neither noticed. “But Masyaf also belongs to me,” Altair continued, while an eagle cried overhead. “And now, so do you.”
They were stripped by handmaids, much to the brothers' consternation and embarrassment. The fingers that peeled off their threadbare clothes – the cheapest and most basic coin could buy – were gentler than anything they had felt in the past few months, and it set Malik on edge because of its jarring unfamiliarity. He grew stiff and nervous under their touch, but Kadar only smiled and reached down to tug off his own trousers, so that they would not have to.
The women kept their eyes down, not out of respect for the slaves, but for the young king who sat a few paces away, perched on a mound of pillows and overseeing the entire process. “You are not farmers,” said Altair, tilting his chin onto the flat of his fist.
Malik spun on him, and having stayed quiet throughout the ride home, suffering the demeaning snubs of the sheikh and the pitying eyes of free men only to be brought into a cold, stone castle to have his clothes stolen from him, he could not stop himself from clenching his hand into a fist and snapping, “You ask us this while you have us stark naked?” Kadar moved to shush him, but his brother's tongue spun words quicker than his legs could carry him. “Could you not have spared a rag, at least, your majesty, for us to cover ourselves first?”
Altair's mouth pressed into a thin line, but he did not bite at the bait. “I ask so that I may know how to dress you," he said. He pulled his other hand from under one of the pillows and hurled a throwing knife towards Kadar's chest, aim deadly in its precision. It cut through the air towards his heart.
Kadar's eyes widened, but his instincts made him duck. (The slave-trader had not lied – he was fast.) Yet even before the blade could fly by him, Malik reached out, catching the blade even as it cut into his palm, and hurling it back just as quickly, rage in his eyes and in his stance. It flew unwaveringly for Altair's middle, but the king raised his left arm and in an instant, there was the clang of metal hitting metal, before the throwing knife ricocheted and buried itself in a wooden beam nearby.
Confused, Kadar and Malik glanced down just in time to see what looked like a hilt-less blade retract back into the bracer on Altair's forearm, sliding back with an iron slither until it disappeared behind the top edge of his fingers. Even then, they could see it through the gap caused by the missing ring finger, and only when it slid out of sight behind the king's palm did Malik look up, stunned into motionless.
Altair looked amused. “You are so surprised that you do not run? You have just tried to kill Masyaf's king.”
“We do not run from anything,” Malik bit out, but he cursed himself for not having the foresight to follow up his attack with another, as opposed to escape. He drew himself up proudly, the way his father had taught him as a child, the way he had learned to as a man, and the way he had to, as an elder brother, regardless of the fact that they were naked and defenseless right now, and felt a pang of pride as he heard Kadar shuffle behind him to do the same. Though their village had been burned to the ground and their townsmen massacred, neither Al-Sayf was quite beaten yet.
“So you two know how to fight – that is good. Then I will not have to send you into the plantations or train you.” Altair pulled himself to his feet, and suddenly the handmaids filtered back into the room, one following the other in a disciplined, silent line as if the motion itself had been their cue. He whispered something to the woman in the lead, and when she nodded in understanding, all the girls did the same, as if they were one entity sharing a consciousness.
It was eerily efficient and not at all lavish like how Malik had imagined a royal court to be – from the girls to the sparse decorations to the king himself. The walls were adorned with only a tapestry here or there, the girls were dressed in fine but hardly gaudy silks, and there were no dark-haired, dark-eyed beauties fanning Altair as he feasted on grapes. In fact, Malik did not even see a guard inside the room, though he had passed a handful on his way. He looked over his shoulder and Kadar shot him a look that spoke of similar bewildered thoughts, followed up by a helpless shrug.
“You look a little lost,” said Altair, and Malik turned back to see that the women had thankfully left.
“You will have to forgive us,” Malik drawled, his wit as acidic as high as his guard was raised. “We are standing as bare as newborns and up until recently, we were considered low-grade merchandise. Now we have been transferred to you.” He swept out a hand, gesturing to Altair. “Who we are told we are the property of, and the first thing you do is try to stake my brother through the heart. Your majesty will have to bear with us while we recover from being a little lost at this situation and regain our bearings.”
“Malik,” Kadar chided, stepping in front of his brother, shielding him with diplomacy rather than force. “Your majesty, my brother and I...we are straightforward men. If you simply tell us what it is you want from us, then we will carry it out.” A hint of steel crept into his voice, because as deceivingly passive Kadar Al-Sayf seemed to be, the very same blood ran through his veins as it did his brother’s. “We are indebted to you, but even we will not stand here and be used for target practice.”
“Indebted,” Altair repeated, raising his chin in questioning.
“I have heard that it is possible, in your country, that a slave may ask for his freedom if we have performed our services well, and if we have proved ourselves to be of worth.” [2]
Malik's eyes narrowed, obviously not believing in such idealistic farce. They may have shared the same god, but the equality of souls that religion spoke of was a far cry from what was in practice on the earthly realm. He kept his eyes trained on Altair, looking for even the slightest hint of antagonistic motion, as if he expected the king to behead his brother for simply mentioning such a thing, but the king only stared at Kadar (at and not down – he stood on the same level of ground, as opposed to some elevated pedestal or throne), and after a moment, smirked.
“That is true. It is a fair trade, if you perform well. My condition, however, is that you do.”
Ah, the catch, thought Malik.
“I want you to be part of my personal guard. I am in need of men who will answer and be loyal to only me, who cannot be bribed with wealth because they have no need of money even if they had it. For that reason, I do not trust the other men of this city.” He paused, considered his words for a moment, and then, with an insufferable amount of pride and ego that did suit his position, added, “But I am not asking you – this is an order. You do have to do it, since I bought you for such a purpose.”
Malik grit his teeth. Just because he had no choice in life did not mean he had to like it. “I would rather take your life than save it,” he hissed, understanding that it was treason to say so and utterly unafraid of it.
Kadar's eyes widened, and he looked at his brother in alarm. “Akh, you-” Before he could smooth over relations once again, though, the maids returned, this time holding pieces of armor and clothing, the last woman carrying two sheathed swords in her arms. Like the rest of what they had seen of Masyaf apart from the accompanying sheikh from earlier that morning, the articles were plain but strong, sparsely adorned and built more for sturdiness than showiness. Tongue-tied by bashfulness, Kadar could only stand as they pulled cloth and weathered metal alike onto his shoulders.
Rather than being offended, however, Altair smiled, wry and dark. Even indoors, he kept his hood on, and when he walked toward the large, decorative window to their left – the only decorated thing, it seemed, in the entire building – he did so without turning his back to them. “Then you will make a splendid guard, Malik Al-Sayf.”
Malik frowned, pausing in the middle of snatching his clothing from the maids, because arm or no arm, he could very well dress himself. A handmaid took that exact opportunity to securely tie a strip of bandages around his hand, something that Altair had no doubt commanded them to bring.“What?”
Altair leaned the side of his head against the wrought iron of the window frame. The harsh light outside cast the face underneath the cowl into darker shadow, but even then, his unnaturally sunshine-bright eyes glinted like copper under firelight. Whatever sort of king Altair Ibn'La-Ahad was, he was not a weak one. “After all, you will have to beat the rest of the kingdom first in taking it.”
Malik only scoffed. “The position?”
Altair laughed, and the handmaids filtered away, leaving the brothers alone, once again, with their new king. “Normally, that would be true,” said Altair, “But in this case, I meant my life.”
It soon became apparent why the king was in need of not-quite-protection, but a little extra guarantee at his back. Though they spent most of their waking hours in the king's company, retiring only to sleep in the servant's quarters, the first real thing Altair required of them was that they stay at his side whenever he was out in public or attending meetings of twenty men or greater.
“Why twenty?” Kadar had asked, having taken to his new position with a great deal more grace than his brother, and maybe a little bit of gratitude for the fact that he would not be living out his days slaving under the merciless sun to till barren lands.
“Any less and it would not be a problem for me,” Altair responded easily, cockily, and while Kadar looked impressed, Malik, standing in the shade of a nearby corner, merely snorted.
Politics were usually a cut-throat affair, but the nobility and ruling classes of Masyaf seemed to have a rather literal take on it. The brothers learned that the current king was the most recent victor of a continuous and violent struggle for power, and that it wasn't just Altair – by nature, Masyaf bred men of volatile blood. Rank was determined by either strength, for the strong, or power, for the craven but rich. Altair had won the right to ascend by the former, but just as he had bested the previous king to climb to the throne, so, too, could another man do the same to him.
“What if we were to turn our swords on you?” Malik asked, but he had not raised a hand against Altair since Altair had tried to attack his brother, and though they were walking a very thin line between one and the other, it seemed like they were playing a game of dares, to see who would tip the balance, precarious but perfect, first.
“Hypothetically?” Altair clarified.
Malik held their locked gazes for a moment before rolling one shoulder back in a shrug. “Hypothetically.”
Altair made a musing sound, settling back in his pillows, where no doubt dozens of hidden knives were tucked away, because everything about this man was formidable, but seemingly not so. His sleeves fell over his hands, hiding the hidden blade from view, and his robes draped loosely over his shoulders, so that one could not make out the muscle underneath. To the plain-sighted, he could pass as a harmless scholar, if he tried. “It is still easier,” he said, keeping his eyes on Malik, sharp-edged gaze cutting through the shadows, “to fight one man than it is to fight twenty.”
One corner of Malik's mouth tugged up, but it was not a gracious expression. His smirk was all challenge and fangs. “Not if it is one of us.”
Altair dragged his eyes up and down in a way that was not entirely reminiscent of a man sizing up his opponent, but good enough of an impression to pass for such. “You think that you can best me?” he asked, with sincere curiosity, as if the prospect of a singular person defeating him had never, ever crossed his mind. That arrogance, bountiful in this regard even if it did not extend to the rest of his dominion, made Malik's hand slide to the hilt of his sword, pressing the iron pommel at the end into the cup of his palm.
Kadar, glancing between one and the other, felt the hairs on his nape rise. “We should prove our worth, shouldn't we?” he asked, carefully, and Altair glanced at him, smiled at his choice of words.
“You are skilled at politics, Kadar,” he said.
Kadar straightened, flushing lightly under the praise but nonetheless drawing his own sword, slowly enough that there was no threat in it, but confidently enough that the intent remained intact. “As Malik mentioned, your majesty,” he answered, blue eyes bright, “That is not all I am good at.”
They fought.
Kadar and Malik moved with a perfectly-timed sense of two-beat asynchronism that both baffled Altair – it never occurred to him to rely so heavily on another person – and exhausted him. The attacks came constantly, for where one man would drop off, the other would step in, as if they were simply taking turns with his endurance, which quickly wore thin. Their fighting style was unfamiliar but lightning-quick, reminiscent of maneuvers from further East, and if Altair had been a lesser man, his endurance would have flagged, and he would have lost to the two men and their three good sword arms.
Then again, had Altair been a lesser man, he would not have won this country by blood, and he might have already lost it by now if he did.
Altair was cunning and not above exploiting weaknesses where he saw them, and as he had known all along, had known from the moment they met, the two brothers were most vulnerable when they were separated. He turned to focus on Kadar, not because Kadar was the weaker of the two, but because attacking Kadar blinded Malik to almost everything else, and in a billowing sweep of white robes and cape, ducked low and swung a leg out to catch the man unsuspecting, kicking out his ankles from under him. Malik, of course, dove to make up for Kadar's fall, but Altair was already there to meet him, kicking off the floor and surging up at the older brother without diving in for the kill.
There was too much momentum – Malik's eyes widened but he could not stop in time, and a painfully solid elbow knocked into his gut, pushing him out of the fray and forcing him to stumble back towards the center of the room. Furious, he gathered himself up an instant, tightening his grip on his sword for the counterattack.
Then, he froze.
Chest heaving with a fine sheen of sweat matting his bangs to his brow, Altair was bent over Kadar, straddling his chest, the pointed end of his hidden blade pressed to the bob of the young man's throat. His hood had come off during the fight, and it was only then, face flushed, eyes alight, that Malik noticed how young this king really was, and how strong. Altair smiled down the steel edge of his blade at Kadar and turned to Malik with the same infuriating smugness. “I win,” he announced.
“That is Kadar. You haven't beaten me yet,” Malik argued stubbornly, but his eyes flitted between points of equal interest, dancing between the barely-wavering taper of the knife strapped to Altair's arm and the king's victorious glow.
Altair leaned in, only far enough to press the metal to the soft skin under Kadar's chin. It did not break it or draw blood, but it was far too close for comfort. “But I have,” he insisted.
“Get off of him!” shouted Malik, throwing down his sword with a clatter against the stone, and it was surrender enough that the king conceded, pulling himself to his feet and clasping a hand around Kadar's wrist to help him do the same. Malik's frown only deepened at the awe-stricken stare his brother was giving Altair, and was glad, for once, that the king was watching him instead, lest his head swell too big with egoism at the blatant admiration there. Picking up their weapons, Malik grumpily handed his brother's sword back and sheathed his own. They were bested, he was aware, but it was a waste of breath to be saying things all three of them already understood.
Their first meeting with the vizier came when they were a month into their odd but not entirely unpleasant new lives, still settling into a normal routine that did not include being sold off like cattle and still looking for a way to wear their honor instead of hiding it. The door to the king's chambers had opened without warning, and Malik and Kadar automatically leapt to their feet, swords at the ready. Altair stared at them, looking somewhat surprised that they had jumped to his aid at all. Only after a few seconds did he raise a hand, stopping them.
“It is fine,” he said, rising to his feet. “Al Mualim, safety and peace.”
Malik found it strange that the old man could have made it this far without even an echo of footsteps to herald his approach, and he found it stranger yet that Altair had stood, showing respect when at times it seemed like he held not the slightest regard for anyone but himself. He and Kadar fell back, but his hand remained at his side, resting on the guard of his weapon.
The man named Al Mualim stroked a wizened hand down his snowy beard, casting a one-eyed look about Altair's choice of bodyguards with neither distaste nor approval. As Altair stepped toward him, he held his arms out in welcome, but he did not embrace the man, instead stepping back once the king was near - an empty promise. “Altair,” he said, amused, “I have not visited you in three weeks, and you have already appointed men to replace my company? Last I heard, Talal was bringing you to buy companions of a...different sort.”
Altair smiled, guiding the two of them towards the back of the room to converse. “I knew better than to be wasting resources on such things,” he said, right before their conversation grew hushed, more a doing of the old man's than the king's. Al Mualim held an air of secrecy around him that extended to his tone of voice, and Altair only seemed all-too-eager to match the old man in volume and discretion, leaving Malik and Kadar to themselves on the other end of the hall.
Kadar padded over to him, leaning against his armless side, filling that void by habit. “Who is that?” he asked, frowning.
Malik watched them for a second, the huddling of their shoulders and the strange, imposed privacy surrounding the two men. Altair shifted, pulling something out of the fold of his robes – a bronzed copper ball that he treated with great care, something they had seen him fiddling with during their idle hours, and Malik narrowed his eyes, squinting as he watched Al Mualim reach for it, stopping just short before his fingers made contact.
He turned away with a shrug, retreating against the wall to return to the books on geography that Altair had humored him with earlier during the week. “It is none of our business,” he dismissed. This nation and its king, like any other, had its secrets, and they were not for him to know. Yet even after Al Mualim left, quiet as the crypt and no more warmer, and even as Altair settled back into his pillows, silent and contemplative, Malik could not shake the feeling that somehow he had failed at something just then, despite the fact that his only duty was to protect.
Three days later, Malik reported to Altair alone. Altair's brow was already raised in silent question before the door was pushed open, for he had grown accustomed to the sound of two approaching gaits come morning, footfalls heavy with armor and arms, but he did not ask until Malik offered first (a strange trait for a strange king). “His stomach ails him,” Malik explained, kicking the heavy wooden door shut behind him with the back of his heel. “The flavors of Masyaf are a little too strong for his palate, but he will get used to it soon enough.”
“You are not playing nursemaid for him?” Altair said, half-teasing and half-surprised.
Malik threw him a harsh look. “Kadar is a grown man. He does not need me to look after him like that.”
“Hm,” said Altair, hiding his mouth behind his fingers, and though the sound was noncommittal, Malik heard the question in it anyway.
Of course, that didn't mean he had to answer.
“How unfortunate that you will have to suffer my company alone,” he said instead. Malik thumbed though the pages of his book, the paper sharp and crisp enough to cut a finger on. Altair himself was obviously no fan of the written word, or generally anyone's word other than his own for that matter, and the extensive royal library was aged more by time than by use.
“Indeed,” said Altair, watching him from his pillows and making no effort to hide it. Malik could feel the weight of his eyes on his back and wondered what it was Altair was looking for – maybe a more thorough explanation, a crack in his guard, the imaginary outline of a missing limb. Maybe it was something Malik had, for once, but was no less inclined or capable of giving. When Malik's patience finally wore thin enough for him to slam the book shut in his hand and raise his eyes, Altair smiled, looking pleased enough with himself that Malik half-entertained the idea of opening another just to see if the expression would wane.
“After all,” the king said, straightening his back, “the money I spent hiring you was supposed to be used for company in the first place, but I suppose you will have to do.”
For a second, Malik wondered if that was intentional, but Altair was not the most eloquent of rulers and certainly no scholar. He had won his kingship at sword-point rather than by rhetoric, so when he said 'hire,' he meant 'hire,' and not some dressed-up euphemism for buying a slave. The harshness in Malik's face softened, and Altair must have been watching for that, too, because his grin grew wider. He held out a hand. “Come here.”
Malik shot him an incredulous look. “I hope you don't expect me to kiss your hand. That is what I hear the Europeans do, and it is not my duty to be entertaining your whims.” Nonetheless, he stepped forward.
There were only eight or so paces separating the two of them, and the fifth one put him into the sunlight streaming from the large, open window both supported by and ornamented with curving iron belts. Altair often stood by this window, staring out at the country he owned but could not control. When he got to his feet, Malik thought that he might be moving to do the same, except the man's face suddenly twisted into a snarl, vicious enough that the one-armed guard was taken slightly aback. Before he could beat a hasty retreat back, the king barreled into him, knocking him to the ground on his back.
Instantly winded, there was a split second in mid-fall during which Malik reflexively braced himself for the inevitable impact as his body hit stone, but Altair's hand cradled the back of his head before the collision could give him a concussion.
Malik looked up to find Altair on his hands and knees (a king), hovering above him, his face turned to the side to glare at the arrow embedded deep into the wood at chest height, in direct parallel to where the guard had been standing just a moment ago. The king's white robes fell around them like a blanket, tented by the arch of the younger man's backa cloth cocoon.
“Altair, what...?” Pulling the protective hand away from his head, Malik slid himself up, kicking at the ground until he could push into a sitting position while Altair drew his knees up into a crouch. The king's face was grim and he kept low, where no projectile could reach them, a hand yanking on Malik's wrist to keep him down and close.
“That is a Masyaf arrow,” he muttered, grim and eyes fixed on the single white eagle feather adorning the end of the bolt. It swayed lightly in the air circulating around the room, and Malik was not at all surprised to consider the men of Masyaf the type to adorn their arrows with such things, just so that the blood of their victims could catch in the downy vane. Maybe they even collected them, like war trophies, pinned them to the wall as evidence of their prowess.
“For you?” Malik asked, frowning. He had not forgotten Altair's words of warning, and after meeting with many key members of the nobility, he did not doubt them either.
“No,” Altair said, and he turned to Malik, something uncharacteristic making his skin draw tight between his eyes. He looked guilty, almost apologetic. The hand on Malik's wrist loosened until it was barely a caress. “For you, so that I may come later.”
Malik felt the hurried beating of his heart slow as it recovered from shock, but he was not troubled. He was a fighter, after all, had been his entire life. With their village burned, their homes ransacked and his limb severed, he was accustomed to loss. Being a guard entailed it, and though he would not normally trade his life for this man, he would for his honor, his duty, and his pride. Perhaps that is what Altair saw in them in the first place. (It was a good guess, because Altair had seen something, if honor, duty and pride were colored blue.)
Drawing back, Altair's face shuttered in, and he turned away. “Get Kadar, bring him here.”
Malik stared at his back. Even though he watched for it, that rigid frame did not tremble. 'Who is protecting who?' he wanted to ask, but since his brother was not one of the things he was willing to lose, he rolled onto his feet and obeyed.
“I understand,” Kadar said, leaning back against the pillows Altair had vacated for him. For the most part, he had recovered from the heavy spices of local cuisine running their course through his system, especially after spending a good portion of the morning throwing it back up. For now, he was simply letting his body recuperate from its weary battle.
In a strict show of not being his nursemaid, Malik was adamantly keeping his distance, sitting on a chair near the other end of the room, though he raised his head whenever his brother spoke.
“You do?” Altair asked, sounding bewildered. He looked between the two of them, looking as though they were at battle again, like he was trying to decipher a trap the brothers had lay.
“You look a little lost, your majesty,” Malik mimicked, smirking with his teeth.
Altair recognized the jab, judging from the way his brows drew together. “But your lives will be at stake, along with mine. I can't hire guards for my guards, you understand. The both of you are at peril. If you desire so, I can make room for the both of you in the fields, and I swear to you that no one will be-”
“Do not be so presumptuous as to pretend to know what it is we desire,” Malik interrupted, getting up and dropping his book onto his unoccupied seat. “We are guards, as you said. We understand the risks. You tell us you are the king of this country, but you cannot comprehend the idea of someone putting themselves in danger for your sake?” he asked, not expecting an answer and not allowing time for it, in case Altair asked him if it was for his sake, and what that implied. “We have told you before, we do not run from anything, and we will do the job we have chosen.”
Altair frowned, but he looked caught between displeasure and pleasant surprise at the same time, one masquerading as the other out of fear of weakness. He understood the principle, had heard it in stories of foreign lands, but understanding loyalty and seeing it were two different things, like knowing about the sunrise and actually watching it. One was given information; the other stole your breath away. He remained incredulous still, muttering, “The one you were given, you mean.”
“The one we have chosen, he means,” Kadar supplied helpfully, before clutching his arms around his stomach and groaning, rolling onto his side to face the two of them with his back.
For a long moment, Altair did not say anything. He had blocked the window with a sheer cloth, weighted down with crimson tassels, before the brothers had returned. The material was thin enough to let some light through, but thick enough that it would impede any serious attempt on their lives. The arrow had also been removed, and where Altair had stowed that away was impossible to tell. When he did speak, he only managed a short, confused, “Why?”
“I do not like owing people things,” Malik said, averting his eyes. “You helped us in the slave market, but now we are even. We will serve well and earn our freedom, as agreed.” Then, he dragged them back, suspicious. “Surely, you are not afraid for our sake,” he said, but didn't ask.
Altair heard the question in it, too, narrowing his eyes. “I do not like owing people things either.”
There were no grateful words or tearful acknowledgments. They were not that sort of people, and Altair was not that gracious a king. Instead, he paced around the floor for a good few minutes, quiet and without a sound, like that vizier the brothers had hardly taken to, almost as if he were flying, eagle-like, instead of walking like a man. At last, he stopped, directly in front of the window he had blockaded, its hazy light making his edges seem just the slightest bit more rounded, but that, most surely, was an illusion of the light.
“Very well,” he said at length. “Then you will earn your freedom when you have killed nine men for me. I already have their names; I had just thought we would have more time before they struck.” He sighed, and it was the first indication the brothers had ever seen of the king being anything but infallible. “They are the ones behind this treason.”
“Your proof?” Malik asked. “A king surely has to justify the reason for his executions to the public. He cannot just start killing people in broad daylight.”
“What?” Altair said, finally smiling, all energy and bull-headed courage. Without quite realizing, Malik felt himself returning the grin, drawn in to strength like a moth to a flame, but he only allowed himself one step before he stopped himself, an instinctive reaction to the danger that lay ahead, in their futures, in everything that surrounded this man. He only halted, however, and did not run, which meant that Altair was free to step forward and close that distance, if he so desired. “I am king,” he said, “Everything is permitted.”
[1] - Slaves were referred to as 'ma malakat aymanukum,' literally translated as 'that which the right hand possesses' rather than the actual word for 'slave,' which was 'abd.'
[2] - It was possible for slaves in the Islamic Slave system to request freedom from their masters, given due service. It was also possible for them to collect donation money to buy their own freedom, according to the Qu'ran.
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Originally a kink meme request that just totally spiraled out of control. AU: Altair is the young king of Masyaf, and he has just acquired two very fascinating slaves. (First pass editing done; probably will be edited further later on.)
Quick Navigation: [Parts 1-4] [Parts 5-6] [Parts 7-9] [Parts 10-end]
the right hand possesses
(parts 1-4)
The market air was thick enough that walking through it was like continuously pushing through a heavy veil, pungent with the smells of foreign spices and oils, things the traders used to cover up the scent of death and disease. But few things in the realm of man were stronger than death, and the odor still pervaded on the edges of the square, where the less-than-prize merchandise was held. Despite the urgings of the sheikh accompanying him, it was to these corners that the man in white robes drifted, face hidden under the pointed beak of his hood.
“You will not find suitable women here,” the sheikh was urging, hands raised in a useless barrier. The man may have been an appointed guide, but he stepped back every time the robed man stepped forward, and not once did he dare touch the other's person. It was like trying to blockade the wind. “The choice ma malakat aymanukum are all in the center, sir. These are of poorer grade; they will not be up to par with your standards – please, I implore you, come with me back to the middle.” [1]
The sellers around the edge were of a rougher sort, unused to doing fanciful business and dressing up their wares with the jewelry of lies. They glanced up as he approached and did not let go of their weapons – long, narrow sticks wrapped in hemp for rapping on wandering fingers and striking against the ribs of the rowdy. They prodded and roused their slaves in light of a prospective deal and only spoke when necessary - a brand of men the visitor much preferred.
“It is not women I need for my country,” said the white-robed man, lifting his head only so far as to cast his eyes into deeper shadow, but they shone gold in the light irregardless. “It is not a queen that will save my neck from a blade.”
“But Master, there are already plenty of able men in our country for that! There is no need to buy a foreigner for that purpose. Look,” and the sheikh swept out a hand, gesturing disdainfully at the 'collection.' “You can hardly trust them. Why, see, that one only has one arm!”
A hand, though singular, shot out, grabbing at the sheikh's wrist, and in one deft motion, twisted it until the man howled with pain, bending over backwards to keep his arm from turning too far in its socket, until the slave-traders lazily, and only leisurely, snapped their sticks against the slave's spine, forcing him to withdraw. These were men that bartered and haggled with the lives of men. A noble's title meant little more than the dirt they tread underneath their feet. They did not apologize, even as the sheikh cradled his arm to himself and hissed, “Infidel!”
“And what an able arm that is,” remarked the white-robed man, appraising and curious. He slowly approached and stared down at the defiant glare the slave was shooting him. He was lighter-skinned than the Africans imported from the southwest, darker than the Slavic peoples of the north. Handicapped as he was, he threw out his arm like a bird spreading its wings, instinctively shielding the slave behind him, a broader-shouldered young man who cast light-colored, hopeful eyes up at the stranger.
“Brothers,” one of the traders explained. With his stick, he tipped up the chin of the younger, tapping him less-than-gently on the shoulders. Unlike the older, more explosive brother, the younger was more docile, not because it was in his nature to be, but because he seemed to understand his circumstances, working with them instead of fighting them. He had less marks on his back than the elder, though whether this was because of his cooperativeness or because of his brother's protection was impossible to say.
“This one is strong. Fast. He can do what work you need.”
The sheikh stared incredulously at the back of the white robes, nursing both injured hand and pride, as his master simply nodded, curt and succinct. “Very well. This will do.”
For a moment, the brothers looked alarmed, glancing at each other before looking up at the buyer, and the one-armed slave's hand clasp firmly around his brother's wrist, raising his eyes daringly as if promising that he would fight to tooth and nail right here and now if anyone tried to separate them. There was no doubt he would, either, and put up quite a fight while he was at it despite his disadvantages, but their seller, callous and uncaring, only hummed agreeably. “I will have him ready for you when you leave the market once you agree to the price-”
“Both,” said the robed man, and he pulled back his hood, grinned with all his teeth. Though a title bought with wealth may have been worthless to these men, the slave-trader halted abruptly, mouth agape and eyes wide. He must have seen something else there, something that the slaves did not recognize, because they cast slightly bewildered looks at the two men, finding it difficult to understand what was transpiring. The world had ceased to make sense ever since their village had been pillaged and razed to the ground, but this was certainly not helping their comprehension.
Understanding his cue, the sheikh finally recovered and hastily drew himself to his feet, fetching a bag from his robes and pushing it into the slave-trader's unresisting hands. It was heavy with something metal, something that clinked inside the fabric as it swung through the air, and that made sense, it was only expected – in that bag was the price of two human lives, after all. “Have them ready right now,” said the sheikh, high-highhandedly turning his nose up at the trader. “And deliver them to the castle at once.”
“Castle?” asked the elder brother, voice deep and unaccented. Despite the fact that slaves were commonly not allowed to speak unless spoken to during the buying process, the white-robed man only canted his head, turning to him.
“Your names,” said the man, more demand than a question.
“Kadar Al-Sayf,” said the younger brother, almost immediately. There was curiosity in the look he shot over his brother's sheltering shoulder, and it was only because he pushed at his brother's back, urgent and urging, that the elder followed suit.
“Malik Al-Sayf,” said the slave cautiously, narrowing his eyes as if trying to discern whether or not this was a trick question.
“Altair Ibn'La-Ahad,” he answered, pulling his hood back over his head, allowing it to fall over his eyes. The peaked hem made him look angry, but he looked dangerous on his own. “I am the king of this country, which is now your home. This land belongs to its citizens, so it belongs to you,” he said, crouching low to meet the brothers at eye-level. Malik did not draw back, but he tensed, hand tightening on his brother's wrist until Kadar let out a soft sound of protest that neither noticed. “But Masyaf also belongs to me,” Altair continued, while an eagle cried overhead. “And now, so do you.”
They were stripped by handmaids, much to the brothers' consternation and embarrassment. The fingers that peeled off their threadbare clothes – the cheapest and most basic coin could buy – were gentler than anything they had felt in the past few months, and it set Malik on edge because of its jarring unfamiliarity. He grew stiff and nervous under their touch, but Kadar only smiled and reached down to tug off his own trousers, so that they would not have to.
The women kept their eyes down, not out of respect for the slaves, but for the young king who sat a few paces away, perched on a mound of pillows and overseeing the entire process. “You are not farmers,” said Altair, tilting his chin onto the flat of his fist.
Malik spun on him, and having stayed quiet throughout the ride home, suffering the demeaning snubs of the sheikh and the pitying eyes of free men only to be brought into a cold, stone castle to have his clothes stolen from him, he could not stop himself from clenching his hand into a fist and snapping, “You ask us this while you have us stark naked?” Kadar moved to shush him, but his brother's tongue spun words quicker than his legs could carry him. “Could you not have spared a rag, at least, your majesty, for us to cover ourselves first?”
Altair's mouth pressed into a thin line, but he did not bite at the bait. “I ask so that I may know how to dress you," he said. He pulled his other hand from under one of the pillows and hurled a throwing knife towards Kadar's chest, aim deadly in its precision. It cut through the air towards his heart.
Kadar's eyes widened, but his instincts made him duck. (The slave-trader had not lied – he was fast.) Yet even before the blade could fly by him, Malik reached out, catching the blade even as it cut into his palm, and hurling it back just as quickly, rage in his eyes and in his stance. It flew unwaveringly for Altair's middle, but the king raised his left arm and in an instant, there was the clang of metal hitting metal, before the throwing knife ricocheted and buried itself in a wooden beam nearby.
Confused, Kadar and Malik glanced down just in time to see what looked like a hilt-less blade retract back into the bracer on Altair's forearm, sliding back with an iron slither until it disappeared behind the top edge of his fingers. Even then, they could see it through the gap caused by the missing ring finger, and only when it slid out of sight behind the king's palm did Malik look up, stunned into motionless.
Altair looked amused. “You are so surprised that you do not run? You have just tried to kill Masyaf's king.”
“We do not run from anything,” Malik bit out, but he cursed himself for not having the foresight to follow up his attack with another, as opposed to escape. He drew himself up proudly, the way his father had taught him as a child, the way he had learned to as a man, and the way he had to, as an elder brother, regardless of the fact that they were naked and defenseless right now, and felt a pang of pride as he heard Kadar shuffle behind him to do the same. Though their village had been burned to the ground and their townsmen massacred, neither Al-Sayf was quite beaten yet.
“So you two know how to fight – that is good. Then I will not have to send you into the plantations or train you.” Altair pulled himself to his feet, and suddenly the handmaids filtered back into the room, one following the other in a disciplined, silent line as if the motion itself had been their cue. He whispered something to the woman in the lead, and when she nodded in understanding, all the girls did the same, as if they were one entity sharing a consciousness.
It was eerily efficient and not at all lavish like how Malik had imagined a royal court to be – from the girls to the sparse decorations to the king himself. The walls were adorned with only a tapestry here or there, the girls were dressed in fine but hardly gaudy silks, and there were no dark-haired, dark-eyed beauties fanning Altair as he feasted on grapes. In fact, Malik did not even see a guard inside the room, though he had passed a handful on his way. He looked over his shoulder and Kadar shot him a look that spoke of similar bewildered thoughts, followed up by a helpless shrug.
“You look a little lost,” said Altair, and Malik turned back to see that the women had thankfully left.
“You will have to forgive us,” Malik drawled, his wit as acidic as high as his guard was raised. “We are standing as bare as newborns and up until recently, we were considered low-grade merchandise. Now we have been transferred to you.” He swept out a hand, gesturing to Altair. “Who we are told we are the property of, and the first thing you do is try to stake my brother through the heart. Your majesty will have to bear with us while we recover from being a little lost at this situation and regain our bearings.”
“Malik,” Kadar chided, stepping in front of his brother, shielding him with diplomacy rather than force. “Your majesty, my brother and I...we are straightforward men. If you simply tell us what it is you want from us, then we will carry it out.” A hint of steel crept into his voice, because as deceivingly passive Kadar Al-Sayf seemed to be, the very same blood ran through his veins as it did his brother’s. “We are indebted to you, but even we will not stand here and be used for target practice.”
“Indebted,” Altair repeated, raising his chin in questioning.
“I have heard that it is possible, in your country, that a slave may ask for his freedom if we have performed our services well, and if we have proved ourselves to be of worth.” [2]
Malik's eyes narrowed, obviously not believing in such idealistic farce. They may have shared the same god, but the equality of souls that religion spoke of was a far cry from what was in practice on the earthly realm. He kept his eyes trained on Altair, looking for even the slightest hint of antagonistic motion, as if he expected the king to behead his brother for simply mentioning such a thing, but the king only stared at Kadar (at and not down – he stood on the same level of ground, as opposed to some elevated pedestal or throne), and after a moment, smirked.
“That is true. It is a fair trade, if you perform well. My condition, however, is that you do.”
Ah, the catch, thought Malik.
“I want you to be part of my personal guard. I am in need of men who will answer and be loyal to only me, who cannot be bribed with wealth because they have no need of money even if they had it. For that reason, I do not trust the other men of this city.” He paused, considered his words for a moment, and then, with an insufferable amount of pride and ego that did suit his position, added, “But I am not asking you – this is an order. You do have to do it, since I bought you for such a purpose.”
Malik grit his teeth. Just because he had no choice in life did not mean he had to like it. “I would rather take your life than save it,” he hissed, understanding that it was treason to say so and utterly unafraid of it.
Kadar's eyes widened, and he looked at his brother in alarm. “Akh, you-” Before he could smooth over relations once again, though, the maids returned, this time holding pieces of armor and clothing, the last woman carrying two sheathed swords in her arms. Like the rest of what they had seen of Masyaf apart from the accompanying sheikh from earlier that morning, the articles were plain but strong, sparsely adorned and built more for sturdiness than showiness. Tongue-tied by bashfulness, Kadar could only stand as they pulled cloth and weathered metal alike onto his shoulders.
Rather than being offended, however, Altair smiled, wry and dark. Even indoors, he kept his hood on, and when he walked toward the large, decorative window to their left – the only decorated thing, it seemed, in the entire building – he did so without turning his back to them. “Then you will make a splendid guard, Malik Al-Sayf.”
Malik frowned, pausing in the middle of snatching his clothing from the maids, because arm or no arm, he could very well dress himself. A handmaid took that exact opportunity to securely tie a strip of bandages around his hand, something that Altair had no doubt commanded them to bring.“What?”
Altair leaned the side of his head against the wrought iron of the window frame. The harsh light outside cast the face underneath the cowl into darker shadow, but even then, his unnaturally sunshine-bright eyes glinted like copper under firelight. Whatever sort of king Altair Ibn'La-Ahad was, he was not a weak one. “After all, you will have to beat the rest of the kingdom first in taking it.”
Malik only scoffed. “The position?”
Altair laughed, and the handmaids filtered away, leaving the brothers alone, once again, with their new king. “Normally, that would be true,” said Altair, “But in this case, I meant my life.”
It soon became apparent why the king was in need of not-quite-protection, but a little extra guarantee at his back. Though they spent most of their waking hours in the king's company, retiring only to sleep in the servant's quarters, the first real thing Altair required of them was that they stay at his side whenever he was out in public or attending meetings of twenty men or greater.
“Why twenty?” Kadar had asked, having taken to his new position with a great deal more grace than his brother, and maybe a little bit of gratitude for the fact that he would not be living out his days slaving under the merciless sun to till barren lands.
“Any less and it would not be a problem for me,” Altair responded easily, cockily, and while Kadar looked impressed, Malik, standing in the shade of a nearby corner, merely snorted.
Politics were usually a cut-throat affair, but the nobility and ruling classes of Masyaf seemed to have a rather literal take on it. The brothers learned that the current king was the most recent victor of a continuous and violent struggle for power, and that it wasn't just Altair – by nature, Masyaf bred men of volatile blood. Rank was determined by either strength, for the strong, or power, for the craven but rich. Altair had won the right to ascend by the former, but just as he had bested the previous king to climb to the throne, so, too, could another man do the same to him.
“What if we were to turn our swords on you?” Malik asked, but he had not raised a hand against Altair since Altair had tried to attack his brother, and though they were walking a very thin line between one and the other, it seemed like they were playing a game of dares, to see who would tip the balance, precarious but perfect, first.
“Hypothetically?” Altair clarified.
Malik held their locked gazes for a moment before rolling one shoulder back in a shrug. “Hypothetically.”
Altair made a musing sound, settling back in his pillows, where no doubt dozens of hidden knives were tucked away, because everything about this man was formidable, but seemingly not so. His sleeves fell over his hands, hiding the hidden blade from view, and his robes draped loosely over his shoulders, so that one could not make out the muscle underneath. To the plain-sighted, he could pass as a harmless scholar, if he tried. “It is still easier,” he said, keeping his eyes on Malik, sharp-edged gaze cutting through the shadows, “to fight one man than it is to fight twenty.”
One corner of Malik's mouth tugged up, but it was not a gracious expression. His smirk was all challenge and fangs. “Not if it is one of us.”
Altair dragged his eyes up and down in a way that was not entirely reminiscent of a man sizing up his opponent, but good enough of an impression to pass for such. “You think that you can best me?” he asked, with sincere curiosity, as if the prospect of a singular person defeating him had never, ever crossed his mind. That arrogance, bountiful in this regard even if it did not extend to the rest of his dominion, made Malik's hand slide to the hilt of his sword, pressing the iron pommel at the end into the cup of his palm.
Kadar, glancing between one and the other, felt the hairs on his nape rise. “We should prove our worth, shouldn't we?” he asked, carefully, and Altair glanced at him, smiled at his choice of words.
“You are skilled at politics, Kadar,” he said.
Kadar straightened, flushing lightly under the praise but nonetheless drawing his own sword, slowly enough that there was no threat in it, but confidently enough that the intent remained intact. “As Malik mentioned, your majesty,” he answered, blue eyes bright, “That is not all I am good at.”
They fought.
Kadar and Malik moved with a perfectly-timed sense of two-beat asynchronism that both baffled Altair – it never occurred to him to rely so heavily on another person – and exhausted him. The attacks came constantly, for where one man would drop off, the other would step in, as if they were simply taking turns with his endurance, which quickly wore thin. Their fighting style was unfamiliar but lightning-quick, reminiscent of maneuvers from further East, and if Altair had been a lesser man, his endurance would have flagged, and he would have lost to the two men and their three good sword arms.
Then again, had Altair been a lesser man, he would not have won this country by blood, and he might have already lost it by now if he did.
Altair was cunning and not above exploiting weaknesses where he saw them, and as he had known all along, had known from the moment they met, the two brothers were most vulnerable when they were separated. He turned to focus on Kadar, not because Kadar was the weaker of the two, but because attacking Kadar blinded Malik to almost everything else, and in a billowing sweep of white robes and cape, ducked low and swung a leg out to catch the man unsuspecting, kicking out his ankles from under him. Malik, of course, dove to make up for Kadar's fall, but Altair was already there to meet him, kicking off the floor and surging up at the older brother without diving in for the kill.
There was too much momentum – Malik's eyes widened but he could not stop in time, and a painfully solid elbow knocked into his gut, pushing him out of the fray and forcing him to stumble back towards the center of the room. Furious, he gathered himself up an instant, tightening his grip on his sword for the counterattack.
Then, he froze.
Chest heaving with a fine sheen of sweat matting his bangs to his brow, Altair was bent over Kadar, straddling his chest, the pointed end of his hidden blade pressed to the bob of the young man's throat. His hood had come off during the fight, and it was only then, face flushed, eyes alight, that Malik noticed how young this king really was, and how strong. Altair smiled down the steel edge of his blade at Kadar and turned to Malik with the same infuriating smugness. “I win,” he announced.
“That is Kadar. You haven't beaten me yet,” Malik argued stubbornly, but his eyes flitted between points of equal interest, dancing between the barely-wavering taper of the knife strapped to Altair's arm and the king's victorious glow.
Altair leaned in, only far enough to press the metal to the soft skin under Kadar's chin. It did not break it or draw blood, but it was far too close for comfort. “But I have,” he insisted.
“Get off of him!” shouted Malik, throwing down his sword with a clatter against the stone, and it was surrender enough that the king conceded, pulling himself to his feet and clasping a hand around Kadar's wrist to help him do the same. Malik's frown only deepened at the awe-stricken stare his brother was giving Altair, and was glad, for once, that the king was watching him instead, lest his head swell too big with egoism at the blatant admiration there. Picking up their weapons, Malik grumpily handed his brother's sword back and sheathed his own. They were bested, he was aware, but it was a waste of breath to be saying things all three of them already understood.
Their first meeting with the vizier came when they were a month into their odd but not entirely unpleasant new lives, still settling into a normal routine that did not include being sold off like cattle and still looking for a way to wear their honor instead of hiding it. The door to the king's chambers had opened without warning, and Malik and Kadar automatically leapt to their feet, swords at the ready. Altair stared at them, looking somewhat surprised that they had jumped to his aid at all. Only after a few seconds did he raise a hand, stopping them.
“It is fine,” he said, rising to his feet. “Al Mualim, safety and peace.”
Malik found it strange that the old man could have made it this far without even an echo of footsteps to herald his approach, and he found it stranger yet that Altair had stood, showing respect when at times it seemed like he held not the slightest regard for anyone but himself. He and Kadar fell back, but his hand remained at his side, resting on the guard of his weapon.
The man named Al Mualim stroked a wizened hand down his snowy beard, casting a one-eyed look about Altair's choice of bodyguards with neither distaste nor approval. As Altair stepped toward him, he held his arms out in welcome, but he did not embrace the man, instead stepping back once the king was near - an empty promise. “Altair,” he said, amused, “I have not visited you in three weeks, and you have already appointed men to replace my company? Last I heard, Talal was bringing you to buy companions of a...different sort.”
Altair smiled, guiding the two of them towards the back of the room to converse. “I knew better than to be wasting resources on such things,” he said, right before their conversation grew hushed, more a doing of the old man's than the king's. Al Mualim held an air of secrecy around him that extended to his tone of voice, and Altair only seemed all-too-eager to match the old man in volume and discretion, leaving Malik and Kadar to themselves on the other end of the hall.
Kadar padded over to him, leaning against his armless side, filling that void by habit. “Who is that?” he asked, frowning.
Malik watched them for a second, the huddling of their shoulders and the strange, imposed privacy surrounding the two men. Altair shifted, pulling something out of the fold of his robes – a bronzed copper ball that he treated with great care, something they had seen him fiddling with during their idle hours, and Malik narrowed his eyes, squinting as he watched Al Mualim reach for it, stopping just short before his fingers made contact.
He turned away with a shrug, retreating against the wall to return to the books on geography that Altair had humored him with earlier during the week. “It is none of our business,” he dismissed. This nation and its king, like any other, had its secrets, and they were not for him to know. Yet even after Al Mualim left, quiet as the crypt and no more warmer, and even as Altair settled back into his pillows, silent and contemplative, Malik could not shake the feeling that somehow he had failed at something just then, despite the fact that his only duty was to protect.
Three days later, Malik reported to Altair alone. Altair's brow was already raised in silent question before the door was pushed open, for he had grown accustomed to the sound of two approaching gaits come morning, footfalls heavy with armor and arms, but he did not ask until Malik offered first (a strange trait for a strange king). “His stomach ails him,” Malik explained, kicking the heavy wooden door shut behind him with the back of his heel. “The flavors of Masyaf are a little too strong for his palate, but he will get used to it soon enough.”
“You are not playing nursemaid for him?” Altair said, half-teasing and half-surprised.
Malik threw him a harsh look. “Kadar is a grown man. He does not need me to look after him like that.”
“Hm,” said Altair, hiding his mouth behind his fingers, and though the sound was noncommittal, Malik heard the question in it anyway.
Of course, that didn't mean he had to answer.
“How unfortunate that you will have to suffer my company alone,” he said instead. Malik thumbed though the pages of his book, the paper sharp and crisp enough to cut a finger on. Altair himself was obviously no fan of the written word, or generally anyone's word other than his own for that matter, and the extensive royal library was aged more by time than by use.
“Indeed,” said Altair, watching him from his pillows and making no effort to hide it. Malik could feel the weight of his eyes on his back and wondered what it was Altair was looking for – maybe a more thorough explanation, a crack in his guard, the imaginary outline of a missing limb. Maybe it was something Malik had, for once, but was no less inclined or capable of giving. When Malik's patience finally wore thin enough for him to slam the book shut in his hand and raise his eyes, Altair smiled, looking pleased enough with himself that Malik half-entertained the idea of opening another just to see if the expression would wane.
“After all,” the king said, straightening his back, “the money I spent hiring you was supposed to be used for company in the first place, but I suppose you will have to do.”
For a second, Malik wondered if that was intentional, but Altair was not the most eloquent of rulers and certainly no scholar. He had won his kingship at sword-point rather than by rhetoric, so when he said 'hire,' he meant 'hire,' and not some dressed-up euphemism for buying a slave. The harshness in Malik's face softened, and Altair must have been watching for that, too, because his grin grew wider. He held out a hand. “Come here.”
Malik shot him an incredulous look. “I hope you don't expect me to kiss your hand. That is what I hear the Europeans do, and it is not my duty to be entertaining your whims.” Nonetheless, he stepped forward.
There were only eight or so paces separating the two of them, and the fifth one put him into the sunlight streaming from the large, open window both supported by and ornamented with curving iron belts. Altair often stood by this window, staring out at the country he owned but could not control. When he got to his feet, Malik thought that he might be moving to do the same, except the man's face suddenly twisted into a snarl, vicious enough that the one-armed guard was taken slightly aback. Before he could beat a hasty retreat back, the king barreled into him, knocking him to the ground on his back.
Instantly winded, there was a split second in mid-fall during which Malik reflexively braced himself for the inevitable impact as his body hit stone, but Altair's hand cradled the back of his head before the collision could give him a concussion.
Malik looked up to find Altair on his hands and knees (a king), hovering above him, his face turned to the side to glare at the arrow embedded deep into the wood at chest height, in direct parallel to where the guard had been standing just a moment ago. The king's white robes fell around them like a blanket, tented by the arch of the younger man's backa cloth cocoon.
“Altair, what...?” Pulling the protective hand away from his head, Malik slid himself up, kicking at the ground until he could push into a sitting position while Altair drew his knees up into a crouch. The king's face was grim and he kept low, where no projectile could reach them, a hand yanking on Malik's wrist to keep him down and close.
“That is a Masyaf arrow,” he muttered, grim and eyes fixed on the single white eagle feather adorning the end of the bolt. It swayed lightly in the air circulating around the room, and Malik was not at all surprised to consider the men of Masyaf the type to adorn their arrows with such things, just so that the blood of their victims could catch in the downy vane. Maybe they even collected them, like war trophies, pinned them to the wall as evidence of their prowess.
“For you?” Malik asked, frowning. He had not forgotten Altair's words of warning, and after meeting with many key members of the nobility, he did not doubt them either.
“No,” Altair said, and he turned to Malik, something uncharacteristic making his skin draw tight between his eyes. He looked guilty, almost apologetic. The hand on Malik's wrist loosened until it was barely a caress. “For you, so that I may come later.”
Malik felt the hurried beating of his heart slow as it recovered from shock, but he was not troubled. He was a fighter, after all, had been his entire life. With their village burned, their homes ransacked and his limb severed, he was accustomed to loss. Being a guard entailed it, and though he would not normally trade his life for this man, he would for his honor, his duty, and his pride. Perhaps that is what Altair saw in them in the first place. (It was a good guess, because Altair had seen something, if honor, duty and pride were colored blue.)
Drawing back, Altair's face shuttered in, and he turned away. “Get Kadar, bring him here.”
Malik stared at his back. Even though he watched for it, that rigid frame did not tremble. 'Who is protecting who?' he wanted to ask, but since his brother was not one of the things he was willing to lose, he rolled onto his feet and obeyed.
“I understand,” Kadar said, leaning back against the pillows Altair had vacated for him. For the most part, he had recovered from the heavy spices of local cuisine running their course through his system, especially after spending a good portion of the morning throwing it back up. For now, he was simply letting his body recuperate from its weary battle.
In a strict show of not being his nursemaid, Malik was adamantly keeping his distance, sitting on a chair near the other end of the room, though he raised his head whenever his brother spoke.
“You do?” Altair asked, sounding bewildered. He looked between the two of them, looking as though they were at battle again, like he was trying to decipher a trap the brothers had lay.
“You look a little lost, your majesty,” Malik mimicked, smirking with his teeth.
Altair recognized the jab, judging from the way his brows drew together. “But your lives will be at stake, along with mine. I can't hire guards for my guards, you understand. The both of you are at peril. If you desire so, I can make room for the both of you in the fields, and I swear to you that no one will be-”
“Do not be so presumptuous as to pretend to know what it is we desire,” Malik interrupted, getting up and dropping his book onto his unoccupied seat. “We are guards, as you said. We understand the risks. You tell us you are the king of this country, but you cannot comprehend the idea of someone putting themselves in danger for your sake?” he asked, not expecting an answer and not allowing time for it, in case Altair asked him if it was for his sake, and what that implied. “We have told you before, we do not run from anything, and we will do the job we have chosen.”
Altair frowned, but he looked caught between displeasure and pleasant surprise at the same time, one masquerading as the other out of fear of weakness. He understood the principle, had heard it in stories of foreign lands, but understanding loyalty and seeing it were two different things, like knowing about the sunrise and actually watching it. One was given information; the other stole your breath away. He remained incredulous still, muttering, “The one you were given, you mean.”
“The one we have chosen, he means,” Kadar supplied helpfully, before clutching his arms around his stomach and groaning, rolling onto his side to face the two of them with his back.
For a long moment, Altair did not say anything. He had blocked the window with a sheer cloth, weighted down with crimson tassels, before the brothers had returned. The material was thin enough to let some light through, but thick enough that it would impede any serious attempt on their lives. The arrow had also been removed, and where Altair had stowed that away was impossible to tell. When he did speak, he only managed a short, confused, “Why?”
“I do not like owing people things,” Malik said, averting his eyes. “You helped us in the slave market, but now we are even. We will serve well and earn our freedom, as agreed.” Then, he dragged them back, suspicious. “Surely, you are not afraid for our sake,” he said, but didn't ask.
Altair heard the question in it, too, narrowing his eyes. “I do not like owing people things either.”
There were no grateful words or tearful acknowledgments. They were not that sort of people, and Altair was not that gracious a king. Instead, he paced around the floor for a good few minutes, quiet and without a sound, like that vizier the brothers had hardly taken to, almost as if he were flying, eagle-like, instead of walking like a man. At last, he stopped, directly in front of the window he had blockaded, its hazy light making his edges seem just the slightest bit more rounded, but that, most surely, was an illusion of the light.
“Very well,” he said at length. “Then you will earn your freedom when you have killed nine men for me. I already have their names; I had just thought we would have more time before they struck.” He sighed, and it was the first indication the brothers had ever seen of the king being anything but infallible. “They are the ones behind this treason.”
“Your proof?” Malik asked. “A king surely has to justify the reason for his executions to the public. He cannot just start killing people in broad daylight.”
“What?” Altair said, finally smiling, all energy and bull-headed courage. Without quite realizing, Malik felt himself returning the grin, drawn in to strength like a moth to a flame, but he only allowed himself one step before he stopped himself, an instinctive reaction to the danger that lay ahead, in their futures, in everything that surrounded this man. He only halted, however, and did not run, which meant that Altair was free to step forward and close that distance, if he so desired. “I am king,” he said, “Everything is permitted.”
[1] - Slaves were referred to as 'ma malakat aymanukum,' literally translated as 'that which the right hand possesses' rather than the actual word for 'slave,' which was 'abd.'
[2] - It was possible for slaves in the Islamic Slave system to request freedom from their masters, given due service. It was also possible for them to collect donation money to buy their own freedom, according to the Qu'ran.
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Date: 2011-04-25 05:54 am (UTC)*waiting impatiently for the next chunk*
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Date: 2011-04-30 04:00 am (UTC)I AM SO HAPPY I FOUDN YOU AFTER THAT BEAUTIFUL FIC IN THE AC MEME, I was bawling no when I was done because your writing is just so fantastic and just so beautiful - SO GLAD I WAS ABLE TO FIND YOU! *U* Now I can read your gorgeous writing
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Date: 2011-04-30 04:42 am (UTC)