Work Text:
The night was cold, and seemed ever-lasting. The clouds rolled in from the north, and with them, they brought a storm so fierce that every citizen of Jerusalem ran for cover. The city was awash with white noise; the patter of the quickened pace of traders trying to restore their goods, the cries of soaked children looking for their parents amid the drenched town square, and the rumbling roars that cast themselves down from the skies, echoing across the stretch of land.
“Assassin!”
A man, his eyes shadowed by the soaked hood of his weapon-covered white robe, cursed aloud, and ducked back out of his cover on one of the few rooftop gardens around him. He surveyed his surroundings as he ran, his boots smacking against the puddles forming on the stone houses. His breathing was heavy, uneven, rushing past his cracked, pale lips.
He lost his footing on the next rooftop, and gasped, his left hand immediately going to his side, hovering, but not touching. An arrow protruded out from the flesh of his flank, the blood camouflaged by the red sash bound around his waist.
“Get him!”
He didn’t look back, knowing that in that the split second of distraction could cost him his life. He looked onward, and saw no other means of escape.
The water below him was thrashing in the storm, its surface rippling with each strong droplet that fell from the dark grey clouds.
His heart seemed to pound in time with the raindrops, beating so quickly he feared it would burst from his chest.
He moved slowly towards the plank of wood at the edge of the building, his hands trembling, the uncontrollable shaking would usually make him feel weak, but now, all he could focus on was the tints of red he thought he could see in the depths of the water.
“There he is!”
There was no choice. Malik was counting on him. The bloodied feather tucked away, deep in one of his pouches, protected from the storm, was like a weight. He was aware of its presence, of the peace that the man’s death would bring the city. He forced himself to look away from the churning water, and for a moment, focused on the skies, wishing for the storm to halt, for a hint of light blue to break apart the grey. An icy hand gripped at his heart, its claws closing around the muscle, and squeezing.
He pushed off from the ledge, and jumped downwards. His arms outstretched towards the water like an embrace of death.
There was a crash as he hit the surface of the river, and disappeared into its depths.
“Where has he gone?” A guard loudly asked, stopping in his tracks, and looking around in confusion.
“This is a waste of time, we can’t see anything in this storm.”
The first guard huffed, looking around at the small group. “Fine. Let’s head back.”
His head broke the surface of the water, violently. He gasped, drawing in as much air as he could, spluttering around the cold water. He felt like there were hands grabbing at his clothing, pulling, pushing, shoving him in all directions. He couldn’t breathe, the air wasn’t enough, the chill of the water had seeped through his skin, down into his very essence. He couldn’t breathe.
In his struggles to properly tread the water, the weak shaft of the arrow broke against the bank, jarring his wound, and pulling the arrowhead through more of his skin. The bleeding started anew, and the red liquid spread like spilt ink in the river. Instead of focusing on this image, he closed his eyes, and focused on the pain. Felt the fire burning in his skin. He scrambled to grasp the edge of the bank, scratching his hands on debris as he pulled himself up.
He knelt on the bank for a few moments, his chest heaving while he took in large gulps of air. Under his hood, his eyes were bright and glazed. He shook his head, and stumbled to his feet.
The journey back to the centre of the city, to the bureau, was as exhausting as it was treacherous. Despite the heavy downpour, and the flooding in parts of the city, the guards stayed vigilant. His injury was jostled from clinging onto the edge of rooftops, and diving into damp haystacks.
The ladder that leads up to the bureau’s hatch was a welcome sight, and as soon as he saw the grate, he slipped down, grabbed the edge, and dropped into the bureau with a quiet grunt. Blood splattered onto the ground where he fell.
He stopped there, knelt on the ground, one hand supporting his body, and the other closed against his wound, and listened. He could hear Malik’s quill scratching against parchment in the first room, and the rain was letting up now.
“You’ll get sick if you stay out there, novice,” the Dai’s voice floated out to him.
He staggered upwards, dragging his tired body towards the doorway, and leaning against it, just out of the rain.
Malik was leaning over the desk, updating mission reports. He didn’t look up as he continued speaking.
“What took you so long? Every other group has come back already.”
The silence stretched on, only filled with the sound of water dripping off of a red-stained robe, and the scratching of the quill’s nib.
Finally, it was too much, and Malik looked up.
“Altaïr?”
Concern wove through Malik’s exclamation of alarm. The man leap over the desk, and was by Altaïr’s side like a flash of lightening, tugging at the hand he’d closed over his wound. The Dai hissed at the temperature of his skin.
“You’re freezing, let’s get these off of you...” Malik laid his hands over the fastenings of Altaïr’s robes, and suddenly stopped, realising the man hadn’t moved or spoken since entering the building. He pulled back Altaïr’s hood, revealing the man’s fever-glazed eyes. The dull gold concerned him more than anything else.
“Shit. Altaïr? Altaïr, can you hear me?” He cupped his hand over the other man’s cheek, and tilted his head. It took a few seconds, but the golden eyes cleared, and the wounded man gazed back at Malik.
“I... Yes. I c’n.”
His voice was trembling.
Malik caressed the man’s face, running his fingers over the cold skin under his right eye. Gentle, as he was in their quieter times, when no one else could witness these moments.
“I’m going to take your clothes off, alright? You’re getting sick, and I need to dress that wound,” Malik explained.
“... O-okay. Yes. Th’t’s. Th’t’s fine.”
Malik reached down to the sash at Altaïr’s waist, and the man flinched back, his eyes clearing a little more.
“Wait. Wait,” Altaïr’s trembling hand reached into a pouch on his right, and pulled out a feather swaddled in cloth. It was red. “He’s...”
Malik took the feather from Altaïr, and tucked it into a pouch of his own, hating to see the man struggling so much. “It’s alright. You did well. Let me take care of you now.”
“I... Did well?” Altaïr said, disbelief in his voice.
“Yes,” Malik soothed, running his hand through Altaïr’s wet hair. “You did well.”
Altaïr leant into the touch, heart still racing. It was too open here, too close to the rain. He could still feel the water all around him, seeping into his skin. He felt like he was freezing and burning at the same time, but that made no sense.
“Mal... I d’n’t... I d’n’t underst’nd what’s happ’ning.”
His golden eyes stared into Malik’s deep brown ones, saw the worry there, but could not understand why. He heard Malik sigh, not in frustration, like he’d expected, but with compassion. A small, audible release of air, combined with the feeling of the man’s calloused hand cupping the back of his head. Malik leant forward, and touched his forward against Altaïr’s.
“It’s alright. Come with me, I’ve got you.”
Malik wrapped his arm around Altaïr’s waist, carefully avoiding the partial arrow shaft digging into his side, and half-carried him to the back room which served as his bedroom during the night.
Thunder crashed outside, startling Altaïr into flinching. Malik held him tighter as he grit his teeth, and a hiss forced its way past his scarred lips.
“Shh, almost there,” Malik soothed, pushing the door to his room open with his hip.
Manoeuvring Altaïr towards the bed was a challenge, but it wasn’t impossible. The man was pliant in his wounded state, and Malik was certain he was in shock.
“Do you remember when I taught you to swim?” Malik said, hoping the conversation would help centre Altaïr as he began disrobing him.
He spoke softly as he stripped him of his weapons, dropping the knives and blades onto the table next to the bed. “It was far too warm, and Al Mualim had given us the day off. You’d been teased by some of the other novices again, and though you were calm about it, I was not.” He quickly divested Altaïr of his boots and breeches, kicking them over to the corner.
“I vowed to teach you, and I spent the day with you in the river, helping you learn to tread water. You were always so scared, the one thing that scared you back then. But I promised you’d be okay if I was nearby.” He unwound the sash from Altaïr’s waist with the utmost care. There was a darker patch of red on the fabric, and where it had lain atop his robes, the blood from the arrow wound had spread in all directions.
“You wouldn’t tell me why you were scared, but you always relaxed when I said that.”
Making a decision, Malik picked up one of the discarded knives, and cut the fabric around the arrow. He gently pulled the ruined robes away from Altaïr’s body, and untied his loincloth, dropping the items to join the pile of clothing.
“You came back to me, didn’t you? I did promise after all. As long as I’m nearby, you’ll be alright.”
Altaïr stayed quiet as Malik lowered him down onto the bed, deadly silent apart from the chattering of his teeth as the Dai violently pulled open a draw built into the underside of the table, and grabbed a wad of clean linen from its depths.
Malik left the linen next to Altaïr’s stomach, and sat astride his legs, within reach of the contents of the open draw. He stopped for a moment, placed his hand over Altaïr’s heart, and looked into the man’s eyes.
“This is going to hurt. Stay with me.”
Somehow, Altaïr managed the smallest smirk, and willed his chilled body to relax. Malik counted down in his head, gripped the arrow shaft, and yanked it out, immediately throwing it to the floor, and covering Altaïr’s wound with the clean linen. He held it there, pressing down onto the injury, and looked back up to Altaïr, who hadn’t made a sound, but had thrown his head back into the pillow, and gripped his right hand around Malik’s thigh.
“It’s alright, Habibi. The worst is over. Breathe for me, you’re far too pale.”
“...Albi?” Altaïr whispered, his hand tightening around Malik’s leg with all his remaining strength.
“Yes?”
“...’m sorry.”
Malik’s expression fell, and in that moment, he wished nothing more than to have his other hand so he could touch Altaïr and tend to him at the same time. But he could not take pressure off of the wound while blood still spilt from his lover’s body and stained the linen red. But he could talk to him, could reassure him, and comfort him that way.
“Why, Habibi?”
“...Almost didn’t... back to you.”
“Shh, I’m here. You’re going to be fine. You’ve survived so much worse than this,” Malik soothed, lifting up the linen and checking the wound. The blood had almost stopped flowing, and the warmth of the room had taken most of Altaïr’s shivers away.
“No oth’r way. So c’ld... Wonder... fath’r was scarred wh’n he fell... too...? It was rain...ing th’n, too...”
Malik sat, unmoving, starring down at Altaïr, comprehension dawning on his face. “It’s alright, Altaïr. You don’t need to talk. Rest. Please, rest. It’s alright. It’s alright.”
“Th’y took... Took h’m aw’y fr’m me, Mal... I jump’d like he fell... Blood in the w’ter,” Altaïr mumbled.
Malik withdrew the linen, and tried to move off of Altaïr’s legs, but the man shifted his hand to Malik’s hip, and slowly moved it upwards towards his chest.
“...Albi.”
Malik watched Altaïr’s gold eyes disappear and reappear behind slow-blinking eyelids, weariness in every line of the man’s face.
“D’n’t want... lose you.”
Malik laid his hand over Altaïr’s, and pulled it up to his lips, lightly kissing the scratched skin.
“I’m here. Rest.”
Altaïr’s eyes finally closed, his entire body going limp with exhaustion.
Malik worked through the rest of the storm, cleaning the blood from Altaïr’s side, disinfecting the irritated wound, stitching it closed, and cautiously wrapping soft bandages around the eagle’s waist. Altaïr didn’t wake during the procedure, nor did he wake when Malik tended to his hands; lovingly washing each of his extremities. His palms were more cut up than either of them had noticed at first, and there were several other abrasions over his arms and legs. His lover had struggled outside, through the worst storm Jerusalem had seen in many months, and he hadn’t known at all.
Malik assumed, from the state of Altaïr, and what the man had feverishly whispered, that he’d had to dive into the river to hide. The Dai became concerned about possible infection on top of the illness Altaïr was sure to acquire from this incident.
He laid a wet cloth over Altaïr’s eyes, stripped, and joined him under the covers, holding him close to ensure his temperature returned to normal as quickly as possible.
“Idiot,” he whispered into the darkness. “Idiot. I won’t lose you, too.”