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Malik looked up from his desk at the sound of the herald announcing the arrival of another approaching horse caravan in the distance. He went to the window to watch the winding trail of horses and wagons along the mountain path. Three years ago, he might have met the caravan at the entrance to the village; four, and he would have sprinted to do so, and damn the arthritic ache in his joints that would have resulted from such excesses. (Five years ago, he had spent his every free moment at the watchtower over the gates, counting the days.)
Now, he stood at the window of the tower and watched long enough to be sure that the travelers made it safely through the gates before returning to his desk. Their numbers grew with every day, and the work did not halt simply because another caravan had come. His work had been unending even when the Grand Master had still been in residence; Altaïr had been a brilliant leader, but his attention to the administrative details of running the Brotherhood had always been somewhat lacking.
Malik attributed the sudden blurring of his vision to the sharp breeze coming in through the window. (Some part of him suggested that it could just be the effects of age, but he crushed that thought as ruthlessly as he crushed other, quieter thoughts- four years ago, he would have run to the gates. Now, he could not bear the disappointment.) It was the evening breeze, and nothing more. And if his script had taken on a slight waver, it was the chill in the early winter air that caused his hand to tremble.
Seven years ago, he could not have imagined being so troubled by the cold.
The noise from the heralds grew louder, not quieter, but because there were no sounds of alarm, he ignored the commotion. It wasn't until the cacophony resolved into words and individual voices, rising up from the courtyard below-- familiar voices, voices he had not thought to hear again in this life-- that he returned to the window, gripping the sill in a white knuckled hand.
And then he was sprinting for the door, throwing it open and flinging himself down the staircase, the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears too loud for him to hear the sound of footsteps rising from the bottom of the staircase until it was too late-- and a bloodstained, mudcaked, grimy, assassin-shaped blur crashed into him hard enough to send the both of them tumbling to the steps.
"You witless fool of a useless excuse for a novice!" Malik twisted and rolled them over so that he was not the one with the sharp edge of the stairs digging into his spine. He raised his fist, hidden blade extended, not angry enough to actually strike the other, but certainly angry enough to threaten--
"Safety and peace, Malik." Altaïr's mouth twisted with the effort to keep from laughing. "It's good to see you, too. Though I trust you remember that I did earn back my rank quite some time ago."
For a moment, he could only gape, and slowly lower his arm, retracting the hidden blade. "You..." The words died in his throat and he stopped, unable to continue.
"Speechless? You? I've seen a thousand wondrous things in my travels, my friend, but this is something I never thought possible."
"I'm merely catching my breath," he snapped, climbing to his feet. For a moment they just stood on the stairs, looking at each other; Altaïr's face still threatened to break into a smile, and Malik found himself again unable to speak around the ache in his chest. He was still shaking with adrenaline, pulse hammering in his veins.
He turned away first, ascending the stairs back to his room. "Come on, then. Where's your wife?"
"Still below." Altaïr stood and resettled his weapons harness before hobbling up the stairs after Malik. "It seems that a number of the novices have forgotten to fear her blade in our absence."
Malik snorted, unsurprised. It was a little known truth that Altaïr had only married Maria because he'd been unable to otherwise keep her in one place for any length of time without tying her to a chair-- and that had proven impractical as a long-term solution. "And the boys?"
"Hardly boys anymore; they are men grown, now. They're seeing to our things-- weapons from the far east, and raw ore for the hidden blades from Hind. And a veritable library of books for you, from Persia and beyond."
Malik was not so easily swayed into complacency with promises of gifts. "And the warlord you sought to kill? Were you perhaps perfecting a new assassination technique in your travels? Waiting for him to die of old age?" He stepped into his office and turned around to face Altaïr.
"My sons will have the telling of that story; they would never forgive me if I told it first. But Temujin's life is ended, and the Piece of Eden he used is in the hands of the Assassins of Mongolia." Altaïr closed the door behind him and pulled back his hood. "Malik--"
"You're limping," he interrupted, backing Altaïr against the door. That feeling of tightness in his chest was still there, like an iron fist around his heart. There was more gray in Altaïr's hair than he remembered-- and, he noted with some small amusement and regret, somewhat less hair than he remembered. The lines around his eyes and mouth had multiplied, and the angles of his face grown more stark. There were new scars, too-- a jagged line across his eyebrow, a notch in his ear.
Altaïr leaned back against the door. "Arrow to the thigh, a month ago. We were in the saddle from sunrise to sunset, and it's been a long time in healing." He grimaced. "It troubles me little now, but that fall on the stairs certainly didn't help."
"You should've been watching where you were going." Malik's voice was rough. He reached out to trace the scar above Altaïr's eye, carefully, as though he were afraid the other man might disappear if he moved too suddenly. "And this?"
"Angry peasant with a rock, outside Nishapour. She thought we were thieves."
"And did it not occur to you to duck?" His hand remained there, stroking the line of the scar with his thumb.
"Rocks are plentiful in Nishapour." As always, Altaïr simply let Malik's sarcasm roll over him. "Sef caught one in the mouth, and he let it bleed just to have a scar to match mine. Darim wouldn't speak to him until we reached Samarqand."
Malik had a sudden vision of what Altaïr's travels with his wife and children must have been like. "You left a trail of chaos and destruction from here to the eastern sea, didn't you." His palm settled against the curve of Altaïr's cheek. "And then-- what, did you get lost in returning? For seven years?" He scowled. "I gave you maps."
Altaïr caught Malik's hand in his own. "Malik."
It was too much, finally, with their fingers threaded together and Altaïr looking at him with seven years of shadows in his eyes. Malik pinned Altaïr's hand against the door and lunged forward, bringing their mouths together. Altaïr's free hand curled around the base of Malik's neck, holding him close and deepening the kiss.
The lump of iron in his chest threatened to shatter entirely as he delved into the corners of Altaïr's mouth; even this was different, no longer quite as he remembered it. He slid his tongue into the gap of a missing tooth and made a questioning noise.
"Kicked by a horse," Altaïr muttered when they broke apart. "And before you say anything, I did duck. If I hadn't, it would have taken my head off."
Malik buried his face in Altaïr's shoulder and shook with laughter. "Idiot."
"You haven't changed," Altaïr whispered, wrapping his arms around Malik, too tightly. "I thought everything would be different, after so long, but you're still--"
"Shut up," Malik hissed, silencing him with another kiss, and then another, to prevent any further stupidity from spilling out of Altaïr's mouth. And yet another after that, because Altaïr was here, finally, and it had been seven years. Some part of Malik's mind not currently occupied with re-memorizing the feel of Altaïr's mouth was calculating how many kisses he had lost, and how many he was now owed after all this time.
Altaïr's hands stole inside his robe, fumbling with his belt and the knots on his sash, and then Malik couldn't be bothered with higher mathematics. He pulled an unresisting Altaïr to the pile of carpets and cushions in the corner where he'd slept when returning to his own empty bed was too difficult to bear. They lowered themselves ungracefully, removing belts and armor and weapons and robes, until they were both naked amidst the wreckage of their clothing.
Seven years of travel had not been kind to Altaïr; he was thin, practically haggard, pared down to bone and muscle and scarred skin. Malik was acutely aware, suddenly, of the fact that he had done little more dangerous for the last few years than occasionally attempting to trim his beard without a mirror. Altaïr did not seem to care, though, as his hands and mouth roamed with unabashed eagerness.
Malik traced the hollows of Altaïr's ribs with the palm of his hand and touched the new scars with his lips, cataloguing each one as he relearned the cartography of his lover's skin. He found the wound on Altaïr's leg, the scar a livid pucker of knotted flesh. He kissed it, and Altaïr's breath hissed out between his teeth; he slid his mouth upwards, dragging the rasp of his beard along the line of Altaïr's inner thigh, and heard his breath stutter to a halt.
He wrapped his hand around the base of Altaïr's stiffening prick and kept his gaze on Altaïr's face as he bent to take the head into his mouth, laving at the underside of it with his tongue. Altaïr clutched at his shoulders with greedy hands, tugged at his hair, traced the lines of his face with careful fingertips, even as his hips rocked up into the tight heat of Malik's hand and mouth.
It had been a long time, but he had not forgotten this, the way the slick slide of hot flesh between his lips and Altaïr's near-silent noises of pleasure made his body ache with answering need. He had missed this, missed the taste and feel of Altaïr in his mouth, bitter on the back of his tongue. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked and worked the base of Altaïr's cock with his hand, curling his tongue along the vein running up the underside.
He was almost disappointed when Altaïr pulled him upwards, but then they were kissing again, with more urgency than before. Malik ground their hips together and moaned into the kiss, the heat and friction between their bodies sending a frisson of fire down his spine. He trailed a line of biting kisses along Altaïr's jaw and neck, finding the flutter of Altaïr's pulse with his tongue and setting his teeth against it.
"I have been thinking about this since we left," Altaïr said, voice low in Malik's ear. He reached between them to wrap a hand around both of their cocks. "You have no idea--"
"Don't," Malik growled, feeling the sudden, dangerous urge to bite through flesh and sinew and tear. He shuddered and thrust into Altaïr's hand, and pushed himself up on his right arm to better glare down at the man beneath him. "Do not think to tell me what I can and cannot have imagined, when you left me behind seven years ago, and stopped sending messages two years after that."
Altaïr touched his face, leaning close to press an apology in the form of a kiss at the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry--"
It was the wrong thing to say, but Altaïr had always been particularly skilled at finding the wrong things to say to him. Malik silenced him with a snarl. "I do not accept your apology." He swatted away the hands. "Five years with no word, not even a body to bury and mourn, and all you say is sorry? I thought you were dead, I thought I'd lost all of you--"
"What would you rather hear?" Altaïr asked, his voice rough. He grabbed Malik's wrist and pulled him him close. "Tell me, and I'll say it--"
"Nothing. Say nothing." He wrenched himself from Altaïr's grasp and reached for the bottle of oil on the shelf above them, knocking over a jar of ink and a case of reed pens in the process. Oil spilled over his hand as he opened the bottle; he was making a mess of both of them, but he didn't care. "I do not want to hear words from you right now."
Altaïr held his gaze for a single tense moment-- and then he smirked, because seven years did not change the fact that they knew each other too well. The expression evaporated into slack jawed pleasure when Malik wrapped his now slick hand around Altaïr's cock. His head tipped back against the cushions, and Malik attacked the exposed line of his throat with teeth again until he was rewarded with a quiet, desperate moan. Altaïr gripped his left shoulder, giving him something to brace against while his fingers traced a slippery path behind Altaïr's balls, pressing lower, sliding in.
Every twist of his fingers drew another soft moan from Altaïr's throat and for a single overwhelming moment he could not believe that this was real, that this wasn't just another dream. But then Altaïr hooked a leg around Malik's hips to draw him closer, and the hand bracing his shoulder slipped, and the resulting awkward, slippery tangle of limbs-- that narrowly missed ending in cracked teeth and a concussion-- was not the sort of thing that happened in dreams.
Altaïr snickered, his laughter turning into a moan when Malik bit his ear to silence his own laughter; the brief moment of absurdity had chipped away most of his anger. He took a moment to realign their bodies, and then another moment, and then a few more, because Altaïr's mouth was right there, and it was distracting-- but so were the impatient noises Altaïr made as he thrust up and ground their hips together. It was the work of another moment to shove an extra pillow beneath Altaïr's hips and steady himself, lining up his cock. Altaïr grunted in annoyance at having to bend almost double to pull Malik down for another kiss.
"This might be easier if--"
"I didn't say you could speak," he growled. Then, softer, "I want to see your face." And then he thrust in with no further preamble, and whatever retort Altaïr might have had was lost in a gasp and a moan. He hadn't forgotten this, either, and neither had Altaïr. They fell into a rhythm, Altaïr rising up to meet Malik's thrusts, urging him deeper and harder. Whether fighting or fucking, the way they moved together had always come as easily as breathing; tilting his hips at just the right angle to make Altaïr groan and claw at his shoulders was practically second nature.
The sight of Altaïr reaching between them to fist his own cock, roughly, in time with his thrusts undid him, finally; Malik came with a guttural cry, sinking his teeth into Altaïr's shoulder, and Altaïr followed him moments later, breathing voiceless words into his skin: I'm here, forgive me, I love you, Malik, Malik, Malik.
Malik rolled onto his back and reached for the the sleeve of one of their discarded robes to clean them off. He was exhausted; physical release left him feeling drained, empty save for a deep weariness that seemed to reach all the way to his soul.
"Am I permitted to speak now?" Altaïr fit himself against Malik's left side, as he'd done countless times in the past, as if he'd never left.
"No," Malik snapped; he wasn't angry anymore, not really, but that didn't mean he couldn't be deeply annoyed with Altaïr on general principle. Even so, he couldn't stop himself from reaching up to brush back the matted tangle of Altaïr's hair, gently.
Altaïr ignored him, burying his face in the juncture of Malik's neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply. "The third law," he said quietly. "We couldn't risk the Brotherhood by sending messengers. The Khan's reach was long, and we were too deep in enemy territory."
Malik sighed, still stroking Altaïr's hair. "I thought as much. But you could have sent word ahead when you were returning."
"Malik."
"What? You keep saying my name-"
"Because I haven't said it in seven years, and I've missed the feel of it on my tongue. Malik." Altaïr pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw. "I did send word ahead. Several times. And we passed all of our messengers on the road in our haste to return. You'll probably see the first of them in a week."
He covered his face with his hand, torn between tears and laughter. In the end, laughter won.
"Is my apology acceptable now?" Altaïr asked, a little petulantly. "I'm not going to start denying you the right to be angry, after all these years, but I had hoped my homecoming would have been met with more kindness, and less biting."
"After thirty five years, you decide this is the appropriate time to complain about being bitten?" Malik squinted incredulously at the top of Altaïr's head and entertained the thought of smothering him with a pillow. Unfortunately, in close quarters his missing arm put him at a severe disadvantage; he would have to strike when Altaïr was asleep. That was fine. He could wait. He was a patient man. "I have had five years to accustom myself to the idea that you were dead. Give me more than a day to accept that you are still alive."
"As you wish." Altaïr smiled against his shoulder and laced their fingers together. "Take as long as you need."
He listened as Altaïr's breathing slowed and deepened, and felt the other man relax into sleep against him. But despite his weariness, Malik could not rest; perhaps it was simply that he'd grown accustomed to sleeping alone, but whatever the reason, every time he drifted near the edge of unconsciousness, he was jolted awake again by some sudden and nameless fear.
He listened to the sound of Altaïr's even breathing until his heart stopped racing. Altaïr shifted in his sleep, as if sensing Malik's tension, until he was wrapped around Malik, pinning him to the cushions. Under any other circumstances, Malik might have been annoyed, but he could see the exhaustion writ in every line of Altaïr's body. He could endure some minor discomfort if it meant Altaïr was resting.
And he still couldn't sleep. After an interminable length of time, he heard noises approaching from the hallway; Altaïr gritted his teeth in his sleep, but did not wake. Gradually, the noises resolved into voices on the other side of the door. He could hear Maria's voice clearly. "Your uncle will still be here in the morning. He and your father don't need the two of you underfoot."
"That's hardly fair, mother." That was Sef, attempting to be diplomatic, as always. No one was entirely sure where he'd picked up that particular trait, as he certainly hadn't gotten it from either his mother or his father.
"We're not children anymore!" And that was Darim, his voice now much deeper than when he'd left, but still recognizable.
"And when in your lives have either of you known me to be concerned with fairness? Go!"
More murmured voices, and then the scuffling sound of footsteps, moving away. A moment later, the door opened and Maria entered, lamp in hand. Her hair- now a solid silvery gray, providing a shocking contrast against the sun and wind burned darkness of her skin- was still wound in its customary crown of braids. Like Altaïr, she was too thin and carried too many unfamiliar scars.
"Maria." He pitched his voice quietly, so as not to waken Altaïr. "Safety and peace."
"Upon you as well, brother." She set the lamp down on the desk and unfastened her cloak. "I see that some things never change- put the two of you in a room together, and suddenly neither of you has the sense to close a window against the cold." She draped her cloak over them and went to pull in the shutters.
Altaïr shifted in his sleep, but his breathing remained deep and even; Malik pulled Maria's cloak a little closer around them. "It's good to see you again," he said softly, watching as she pulled the desk chair around and sat down beside them.
She smiled fondly at the two of them. "It's good to be home. Selfish ass," she said, nudging Altaïr gently with her foot. "He acts like he's the only one of us who has missed you. The boys will be in a sulk for days."
"I should speak to them-- and I should let you have your husband back." He moved to sit up and wake Altaïr, but Maria stopped him.
"A bit of sulking won't do my sons any harm, and God knows I've had enough of him over the past seven years to last the next twenty." She shook her head, smiling. "Let him sleep. And you can listen to him whine about the stiffness in his back come morning, instead of me."
Altaïr grunted, and threw a pillow at her without opening his eyes or moving his head from Malik's chest. "Tomorrow," he muttered, "I will leave for Jerusalem. Alone. And when I am there, I will enjoy peace and solitude and only the company of people who will speak to me with kindness and respect, as is befitting of my age and station."
"I will tie you to my desk if you so much as think about it." The words came out sharper than Malik intended, but he couldn't quell the sudden stab of cold dread at the thought of Altaïr leaving again, even if only in jest.
"Oh?" Altaïr cracked open his eyes and smirked. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
Malik wondered if Maria wouldn't mind helping him smother Altaïr with a pillow. Between the two of them, they could probably manage with little difficulty; Altaïr was tired. He wouldn't be expecting the attack. "Go back to sleep," he growled. "Clearly you are too exhausted to speak sense."
Altaïr sighed and closed his eyes again, shifting so that Malik was no longer pinned beneath him. He kept his arm around Malik's waist, however, his hand curling possessively against Malik's ribcage.
"He's never so cooperative with me, you know." Maria leaned over to brush back Altaïr's hair and kiss him on the forehead, then did the same to Malik. "Sleep well, both of you. We'll speak more in the morning."
She took the lamp with her when she left, casting the room in darkness save for what little moonlight crept in around the shutters. Malik didn't even try to sleep. He stared at the ceiling, listening to Altaïr breathe and counting the steady rhythm of Altaïr's heartbeat against his side. He began composing lists in his head, of the tasks that would need seeing to in the morning and the changes that Altaïr's return would bring.
"Your thoughts are very loud, brother." Altaïr's quiet words broke the heavy silence that had settled over the room. "What troubles you?"
"You. Always, you trouble me." The insult was spoken entirely out of old habit; there was nothing but tired affection in his voice.
"You should be too accustomed to such troubles by now to lose sleep over them," Altaïr pointed out. He yawned hard enough to make his jaw crack. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Hm." Malik knew the nameless worries that plagued him when he closed his eyes were not nameless at all. "Promise me something?"
"What is it?"
"Promise that you will still be here in the morning." This wasn't a dream, and he knew that, but that knowing did little to ease the ache in his chest. He felt Altaïr take a deep, shuddering breath, and then Altaïr's mouth was on his, the kiss deep and fierce.
"I promise," he said, breathing heavily and leaning his forehead against Malik's. "But only if you swear to do the same."
"Yes," he gasped, threading his fingers through Altaïr's hair. "Yes, of course. I swear."
Altaïr kissed him again, sweetly, and turned them both on their sides so that his breath stirred the short hairs on the back of Malik's neck; he wrapped his arm around Malik's chest and flattened his palm over his heart. "Sleep. I will be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, for as long as you'll have me."
"Good," he murmured. "I will hold you to that." Malik relaxed into Altaïr's embrace, feeling years of tension finally draining away. He could finally breathe easily again, as though the weight that had settled in his chest seven years ago had, at last, been lifted. And this time, when he closed his eyes, the soft touch of sleep dragged him under into peaceful rest within moments.