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excessum[ altaïr is a child when he loses his father to the saracens, a boy when he loses malik al-sayf to his arrogance, and a man when he loses his mentor to his own blade.
three losses, and he is sorry for every one.
days have passed since altaïr slayed al mualim and plucked the apple of eden from his cooling hand, and though masyaf still stands, the city sways and buckles with uncertainty, threatening to crumble to the ground without leadership or direction. altaïr has not left al mualim's study since burning his body and retrieving the artifact from abbas; he sits locked away in a small room, hovered over a table with the artifact cupped in his hands.
the piece speaks to him, blankets words across his mind that horrify and intrigue him, and then displays images so bright and bold that altaïr half expects to be interrupted by worried knocks and questions.
the knocks and questions never come, and altaïr realizes why later: no one can see what he's seen, or hear what he's heard. though the piece sits dim and lifeless in his hands, it burns as brightly as the midday sun in his mind.
he is infected. he is sick. he is poisoned by grief and guilt and whys that fall on deaf ears, so altaïr does not eat or drink or leave the room he's confined himself to. he will not leave, not without answers, not without a reason.
in retaliation, the images the artifact chooses to show him grow progressively worse, and also more personal. he sees his father kneeling in the dirt with a blade to his throat before he is pulled from the sight by his father's betrayer, screaming, crying. he sees kadar as a smiling child and then as a smiling man, his body bleeding and broken as he peers up at altaïr with glassy eyes, complimenting him on a clean kill. he sees malik naked, breathless, hooking a finger beneath altaïr's chin as he kisses him, as he chokes him.
he sees himself standing in front of the rotting corpse of al mualim as masyaf burns to rubble behind him.
i am sorry, he says.
when malik finally comes knocking by the morning of the third day, he'll find shelves knocked on their sides, tables turned over, chairs with broken legs, and then altaïr crouched in the middle of the destruction, his hooded head hanging low. ]
Leave me. [ a murmur, his voice rough and raw from days of not speaking. he doesn't move, or even spare malik a glance. ]
three losses, and he is sorry for every one.
days have passed since altaïr slayed al mualim and plucked the apple of eden from his cooling hand, and though masyaf still stands, the city sways and buckles with uncertainty, threatening to crumble to the ground without leadership or direction. altaïr has not left al mualim's study since burning his body and retrieving the artifact from abbas; he sits locked away in a small room, hovered over a table with the artifact cupped in his hands.
the piece speaks to him, blankets words across his mind that horrify and intrigue him, and then displays images so bright and bold that altaïr half expects to be interrupted by worried knocks and questions.
the knocks and questions never come, and altaïr realizes why later: no one can see what he's seen, or hear what he's heard. though the piece sits dim and lifeless in his hands, it burns as brightly as the midday sun in his mind.
he is infected. he is sick. he is poisoned by grief and guilt and whys that fall on deaf ears, so altaïr does not eat or drink or leave the room he's confined himself to. he will not leave, not without answers, not without a reason.
in retaliation, the images the artifact chooses to show him grow progressively worse, and also more personal. he sees his father kneeling in the dirt with a blade to his throat before he is pulled from the sight by his father's betrayer, screaming, crying. he sees kadar as a smiling child and then as a smiling man, his body bleeding and broken as he peers up at altaïr with glassy eyes, complimenting him on a clean kill. he sees malik naked, breathless, hooking a finger beneath altaïr's chin as he kisses him, as he chokes him.
he sees himself standing in front of the rotting corpse of al mualim as masyaf burns to rubble behind him.
i am sorry, he says.
when malik finally comes knocking by the morning of the third day, he'll find shelves knocked on their sides, tables turned over, chairs with broken legs, and then altaïr crouched in the middle of the destruction, his hooded head hanging low. ]
Leave me. [ a murmur, his voice rough and raw from days of not speaking. he doesn't move, or even spare malik a glance. ]
