Chapter Text
The alien boy stands silently in the foyer, looking lost, a bastard son among all the regalia of a proud family history that he will never really be a true part of. He stares up at the coat of arms hanging above his head with soft eyes, unsure of himself just as much as his surroundings, just before the double doors swing wide and a younger man, coppery-skinned and handsome with his heavy, contemplative brows and full lips, beckons him in. Altaïr proceeds without question or hesitation, keeping his sharp perception tuned on the boy - only about as young as him, which is young enough, but softened by a life of ease - while he passes. The hall is like the entrance to some grand cathedral, in some ways, spreading before him, intimidating and hallowed, sacred beyond the respect that he can offer. The floor, so much hard marble, is unrolled with luxuriously plush carpet, crimson and artfully spiraling with scrolls and banners, the gentle olive drab of ivy and the same sword-decked crest of a family to which he will never really belong, the open and beckoning want of something that ties him in hidden just within.
The delta, the chevron, but softer. A symbol that’s not tied to any known words. He is almost reticent to tread there, skirting the forlorn maria who holds her beloved son’s broken body, the caress of feeling coming from the pieta coating him in a gentle reverence. Polished, and carved teak walls welcome with their warm hazel hue, but do not embrace him. He passes like something unseen, while what feels like a thousand marble eyes and oil frowns stare into their own intimidating little worlds. Both young men are ghosts. The copper-cast youth tramples the coat of arms with an air of familiarity, caressing the silk-veiled face of some nameless Hellenic queen as he passes, feeling her white folds full of guilty pleasure in something that should be soft and light but is cold and hard beneath his fingertips.
He falls in shoulder to shoulder with the drab golden visitor, also not looking, also unnervingly quiet as though his guest was never there at all. Tapestried doorways shudder with veiled conversation, the whole household astir with whispers of a nameless master from a far away land they’ve never seen. If the foreign boy were less cowed by such austere surroundings, maybe he’d lift his voice to ask why they don’t peek, why they remain just out of sight, but the coppery one with his thick black hair bound by a crimson ribbon seems lost in his own thoughts, fingering the rounded metal buckle holding the leather that girds his narrow-tapered waist. His stroll is loose, a gentle flow next to the catlike prowl of the Syrian.
This is what he hears behind each woven divide. The Syrian Master. A son of none. A ghost with the blade and the Creed. Someone who comes bearing some wild and exotic gift. Someone who comes to speak with their shadowy master. He isn’t unused to this kind of chatter, but he’s not used to the plethora of diversity. The accents almost twine with one another, melding into some great and multinational fabric as beautiful and luxurious as the threaded coverings over the doors that depict battles and domesticities that have long passed over the face of this place. Altaïr brushes one as he passes, hears the familiar rattle of a tongue that spoke the language of his father once.
Umar. May he rest easy, because his son has followed the hard path that was set for him at birth. Altaïr, the boy prodigy, the pride of his Arabic roots, the shame of his mother’s more pacifistic ways. But he never knew his mother and strangely feels no shame for the dishonor she must wear on her head. It’s an ugly mark, he bears. He doesn’t even notice the way he carries his mutilated left hand close to his body. The mark is still fresh, still hurts him.
The endless tapestries open into a wide room, white and crisply clean, accented by teak and warm brown drapes, picture windows that suggest the age of this place, though it pales in comparison to the treasures that adorn the hall and the walls, seems modern compared to the stone masonry of the place in which he was born and learned his trade. The deep red glow of an antique mahogany desk commands the eye, and Altaïr hesitates at the door, even though the one showing him in simply saunters right through the sudden heaviness of the air with the ease of complacency and perhaps some sort of ignorance to it. The kid settles himself on a deep brown velvet settee, lounging a bit. The desk looms just aside, absurdly large, clean except for a black leather-bound planner and a wide, consummately elegant blotter, unmarked except for one note scrawled in the corner, elegant script that he can read even from here. Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad. His name, but not his own signature in the snake scrawl of his motherland. What he hopes is just a knick knack of many, a paper weight, leers at him from its perch at the one corner of the desk.
The skull and its full set of teeth grins polished among many a bird skull, what looks like it may have belonged to a house cat once nestled behind, the laced teeth of a hard white dog’s skull - perhaps a wolf, even, from the overly pronounced eye teeth and the general sleekness of profile. A deep red Persian rug spreads, tying the room together almost gently. Altaïr pads near silently in simple leather-soled boots until he stands next to a sleek velvet-upholstered armchair that stands facing the desk at a slight, comforting angle, as though suggesting that the one sitting in it not necessarily be forced to face the scrutiny of the man behind the desk head-on.
Teeth pull at a scarred lip for a moment. It’s an old wound, one he acquired in childhood - from the sword of one of his own brothers - that never really healed to completion. The soft skin inside is unnaturally smooth to his tongue still, the eternal pocks from stitches still dotting its plush, weirdly massive length.
He nearly tears the old scar as the sound of footsteps rise from the open arch of a doorway, stands at strict and uncomfortable attention as the tall, elegant owner of this fine estate strolls into the room in no particular hurry, trim and smartly dressed, still wrapped up in a charcoal gray waistcoat and matching trousers, recently polished black leather dress shoes that are almost definitely as Italian as their owner. He steps in and gently hangs a fitted sports jacket on a hook on the wall and then turns, using both hands to pull back all the luxurious chestnut hair that was previously spilling down around his shoulders in order to tie it back loosely with a leather cord, plops down in his chair with little preamble. When he speaks, his voice is like warmed honey, smooth with a bite in the low tones, an even baritone that fills the room with the playful lilting of a strong Italian accent.
“Welcome to my home,” he purrs, “Please, make yourself comfortable. You’re a most welcome guest here…” He gestures to the armchair with some flourish, and though Altaïr hesitates at first, he lowers himself into the warm, plush confines of deep brown velvet. It nearly consumes him, makes it impossible to sit down at any sort of attention. After a moment of embarrassing swimming, he finally manages to perch on the very edge, noting the shit eating grin on the Italian’s face, for all of his previous politeness. He’s young, Altaïr realizes… much younger than the thin beard and heavy brows would suggest. He has the gently rounded face of someone with eternal youth, mildly heart shaped with a slight widow’s peak and somewhat prominent chin. He purses his full lips for a moment, then quirks an eyebrow.
“I’m sure you already know, by now, my name is Ezio Auditore. This is my home, and the home of all of the men who serve at my side. Our brotherhood is based on the way of life your own ancestors created… so your being here is quite an honor for us… and perhaps an opportunity to learn from you, if that is your wish.”
“It is,” Altaïr replies quietly, lightly accented English. His voice sounds small in the room, but is rough and surprisingly gravelly for a boy his age. He keeps his bright ocher eyes fixed on Ezio’s - a soft, honey brown, but a very close shade to his own - knowing that the man expects something of him, but he’s not entirely sure what. There is no need for introduction, no need for pleasantries. And perhaps this is the difference between their worlds. Altaïr is spartan, needs little to survive, and expects no overtures of politeness with whom he deals on a regular basis. After a long pause in which Ezio clears his throat twice, Altaïr finally concedes. “I am Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad of Masyaf. I need say no more. You already know this.”
“Well,” Ezio replies fluidly, “I had hoped you would say it for me, since I’m still a little shaky on pronunciation. Italian and Arabic are about as far from one another as any two languages can be. Though I’m thankful we don’t require any translation. English is a nice common ground, after all.”
“Where I come from,” Altaïr states, tone cutting like a knife, “We speak out of necessity, and not out of a desire to fill the silence. I am grateful for the… pleasantries, but please, let’s focus on the business at hand.”
In all of his twenty-seven years, Ezio has never quite found himself struck dumb by such a comment, but here he sits in awed silence, head tilted and expression somewhat pained. He’s starting to realize that perhaps not all of their sister clans have been so gentle in handling their children. He nods slowly, and thinks for a moment, not quite about how to broach the subject, the reason for this young master being here, but instead, the right words for such a delicate concept. In the interim, he looks to the boy that showed Altaïr in - Connor, his true name being nigh on unpronounceable, sent here by old friend - and gently waves him off. Connor rises without complaint and exits without a sound.
Once Altaïr is sure the boy is gone, Ezio ends up needing to say absolutely nothing. He withdraws a soft suede-leather pouch places it lightly on the heavy desk, noting the way the wood seems to warp beneath it, a sure sign of what witchcraft is hidden inside. Ezio looks worried, yet oddly calm, does not reach out to take the legendary object, wise for his years, Altaïr thinks.
“The apple,” he announces with a note of reverence, “An artifact left over from ages past. Its destructive power is unparallelled, and yet, only just a figment. It has little power over the physical, but it can sway even the most guarded of minds.” He starts to unfurl the bag and as it slips down, he wonders if Ezio sees what he does, a simple sphere, silvery-gold in color with deep lines etched over its surface, glowing warm and gold with a light all its own. Altaïr lifts the object in his hands, and as he does, it feels warm and soft, peach-fuzz in his hands like something alive, something with a will of its own. But really, he has seen through the illusion long before it could really solidify in his mind. His master, gone mad with power, had taught him long before how to see past the veil… had tempered the boy against the wiles of something so strong, even as he, himself, failed to do so.
He rolls the glowing orb in his hands for a moment while it whispers seductively into his mind, weaving images of the past, the future, a web of lies that are the many divergences of time and space… In one he sees himself, a much older man, kissing his son on the cheek before he goes down to his death in a time before the grind of industrialism. In another, he sees himself in a world ruled by a digital haze, where man is not bound by flesh and blood any more so much as by so much silicon and copper: wires and pins and glass wrapped in flesh, carved into bone. He sees many things, and takes them all with a grain of salt. If nothing else, this wondrous machine is a filthy liar. He places the orb on the table where it settles like a lead weight, not rolling, not even rocking. It just sits, as though the base were somehow flattened.
Ezio stays rooted to his seat, his hands folded lightly on the wood, unable to really say or do much because he is so nonplussed by what seems like a simple ball, but radiates a power he’s never felt before. He looks to the child master for a moment, then nods at the object, reaching a hand out to brush the surface with two fingers. There’s a sudden burst of light and the Italian withdraws as if he were burned, eyes wide. Altaïr can see the panic etched into his consciousness, sees the memories, and gently, he grasps the apple, places it back into the leather pouch in which it has lived for all of the time he has carried it. It goes cold and dead, and the pouch goes back to feeling like it contains little more than a smoothened river stone. Altaïr lets the Italian settle, lets him attempt to make sense of the things he’s been shown, and after a few tense moments, he finally speaks.
“So it is no myth. The thing is exactly as advertized…” he pauses a moment, then shakes his head, slack-jawed and disbelieving in what he’s just experienced. “Porco dio…” He folds in on himself, clearly shaken, and not just by the power, but by something he was shown. Altaïr feels pity, almost brings himself to say something to comfort the man who is in obvious distress, but before he can, Ezio is already rising, pacing back and forth along the wide picture windows that open out onto the square and garden that lay just behind. He paces with his arms folded and broad shoulders squared, left hand lifting to finger his chin while he thinks, and Altaïr can see that this is an old path, oft traced in times of trouble. He remains in his seat, gently lowering the pouch with the apple safely hidden in his lap, thinking for a long time before he opens his mouth again.
“Some say this is the very apple that cast Adam and Eve from Eden… though I can’t speak for the veracity of such a claim, I can understand. But its power, you must realize, comes from deception. Nothing more. The best lies have a little truth to them, I know, but you cannot kill yourself thinking of what may or may not have been, what you could have done. Doubts are the little hesitations that get us killed. You must know this.”
From Ezio’s pained expression, he can tell that no, he can’t have heard the truth of this before. Altaïr rises, and though his stature is not so impressive, though his body is still boyish and underdeveloped and he still has the face of a child, there is something so uncannily old in his eyes, some wisdom that far surpasses his years. He steps around the side of the desk, leaving the apple to languish in the grip of the armchair, alone, and he can feel its yearning for his touch even so, haunting him. For now, though, he comes to Ezio’s side and places a delicately boned hand on his arm, supporting, perhaps a little more open than he necessarily would be.
“I will teach you,” he promises, “I’ve nowhere else to go. Surely you understand that.”
“I do.”
There’s a long pause before Ezio finally sighs and nods, lowers his heavy hand to cover Altaïr’s squeezing a little, though he starts, looking down at the fine digits lined up beneath his palm… There, where the ring finger should be, there is little more than the small, rounded nub, severed away at the second knuckle. Altaïr is not repelled by the sudden attention, but remains silent as the grave, face emotionless and unreadable. The scar is fresh… perhaps still painful, but it doesn’t seem to cause him and discomfort when Ezio takes that hand into both of his own to examine the way muscle and tendon were completely separated, the precision with which the digit was removed. He looks to Altaïr questioningly, but the boy only turns it around, gently takes Ezio’s left hand to run his finger over the burnt-in scar on his own ring finger. His eyes are soft, the color of wet sand on the beach, and he smiles a little, something that warms the hardness of his face, smooths the mask he wears, makes him seem more his age. He turns Ezio’s hand over, admiring a little.
“Soft,” he murmurs quietly, running a fingertip over the length of his lifeline, tracing it all the way down through the palm to the wrist. “My people demanded sacrifice before right was extended to us… to prove my dedication to the creed, and in order to wield the weapon of our fathers, I gave my flesh and bone. It is our way. I see that you also follow the custom, though it’s more ceremonial than anything else.”
“Yes,” Ezio replies gently, placing his free hand on one of Altaïr’s narrow shoulders, noting the seeming frailty of him, the way it seems like he has been mistreated, starved. “We… don’t understand the harshness of your ways. Perhaps… it’s just the difference in our cultures.”
“My father was forbidden from loving me,” Altaïr states, as if this were as normal a thing as breathing, and Ezio’s heart breaks into what feels like a million tiny shards, all digging at the same time. He grips Altaïr’s shoulder a little tighter, and the young master looks up to him, a breeze of confusion washing over him before he recovers. “I never knew my mother, really… though that was not something that anyone could have changed… just fate. It was as it was meant to be. I was bonded to my master as if he were my own flesh and blood. No earthly ties to any but our master and to our brothers… But I saw through the lies.” He sighs a little, thinking, gently squeezes Ezio’s hand and then breaks away. “It’s a story for another time. I’ll assume you’ve set up a place for me.
“Of course!” Ezio sputters, straightening up suddenly. “Cazzo, how rude of me! You must be tired… it’s a long journey you’ve made to come to this place.”
Altaïr nods as the man bustles along with some sense of urgency. There’s no need, really, so he slips to the armchair, retrieving the pouch in which the apple resides, gently looping the leather drawstrings over a notch in his belt and replacing the upper part of his almost ancient-looking robes to cover it. This is about the time that he notices that Ezio is staring, perhaps enamored, but offering no explanation. Ezio no longer sees a boy, but the man he will become, fine gossamer-white brocade catching light and reflecting it back, the full regalia flashing white, gently draped with the lustrous black of a Grandmaster. And then, like a flash, it’s the boy again, wearing the monkish white linen of his forefathers, the simple leather boots, hood folded back for now, draped over the loose upper meant for shoulder much broader than the ones that fill it.
“Come. We’ve set aside a place for you… and we’ll have a meal sent up, though I was told that I should ask you what you would like. A… the son of an old friend said that there are some things from which you might abstain…”
“I’m not picky,” the boy assures, falling in behind Ezio as the man leads him through an arch toward where the halls become private libraries, alcoves, the occasional lavish sitting room. “I prefer… less meat in my diet, though. It’s nothing to do with religious beliefs or health concerns… more or less just preference.”
“I’ll take that concern to the chef,” Ezio rumbles, though he sounds a little worried, already.
It’s far beyond what Altaïr was expecting, and a little smile crosses his scarred lips, though he’s not entirely sure why. He keeps up and wipes his expression again. There’s little conversation after that, and Ezio finally stops before the entrance to a rich red room, decorated in deep crimson and the occasional plush bloom of emerald. The bed looks roughly the size of a continent, decked with more pillows than any one man would ever need, and dressing the hardwood floor, a great, round Persian rug stretches languidly, begging to be used. It’s simply the most luxurious thing the boy has ever seen, and initially, he’s taken aback, more used to spartan rooms in which he squeezed himself into the most comfortingly small place.
Ezio notices the unease immediately.
“If it’s not to your liking, we can find you other accommodations, of course…” he offers almost gently, as if he may be interrupting something. Altaïr only shakes his head, though, stepping through the doorway like a deer coming out into a clearing. He stops by one of the tall, carved-wood bedposts, feeling the way the scrolls curl down its narrow girth, noting the lack of grit and dust even in this well hidden crevice. The blanket laid over the bed’s wide expanse is heavy and plush like velvet under his fingertips, and he has to wonder how all this lavish wealth came upon the Italian. As if reading his mind, Ezio speaks.
“My father was a banker. At least, that was his day job… I was groomed to follow in his footsteps… and in some ways, I still do, though what things my father did by night, I do on a pretty nine-to-five schedule, if you take my meaning.”
It’s almost sad, Altaïr thinks, feeding off of the emotions that radiate off of the elegant Italian standing no more than five feet away. Something happened, and he knows it, but he can’t quite put a finger on it just yet. That, he knows, will take some time… and perhaps they can swap stories soon enough. There’s much to discuss between the two of them.
“I think… this is more than sufficient,” Altaïr purrs softly, “Thank you… your generosity is overwhelming.”
He pauses for a while, then sets about removing his robes, notes the way that Ezio vanishes wordlessly, closing the door behind him in order to give the younger man some privacy. The layers shed away, and what’s revealed is a thin, wiry boy, carved as if from hard wood or stone, the starved frame of a man who has known lean times and simple surroundings. He has the physique of a killer, long and lean in all the right places, sculpted and chiseled to perfection by years of running, climbing, leaping, and falling. He toes off his unbuckled boots and steps out of them, standing naked as the day he was born in the warm sunlight pouring through the window. His reflection in a great, full-length mirror catches his eye, and he turns to examine his own body, seeing the changes that have come over the years, knowing that there are still more to come. It’s strange, he thinks, to feel as he does before his body has even finished growing into adulthood.
He smirks a little and turns, the deep, glossy scars marring his back like tiger stripes catching light as he does. There are clothes in the wardrobe for him, already folded neatly into place. They are simple things, meant to fit all manner of shapes and sizes, and he laughs because the thin t-shirt he puts on seems comically large on his slight frame. The pants are little more than pajamas, but he doesn’t mind. They are not unlike what he wears beneath his robes in form and function, though much less tight. He feels comfortable, though the attire is foreign.
A knock at the door startles him, and he rushes to stash the apple in a drawer, nestled among a pile of folded shirts. The boy who enters brings along with him a small platter laid out with various foods… dried and fresh fruits, a few slices of what looks like cold chicken, cheeses, and a few pieces of candied nuts. He smiles brightly, his face oddly familiar, though Altaïr thinks he has never seen eyes so strikingly blue against the almost mahogany backdrop of dark hair and warm, sunkissed skin. His gaze lingers, and the boy laughs at him - he must be a few years younger at least, but wears the red sash of a novice… one that looks like it could have come from his own clan.
“You’re an awkward one, aren’t you?” the boy chuckles, and though he’s softened now by youth, Altaïr can already see the sharp, hawkish features that will dominate his expression sooner or later. Yes… Altaïr thinks he knows now… those eyes are rare among those who are wholly of middle-eastern descent, and the hardness of this boy’s features are almost smoothened by a tamer, more European softness… a lot like his own very distinctive features, but this boy is dark… So dark and exotic that it makes his eyes burn. Altaïr attempts to shake it off as the boy settles the tray of food on the bed and climbs up to sit next to it. He can’t be more than fifteen, maybe even younger, and there’s an innocence to him that Altaïr just can’t ignore.
He tries again, this time in the familiar bark of Arabic, sliding so easily off his tongue as if it was his first and only language… and perhaps, Altaïr thinks, it is his first language. It must be, really. Altaïr struggles to catch up, to process what’s going on, but is largely unsuccessful before the boy is laughing at him again, though it’s far from mocking laughter… more a sort of bemused curiosity.
"Ezio said you came from Syria. My brother and I came from that place too. We had to run away, because my brother said he didn’t want me to have to kill. Our father wouldn’t have wanted that, I guess.” He’s so easy in his explanations, so gentle and honest that it makes Altaïr feel ingenuine. He’s back to incomprehensibly stuttering as the boy hops off the bed again, picking a candied nut off of the tray, and while Altaïr flounders, unsure of whether to speak, run, or strike, the boy pops the sugary treat into his mouth, smiling wide. “They’re good, aren’t they? Ezio makes them for us sometimes. His are the best.”
Altaïr holds the sweet morsel on his tongue for a long while - unused to such decadence - then slowly chews, breaking the savory meat of the walnut up into the syrupy sweet of sugar and cinnamon, perhaps a dash of cardamom. His eyes widen, and the younger boy is laughing again, the sort of musical, side-split huffing that becomes contagious in a room full of people. Altaïr nearly trips over himself as the boy drags him to the bed and forces him to sit, stacking sharp white cheddar on one of the slices of meat and gently forcing it on the older boy, bit by bit feeding him the entire plate - though not without sneaking a few pieces himself. They share the candied nuts in silence, though the blue-eyed child smiles the whole time, perhaps caught up in his own thoughts. Altaïr watches him in bemused silence for a moment, and then, after a moment taken to collect himself, he speaks, slow and methodical.
“I… was raised at Masyaf.” It’s soft, perhaps a little shy, but entices more reaction from the boy than he expected, as though this single fact elevated him to a godlike status.
“You saw the castle?” he chirps, sitting up straight as a bolt. Despite himself, Altaïr warms, smiling a bit as he reaches up to brush a few crumbs from the corner of the boy’s mouth with all of the gentle patience of a much older sibling. He nods a little and sighs, staring off toward the sprawling view of the garden that his window gives him.
“It was… a very old place. Almost alive. You could feel the walls around you like they were breathing. And there were ghosts.”
“Real ghosts? Like in the movies?”
“No, not in that way, but sometimes, if I really focused on them, I could see them,” he notes the way the boy wilts when he dashes those hopes, but thinks for a moment, leans in and whispers. “I knew better than to go at night alone, though… because they said that little boys would go missing in the night, and nothing would be left but a pile of bloody clothes.”
“That’s awful!” the boy squawks, “It can’t be true!”
“Maybe it was,” Altaïr puffs, “Perhaps it wasn’t, but I never tried my luck. I wasn’t too keen on being some lonely old ghost’s dinner. Though I heard they liked chubby little boys more than stringy ones like me…” He pokes at the boy’s side, amused by the give, and the kid nearly jumps out of his skin, squeaking indignantly over the invasion of his privacy.
“I’m not chubby!” he barks, poking right back, but finding that there is very little give if any at all in Altaïr’s hard belly. He blinks and pokes again, face screwing up with equal parts concern and confusion.
"Alright, think what you like, but you’re still chubby to me, Chubby…” Altaïr chuckles, doesn’t fight it when the boy pounces on him playfully, attempting to tickle him into submission - admittedly with a good deal of success.
“Okay, okay! You win,” he minces out between shaky breaths full of near silent laughter, squirming a bit and gently trying to push him off. “You win, Chubby.”
“My name is Kadar, not Chubby!”
“Kadar…” Altaïr rumbles thickly, and the blue eyed boy smiles that same, broad and unrelenting smile that he entered with and has been wearing almost constantly ever since. “Alright, then Kadar. You may call me Altaïr.”
“Altaïr?” the boy cocks his head like a puppy hearing a new sound for the first time. “You are Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad?”
“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” the young assassin quips, gently poking at Kadar’s soft stomach, but the boy straddling his waist seems to have changed, perhaps distancing himself a little with a small frown on his face. Altaïr hesitates, feels himself instinctively putting up that wall, sensing that he’ll be alone in the world again just as soon as he thinks he’s made a friend. It’s always this way.
“Why do they call you a son of no one?” the boy asks, cheekily flopping down with his folded arms perched on Altaïr’s bunched chest. He doesn’t seem to notice the whuff of air it knocks out of the older boy’s lungs. “That’s what your name means, right?”
“It does…” Altaïr intones quietly, not sure how to really explain it. “But my father’s name was Umar… He… he bore that title as well. It’s just as it was supposed to remain, I guess…”
“Did you have a mother?” Kadar asks, clearly being eaten up by curiosity, but he seems to notice the way Altaïr tenses, becomes a little distant.
“Her name was Maud… I… don’t remember her very well,” he replies with some honesty. He closes his eyes and thinks, feeling Kadar get a little more comfortable. “She had… red hair. Soft red hair that smelled like honey and roses. And she was pale. Her eyes were gray. I do not remember much else.”
“I never met my mother either,” Kadar intones softly. “My brother and I… we’ve just always been on our own, I think… though he remembers our father better than I--”
“Kadar!”
The voice is sharp, almost spiteful. The boy springs up and off the bed, and Altaïr can both feel and hear the slap of bare feet on carpet and wood planks. Altaïr sits up slowly, his eyes flowing to the doorway where another stands, tall and lean, stretched by maturity, and very clearly well cut beneath his fitted clothing. His deep red-wine eyes are focused on the stranger with strict mistrust, lips pressed into a hard line. Altaïr thinks he can see some familiarity in the shape of those eyes and the hawkish nose, but his brow is heavy and prone to expressions of mistrust and upset, his jaw too heavy for them to be blood brothers. Both of them have the raven black hair of their homeland, though, and a few wiry hairs remain unkempt on this new boy’s chin.
“I’ve told you a million times, you aren’t to bother the guests. Perhaps he is a novice, but I doubt he wants you crawling all over him. You’re late for your lessons.” He uses their mother tongue like a lash, gives the younger boy a light swat on the back of the head. “Move! The Master will be furious!”
Kadar is already on his way out, and this dark stranger looks like he’s about to just turn and leave, but Altaïr sends a clear shock through him, delighting in how awkward and unused the expression seems.
“He was not bothering me, I assure you, brother.”
The boy’s lip curls, then and he seems like he might strike out, but instead, he comes in and does something of a quick bow, never really taking his eyes off of Altaïr’s bird bright gold.
“Malik Al-Sayf. That was my brother, Kadar. I’m sorry if he’s caused you any grief.” Though it doesn’t sound a whole lot like he was expecting his brother to be the cause of that mentioned grief. Clearly Altaïr’s reputation precedes him.
“As I said, no harm, no foul, brother,” Altaïr returns somewhat lightly, standing to offer his hand, but getting nowhere, really. Malik stands at hard attention, peering at the offered hand as though it were a snake coiled to bite him. “He’s a good boy.”
“Exactly,” Malik growls. “I intend to keep him that way. Do not encourage him.”
There’s a sudden cold rift in the room, and the pleasant smile on Altaïr’s face drops. He glares sharply, his hand still offered, but it’s starting to seem more and more like a challenge… a wager in favor of Malik caving to his will. The bloody-eyed boy seems to have no intention of giving in any time soon.
“They call you ‘Master’,” Malik continues. “I see nothing worthy of such accolade. I assure you,brother, that you will not put any stupid notions into my brother’s head. If you do, you will regret it deeply.”
And with that, he makes a dry spitting sound - an awful lot like a temperamental cat, Altaïr thinks - and turns on his heel, leaving without a word and with Altaïr’s extended hand just hanging in the air. It becomes a fist, falls to his side.
A rival already… It’s too bad, Altaïr thinks, that this Malik - this king of swords - doesn’t even understand what sort of fire he’s just started.