People of Lot

Chapter One: Masyaf

Will ye commit abomination knowingly? Must ye needs lust after men instead of women? Nay, but ye are folk who act senselessly.

-Qu'ran 27:54-55

He was crossing blades with Altaïr in the training ring when the novice came in-not calling, as if he feared disrupting their practice, but instead hovering about the edge like a nervous yearling and trying to catch Malik's eye.

Of course, al-Sayf ignored him. The match would be halted if one of the participants was called away, but first, the young man would have to speak up. So Malik brought his sword up to follow a sweeping arc of Altaïr's, which he suspected the other had purposefully made wide as an attempt to bait him into a rash strike. There was a dagger waiting for him in Altaïr's other hand, but Malik knocked it aside with his own and brought his sword down to rest against Altaïr's neck even as the man twisted his wrist to flick the tip of the short blade up against Malik's abdomen.

The two paused. Close, so close that Malik could see the sweat dripping down the other man's temples, dampening the hood he'd elected to wear into the sparring ring. Altaïr's breath was harsh with exertion, as Malik knew was true of his own; and the man's robes were covered with dust and flecked with smudges of dirt. There was one spot that was almost worn through, ringed with frayed uncolored thread, on the shoulder just peeking out from beneath the stained leather strap holding the short sword's sheath in place. The hood did nothing to hide Altaïr's face at this distance, stubborn, line of his jaw set in defiance as it tended to be when Altaïr was feeling competitive.

"A tie," proclaimed the Son of None.

"I think not. My sword through your neck would kill you much faster than your knife through my stomach."

"You're still dead."

"That might be debatable. People have lived through stomach wounds."

"Not mine."

"There's always a first."

"E-excuse me?" came a cautious voice from outside the ring. The two men paused, glancing over. Altaïr scowled, the novice flinched, and Malik rolled his eyes. He and ibn la-Ahad had been friends for many a season, and he knew for a fact that the latter did not deserve the awe and terror with which some of the younger Assassins seemed to regard him.

"Yes?" Altaïr grumbled.

The novice's eyes darted between him and Malik, indecisive. "Master Awad has sent for Master al-Sayf. He says he has an assignment for him, from Al-Mualim."

"Then I'll go find him immediately." Malik answered, louder than he needed to be, resisting the childish urge to send one of his throwing knives spinning by the young man's ear just to see him jump.

"Kill Olivier de Blanchefort when he re-enters Tyre after his trip to Ashkelon. His intended residence has been shrouded in secrecy, though our informers may have uncovered the information by the time you reach the city."

"If the rafiq doesn't know, and should I be unable to find the information myself..."

"The man's death is to be a statement. If you cannot find his residence, make it public."

The assassin bowed his head in aquiescence. "It will be done."

Malik was in the stables, strapping his saddlebags onto a chestnut gelding, when Altaïr tracked him down. It had been still and peaceful. Dust motes glinted in streams of sunlight shining through slats in the stone wall; the whole building smelled like the animals it housed, and the sounds of life in Masyaf were occasional, far away, and muted. Once in awhile one of the horses would snort or stamp, and at certain times the youngest students would be found there working; but when empty, it was oft possible to forget that the rest of the world existed. It was likely for this reason that Altaïr chose to wait for Malik in that particular place, wary as he was of stray ears even amongst his allies and aware that at this time of day it was both private and accessible. Just as Malik was reaching out to retrieve the horse's bridle from where he'd slung it over the stall door, he heard the voice.

"I hear you've been sent to Tyre."

Malik sighed, not bothering to look over. "Men hear many things when they eavesdrop."

Altaïr did not respond to that. "They told you very little."

Malik tugged the bridle over the chestnut's ears and raised an eyebrow at the man that had appeared outside the door. "I assume the rafiq in Acre is more knowledgeable-and if not, I am capable of finding information for myself, though your new robes may have allowed you to forget that."

"I don't think you're incapable."

"Just not as capable as you are in swordplay unless you're recovering from the plague. Don't answer, I know you think it. You are free to think as you will." Malik rested one hand on the horse's shoulder. "How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Fine."

Malik snorted. The man would never say anything else.

There was a long silence. A shadow passed over the sun, and Malik saw Altaïr move closer. The air was dark and thick with sawdust. It was dark, dark as the shadowed evenings in which the deadly elements moved. They made their lives in unmentionable acts, those faithful to the foundation, and perhaps it made sense that behind thick-drawn blinds and below rocky cliffs, far from any prying eyes, they committed even more. Altaïr's palms were cool and callused, surprisingly light on Malik's cheek. His lips were chapped, and Malik could feel the rough line of the scar that cut into his mouth. Malik reached up and pushed Altaïr's hood back, as if unveiling a woman. Do not speak, a voice at the back of his brain seemed to proclaim; make no sound. His breath was shallow; the rise and fall of his own chest seemed ludicrously pronounced. With hard fingers he cupped the back of Altaïr's skull, feeling the hair, the tender yielding skin of his neck damp with sweat.

Then there was the soft whish of a foot stepping on to hay, and Malik bit back a surprised oath. He pushed Altaïr away and turned back to the saddlebags; in an instant Altaïr had vanished, crouching in the shadows in the northwest corner of the stall. Ears peeled, they both listened as the unidentified intruder padded away from them, towards the harness room; the footsteps faded away but soon returned with an added rustle and metallic clink, as if the person was leaving with a saddle or bridle. Then they were gone. It had been less than a minute.

Slowly, Malik relaxed. Altaïr stood up, tension remaining in the lines of his body.

It would not bode well for them if they were caught. There had been two men three years ago, Malik and doubtless Altaïr remembered, convicted of homosexual acts and hung. The way the two lovers' bodies had twitched, tongues lolling distended from purpling mouths, eyes bulging like to burst from their sockets, was not an image to be quickly forgotten. Not for them, at least. "They commit unnatural acts, separating themselves from God and those who work for Him!" the short, swarthy Christian standing on the scaffold beside the condemned had shouted. "Let no virtuous man allow such abominations to occur in a city of God!" In his life Malik had never known or heard of any of... his type among the Brotherhood save Altaïr; as such he had no idea what sanctions might be taken against them should they be discovered. But he foresaw their names becoming laughingstock in any case, and that threat gave more pause than the possibility of dying ever could among men such as themselves.

Altaïr had slid away from the wall like a detaching shadow, maneuvering carefully around the horse's flanks and coming once more to stand before Malik, who cleared his throat.

"Try not to get yourself killed while you're in Masyaf. If you get sick again it'll probably kill you."

"It will not be an issue." Altaïr replied flatly.

"You might also consider attempting to acquire a sense of humor." Malik smirked. "It'd be good for you."

"I have a sense of humor."

"Really? Then I think you're doing an unsurpassable job of pretending you don't."

"Pretending?" Altaïr laughed, a refreshingly real sound, and the kiss he pressed on Malik was the lightest brush of lips.

They paused.

"I have to go," Malik voiced eventually, taking hold of the horse's reins.

"I know." Altaïr frowned. "But before you leave-I heard some things about this Olivier de Blanchefort the last time I was in Acre. It's said he's a Frankish weapons dealer with extensive connections amongst the Knights Templar and Hospitalier. The mercenaries say he is vain and quick to anger, and miserly besides; if his men bear so little appreciation for him, it may be possible to buy them out or otherwise keep them out of the way. It's also said that he lacks much fighting ability of his own, being weak of constitution. For safety, it might be wise to come upon him when he is alone; if he is as personally weak as it's said, he's likely to put up little fight-"

"-Altaïr." Malik cut him off mid-sentence, a note of warning in his voice. "Do not advise me on basic strategy like a novice."

Ibn La-Ahad's face darkened in irritation at the reprimand. "It was not my intention."

"It is true that your rank is higher than mine, but that does not make me some sort of cripple."

"What do you want me to say, Malik?"

"Nothing. I would just like it if you'd understand that." With a glance towards the doorway al-Sayf reached out and grasped Altaïr's arm. "I have to leave now if I intend to make any headway before nightfall, but I'd rather not depart in anger. I do thank you for the information, Altaïr."

The other assassin bowed his head. "I am sorry if I insulted you."

"It is forgiven," Malik replied with a half-smile, releasing Altaïr's arm. "Safety and peace, my brother."

"Safety and peace, Malik."

Terms and References:

"People of Lot" refers to 'quam Lut', a derogatory Arabic term for 'homosexual' that references the Qu'ranic story of Lot (Lut), Sodom, and Gomorrah.

"Those faithful to the foundation" refers to the word 'assassiyoon' or 'asasiyun', which several modern scholars have argued to be the origin of the term 'assassin'. As Amin Maalouf notes in his book, Samarkand:

"[...] their contemporaries in the Muslim world would call them hash-ishiyun, 'hashish-smokers'; some orientalists thought that this was the origin of the word 'assassin', which in many European languages was more terrifying yet. ...The truth is different. According to texts that have come down to us from Alamut, Hassan-i Sabbah liked to call his disciples Asasiyun, meaning people who are faithful to the Asās, meaning 'foundation' of the faith. This is the word, misunderstood by foreign travelers, that seemed similar to 'hashish'."

I should note that the 'foundation' or 'faith' in question is Nizari Ismailism, a branch of Shi'a Islam which seems to be all but irrelevant to the Assassins of Assassin's Creed who fight for the nebulous 'peace'; so it's not really accurate to refer to any of the AssCreed assassins as 'those faithful to the foundation'. But, I'm using a little literary license here; the 'foundation' could just as easily be the Creed as it could be Ismailism, for the purposes of fanfic.