just sitting around here trying to write this book

[communi_kate]

Title: After This Age (7/7)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: None.
Rating: PG
Summary: Malik learns his place. Final chapter, plus author's notes.

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Seven

Damascus, 1183.

Malik's triumph spoiled like milk when he returned to the Damascus Assassin's bureau and found Altaïr waiting there. The other Assassin said nothing as Malik made his report to the rafiq.

The rafiq, a cheery soul, received Malik's news with good humour. "Well done!" he said. "You have my thanks and my respect. A difficult mission, carried out with subtlety. Abu Firas shall not bother the Brotherhood now."

Malik nodded. He wanted to ask what Altaïr was doing in the Bureau, but decided it was none of his business. He would rather have met a dozen other Assassins than Altaïr. They had never been good comrades. Altaïr had passed his initiation a full season before Malik, and he never had ceased to remind Malik of the fact. He was a better swordsman than Malik; more skilled in every way save scholarship. But Altaïr was reckless, and he held the Creed in contempt.

The Assassin's Creed preached peace above all other things. It taught its followers to hide their true natures and to carry out their missions with a minimum of disruption. It was a subtle art that Malik excelled in. There was certainly an art to the sort of flamboyant assassinations Altaïr preferred, but there was no subtlety at all.

Rather like the man himself, Malik thought.

The rafiq straightened the feathers that stood in a jar upon the wide counter of the bureau. "Make yourself comfortable," he said. "I have a message to send, and you'll have to return to Masyaf soon enough. Take a moment of rest."

Malik nodded.

The rafiq gathered some things and left the bureau as Malik looked around the small room. Altaïr showed no sign of moving. Malik sighed and headed for the courtyard, unwilling to spend any more time with Altaïr than was strictly necessary. He was halfway to the curtained doorway when Altaïr said scathingly "A difficult mission? Intimidation is not difficult, Malik. You always did fight with words."

"The difference between us," retorted Malik "is that you think that is an insult."

Altaïr snorted. "Nobody with honour would have waited as you did."

"I was ordered to intimidate," Malik said sharply. "Killing would have gone against my orders. Besides, you take too many risks."

"And you are far too cautious. A true Assassin does not hesitate."

"A true Assassin considers his actions carefully," said Malik.

"A true Assassin does not waste time with words," said Altaïr.

Malik shrugged. "Well, I will not waste more of your time. Although I hear that the rafiq here would not let you enter the bureau on your last mission, until you lost the guards."

Altaïr's fists clenched. "Where did you hear that?"

Malik smiled. "So my words are of some interest after all?"

It was forbidden for Assassins to draw steel upon each other except in training, but Malik would have sworn from Altaïr's expression that the other Assassin was at least considering it.

"Who told you that? Kadar? I'll-"

Malik remembered too late that Kadar had been partnered with Altaïr in his last mission. He interrupted quickly, hoping to deflect Altaïr's anger from his brother. "Everyone knows you never follow the Creed."

"I think for myself," Altaïr growled. His face had slipped back into its usual stony mask, as was its way. His expression looked impervious, but Malik had learned through years of practice that cracks would appear if you only chipped away at Altaïr long enough.

"Not well," he said.

"At least my sword is faster than my tongue," Altaïr snapped.

"My sword is fast enough," Malik said. He backed away a step and tried to look casual about it. Finding a safe distance was always difficult with Altaïr. "At least I follow the Creed Al Mualim taught us. Do you?"

"You have not yet killed a man," Altaïr said in a voice like a knife to the back.

Malik shrugged. "That does not mean anything. I was not ordered to kill."

"I trained to be an Assassin, not a scholar," said Altaïr.

Malik snorted. The other students said that Altaïr had only trained his tongue to foreign languages so he could be rude in all of them. He was far too impatient to make a good scholar-and he knew it. And Malik knew that Altaïr hated to be thought unskilled at anything.

"You have to know enough to find your target first," he said.

"Ours is the work of the knife." Altaïr said. His face was flushed, and his eyebrows met in a scowl under his white hood. "Not the pen."

"You do not think about your actions," said Malik.

Altaïr settled himself back onto the cushions. "I will not take criticism from a man less skilled than I," he said.

"It is not you I care about," Malik persisted, ignoring the insult. "Others follow you, and are cut down. You do nothing to prevent this."

"Should I? Their lack of skill is no reflection upon mine."

"Those men were lost because of you!"

"That is not your concern!" snapped Altaïr. He stood in one smooth motion and took a step into the room, kicking a cushion aside. "Unless-unless it is your brother than you speak of."

"My brother is none of your concern!"

"It is my concern. You dare to speak to me of the Creed, Malik? Very well. What of your brother? Is that not against our Creed?"

"It is not a central tenet," Malik said. It was a weak parry, and he knew it.

"That does not matter. Your actions run counter to the Creed. It is a weakness, and everyone knows of it. If Kadar cannot act as an Assassin should, then he is no Assassin at all."

"If you cannot act as an Assassin should, maybe you are no Assassin," Malik said. He stepped forwards, one hand on his knife, his eyes on Altaïr's. Altaïr's wrist flexed, the hidden blade dropping to stab air.

Malik never knew just how far their fight would have gone had the rafiq of Damascus not arrived at that very moment. Both Malik and Altaïr were so focused on their fight that neither of them caught sight or sound of the rafiq until he stepped between them and cried "Enough!"

Malik's hand left his dagger. "Rafiq," he said, as Altaïr's hidden blade vanished into his sleeve.

The old rafiq shook his head as he surveyed the scene. "I leave two Assassins in the bureau for a moment," he said, "and return to find a pair of brawling boys. You have both disgraced yourselves and the Order. Malik, you will be a good Assassin once you learn to hold your tongue and keep your temper. Altaïr, you will be a good Assassin once you learn to act with some discretion. Neither of you will be Assassins for long unless you learn these lessons!"

Altaïr cleared his throat. "Rafiq-"

"Silence!"The rafiq slammed his open hand down on the counter. The jar of eagle feathers rattled. "I would set you both some menial task as punishment, but Al Mualim has sent word that the pair of you should travel immediately to Masyaf." He smiled. "There are horses waiting at the Bab Kisan gate. Take them and head for the fortress by the most direct route."

"Together?" Malik asked cautiously. His only consolation was that Altaïr looked even less impressed with the news than Malik felt.

The rafiq folded his arms. "Indeed."

"I have no need for an escort." Altaïr pulled his hood across his face and looked down his nose at Malik.

"You have much need to act according to my orders, Altaïr," the rafiq said.

"I have never failed to complete my mission." Altaïr said defiantly.

"No. You have never failed in your mission, only in your disregard of our ways." The rafiq turned to Malik before Altaïr had a chance to reply. "You are silent for once, Malik. Do you have any questions for me?"

Malik was not so foolish to contradict the rafiq. "I do not."

The rafiq grunted. "Go, then. Do not stand upon my patience. Your journey to Masyaf will take you several days, even by the fastest route. I suggest you use the time to settle your disagreement. Save your knives for our enemies. Remember what the Assassins fight for! Peace, in all things."

Malik and Altaïr bowed. "Safety and peace."

Altaïr did not speak again until they were outside the city walls, and even then it was only to curse at his horse. He kicked the beast to a gallop and vanished down the road in a cloud of sepia dust as travellers and merchants fled for their lives. As Malik followed, he was pleased to see that he was still the better rider of the pair.

But then, he thought, a sack of rice would be considered a better rider than Altaïr.

It was a very small consolation.

He caught up with Altaïr at the next village and they headed north in silence. Altaïr set a fast pace, and Malik did not care to argue. As far as he was concerned, the less time he spent with Altaïr the better. Some way before Safita Altaïr reined his horse off the trail, causing Malik to speak directly to him for the first time in several days.

"Altaïr, Masyaf is that way."

Altaïr turned in his saddle. "The rafiq told us to take the most direct route. We'll cut across the mountains. It will be quicker that way."

"The roads are easier by the coast."

"And full of guards. You can travel alone if you like. I'm heading through the mountains."

Malik looked over at Altaïr, and up at the hills. They were still several days' travel to the south of Masyaf. The foothills of the Orontes rose in gentle waves to the north, their slopes dotted with thorns and oleander and flocks of grazing sheep. The mountains behind them crested in minarets of red stone. The high country was perilous and difficult to navigate. Malik knew that it would be a hard journey.

"Very well," he said.

Altaïr nodded and nudged the flanks of his horse with his feels. The horse swished its tail and started up the slope.

Malik followed.

They were only two days' ride from Masyaf when Malik crested a low saddle in the hills. A long river gully stretched below them, bone-dry and choked with fallen rocks worn smooth by winter floods. Tall pinnacles rose to stab the air like knives of stone. A hawk screamed high above his head.

The sky was the same faded blue that Malik still saw in his dreams.

I know this place, thought Malik. I know these hills much better than Altaïr. I should have recognised the signs long before.

He was at the campground in the rocks he had left nine years before.

It was much smaller that he remembered.

He reined his horse to a halt and stared down at the rocky slopes, searching for the only patch of flat ground in the valley. The ledge was right where he had known it would be. It was just wide enough to pitch a tent. There was no tent. There were no people. A few tumbled rocks and a tattered thorn-bush were the only signs a camp had ever been there.

Malik kicked his horse down towards the campground. The bay mare picked her way carefully down the slope between the stones. Malik let her take her time. He slid from her back and searched the campsite carefully. He was not sure what he expected to find, but he found nothing. A few of the stones might once have been smoothed to build a wall, and there was a twist of fibre that could have been the remnants of a rope or else a dried grass stem, but nothing else. If Malik's clan had ever been there, they were not now. He had no idea where they might have gone.

He leaned back against the sun-warmed red rocks and watched as Altaïr's white hood crested the ridge, and his white horse followed, scrambling atop the ridge in an avalanche of sliding stones. Altaïr reined to a halt as he saw Malik below him on the ledge. "Why did we climb so far?" he asked. "What are you doing down there? Your horse will break her leg. It was a foolish idea."

"Yes," Malik said. "It was."

"I'm heading down the valley." Altaïr pointed the way. "We're nearly at Masyaf."

"You go first," said Malik. "I'll follow you."

Altaïr shrugged and kicked his white mare on.

Malik knelt down to sift through the gravel and found only dust. There were no scraps of wool upon on the ground, no charcoal, no sheep droppings. There was no sign that a family had even camped there. He brought a handful of earth to his nose and sniffed the dirt. He smelt nothing but the scents he had brought with him; old leather, bleached wool, and horse-sweat.

I should tell Kadar of this. What will he say? Likely nothing. He was younger than I when we left for Masyaf.

Malik watched Altaïr pick his way down the dry canyon. His white robe looked like a scrap of wool against the red rocks. He wondered whether or not the al-Sayf clan would have been proud of what their sons had become. There was little chance of finding them. Dead or gone, it made little difference.

I am an Assassin. It will do. It will have to.

There was a certain terrible inevitability to his family's disappearance. It felt as if the empty camp had always been waiting for him to find, like their family had packed up and left the moment Malik and Kadar had walked away nine years before. But old loyalties had faded with the years, and Malik found he did not mind as much as he once might have done. The Assassins answered to no clan. They believed a man's worth lay in his deeds, not in his bloodline.

Malik's horse shoved him in the back with her nose and whinnied. Altaïr was already out of sight, but Malik heard an answering whinny as Altaïr's white mare neighed in reply. Malik's mare pranced, eager to go down and follow her companion. Red dust coated her legs up to the fetlocks, and her shoes struck sparks from the stone.

Malik was much less eager to rejoin Altaïr, but he knew his task too well. He called the mare to him and mounted.

He made good time descending the gully, and never looked back.

***

Finis.

 

Author's Notes:

Ch1:

Ata-Malik al-Juvaini: Persian historian (1226-1283) a historian in the employ of the Mongols who wrote an account of the Mongol conquest of the Assassins. It's fair to say that he was slightly biased against them.

Ibn in kalb -son of a bitch. This is not a smart thing to say, but Kadar doesn't think sometimes.

Fahim al-Sayf is Malik and Kadar's father in the novel canon. I chose to keep the name while disregarding nearly everything else.

Malik al-Sayf-lit 'king of the sword'. Kadar, apparently, means 'powerful'

Ch2

I once spent a very pleasant night in the mountains in Turkey camped out beneath the eaves of a black goats-wool tent. The top of the tent is pulled out with stakes, leaving a small ledge for the rain to run off that's more than wide enough to sleep under if the weather happens to be dry.

Sayyid: lord

The name Rauf means compassionate. Rauf is the trainer in the first AC game. He frequently finds that his students have forgotten what it means to wield a blade, and asks Altaïr to teach them.

The Assassin Umar who collects Malik and Kadar from the camp is actually Altaïr's father.

Ch3

Nasab: Arab patronymic, indicating heritage by the word 'ibn' or 'son'. Ibn La'Ahad –lit. 'son of no-one'

Ch4

Malik's descent from the dome mirrors Ezio Auditore's climb to the top in AC: Revelations. The 'stone eagles that watch the passes' are the ones Ezio that leaps from.

La'anatullah: may he be deprived of God's blessings: Arabic curse.

Nuzhat al-mushtaq fi'khtiraq al-afaq : lit: The Book of Pleasant Journeys Into Faraway Lands, otherwise known as the Tabula Rogeriana; a description of the world and world map written in the 12^th century for King Roger of Sicily, hence the name.

Ch5.

The Assassins are also there to kill recruits who don't pass the test. If Malik does know this, he's pretending that he doesn't.

The scene where Malik shows Kadar his new gauntlet was directly inspired by doubleleaf's picture 'Admiration'

Ch6.

Abu Firas's tale is inspired by the real-life story of Fakh al-Din al-Razi, a scholar from Rayy whose anti-Assassin teachings were much admired by everyone except the Assassins themselves. A hapless fidai'in was sent to enrol in his classes and remained there for seven months before bribing/threatening al-Razi into changing his topics. This seemed rather extreme, so I changed it to one month.

The words of Abu Firas are heavily adapted from contemporary anti-Assassin teachings. Malik is not impressed.

Mawali: a non-Arab Muslim, usually a Persian, Kurd or Turk.

Zellj: terracotta tilework made from enamel chips. The use of zellj in this story is wildly anachronistic, but the first madrasa I ever visited was in Morocco and my mental image of the place persists.

Zakat: charitable distribution of alms among the needy.

Ch7:

A lot of things about Altaïr annoy Malik, and vice versa. This is a very stupid thing to do, but they're only eighteen.

Yes, it is the right place, but who knows? Nomads don't stay in one place for very long.

Comments

[everbright]

MAUHAHAH *pounce* I'll come back with a real comment later, but YAY, story's done!

[communi_kate]

:D

[everbright]

Oh, I love it! One of the best features of your writing is that you put the research in, and not only flash your knowledge around, but let it shape how the story shows emotions. We knew Malik was a scholar and intelligent from canon, so little somber 9 year old Malik comprehending that his Mother didn't really have a choice fit perfectly. It was either give her sons away to the Assassin, which is something even richer, more socially prominent families did, or let them all starve.

The best part is probably the inside of Malik's head, how he does the very human thing and holds contradictory ideas in relative balance. The Creed it a cast-iron code for behavior that Malik lives by, while also protecting his little brother against anything he can. He's... flexible, even though he doesn't realize it. Much more so than Altair.

Jesus, poor Altair. The way you painted his childhood, I can easily believe that Al-Mualim owned him heart and soul. The Old Man's pretty much the only one he got the time of day from, let alone affection.

It's just super lovely, I could go on forever!

[communi_kate]

This was a really nice comment to wake up to. I'm glad that you enjoyed the story.
The farming out kids thing: two of my grandparents were brought up by family members who weren't their mum or dad, just 'cause their parents had a lot of kids and their uncles or aunts or whatever didn't. It never seemed to distress them(although of course I'm speaking from sixty years after the fact)

[everbright]

I was aware it happened, having kids raised by relatives, but I've never heard an apocryphal story! That's pretty cool, :D.