Leap Of Faith
Title: Leap Of Faith
Rating: K+
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairings: Malik/Altaïr
Genre: Introspective/Friendship
Summary: Malik ponders what he has lost, regained, and still finds himself lacking.
WARNINGS: fluff, angst, introspection, abuse of italics
Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable trademarks displayed in this work of fiction. The ideas and writing are mine, however, so I would appreciate that my rights be observed in that respect.
This particular work was inspired by Enduro on dA's beautiful picture, "Jump", which you can find here. It's gorgeous. Also, by Regina Spektor's song "Blue Lips". I'm still trying to figure that one out myself. My first foray into Assassin's Creed, so please be gentle with me~
How he had ended up here was still a bit of a mystery to him. He’d kept his skills up, to be sure, never truly accepting the fact that he’d been ‘retired’ by Al Mualim. He had painstakingly relearned all his previous skills, including climbing. But he’d not done this since…
“One-winged hawks are of no use but to guide the hatchlings on their ways.” Dark eyes held no warmth as he dealt the blow, not caring how stricken the bedridden man looked.
Wind plucked at fabric, sending the white and dark tails of his robes fluttering. The wind was cold, prickling his cheeks and nose. He’d never been fond of this, not the height but the jump. The leap of faith he had taken when he was young had thrilled him, but that thrill had died a painful, bloody death somewhere along the way.
No, not somewhere. He knew exactly where, he just did not want to admit it. Not to himself, not to anyone.
The scent of blood lay heavy in his nose, where was his little kestrel, the hatchling he’d raised - no, he was not dead, could not be dead.
He’d lost more than a brother in Solomon’s Temple, he’d lost the closest thing he had to a son. He’d lost the respect of his brothers, even as he gained it in a different way, one he’d never wanted.
He’d lost an arm (a wing), with it his skills (can’t fly with one wing). He’d lost his brother (hatchling he’d raised), he’d lost another brother (pride before the fall, but you never paid attention to that). He’d lost the position he’d held (from hunter to nest-keeper).
But he’d rebuilt his skills, rebuilt his life, taking a fierce kind of pride in it. You can clip my feathers, but I will still thrive. He even found it within himself to forgive the one who, it seemed, had ripped his world out from under him (not that he’d told the idiot, let him sweat it a while longer). But one thing he could not rebuild, that was still left in shatters within his breast.
Someone scrambled up the roof behind him. It was quiet, a Master’s work, but he had always had some of the best ears of the Brotherhood. A small, startled noise sounded behind him and he smiled bitterly. They were all so surprised that he was still skilled; that, even wingless, he flew.
“Malik…?” The voice was familiar - too familiar. He hesitated, on the verge of leaping simply to escape him. He stayed. He could not face this by himself, he admitted, in the privacy of his thoughts, and this might be the one person who could actually help him. He did not turn, or give any explanation, just stood on the wooden beam and waited. Presently there were footsteps coming up hesitantly behind him. Malik could almost feel the heat of the other against his back when he chose to speak.
“I have lost much.” He stated simply. He felt the man tense up slightly, cloth rustling.
“Yet you relearned much, did you not?” He parried Malik’s statement. Malik chuckled under his breath, a wry weary sound.
“I suppose I have. Yet some things are not retrievable, not relearnable.” He said. He shifted one foot back, and felt Altaïr shift his corresponding foot forwards, hands resting on Malik’s shoulders.
“Tell me what you have lost.” A forlorn murmur sounded against his ear Malik spread his arm as if to leap.
“I have lost my faith.” He replied. He did not miss Altaïr’s sharp hiss of breath. “I come here once a week, and never in that time have I felt the faith to jump.” Altaïr’s arms came up around him, one hand spread over his chest and the other cradling the outstretched stump of his arm in a surprisingly gentle manner. Malik rested his hand on Altaïr’s arm and closed his eyes briefly, feeling the wind pluck at them.
“Malik, I have faith.” He spoke after a moment. Malik opened his eyes again, wondering what he meant. He started to frown, wondering why the other man had come to him like this if he was just going to mock him. “Malik I have faith in you.” He repeated, and Malik’s eyes widened. “My faith in all else waned after the Temple, even my faith in myself. All I have done until this point has been for you, to win back your respect, and in doing that, my own respect.” He murmured against Malik’s ear, like a lover whispering their darkest secrets. Malik closed his eyes again, a shiver racing down his spine.
“Jump, Malik. Take a leap of faith.” He said, releasing Malik. “I shall be right behind you.”
Malik jumped, soaring on wings of renewed faith, not in himself, but Altaïr.
Rating: K+
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairings: Malik/Altaïr
Genre: Introspective/Friendship
Summary: Malik ponders what he has lost, regained, and still finds himself lacking.
WARNINGS: fluff, angst, introspection, abuse of italics
Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable trademarks displayed in this work of fiction. The ideas and writing are mine, however, so I would appreciate that my rights be observed in that respect.
This particular work was inspired by Enduro on dA's beautiful picture, "Jump", which you can find here. It's gorgeous. Also, by Regina Spektor's song "Blue Lips". I'm still trying to figure that one out myself. My first foray into Assassin's Creed, so please be gentle with me~
How he had ended up here was still a bit of a mystery to him. He’d kept his skills up, to be sure, never truly accepting the fact that he’d been ‘retired’ by Al Mualim. He had painstakingly relearned all his previous skills, including climbing. But he’d not done this since…
“One-winged hawks are of no use but to guide the hatchlings on their ways.” Dark eyes held no warmth as he dealt the blow, not caring how stricken the bedridden man looked.
Wind plucked at fabric, sending the white and dark tails of his robes fluttering. The wind was cold, prickling his cheeks and nose. He’d never been fond of this, not the height but the jump. The leap of faith he had taken when he was young had thrilled him, but that thrill had died a painful, bloody death somewhere along the way.
No, not somewhere. He knew exactly where, he just did not want to admit it. Not to himself, not to anyone.
The scent of blood lay heavy in his nose, where was his little kestrel, the hatchling he’d raised - no, he was not dead, could not be dead.
He’d lost more than a brother in Solomon’s Temple, he’d lost the closest thing he had to a son. He’d lost the respect of his brothers, even as he gained it in a different way, one he’d never wanted.
He’d lost an arm (a wing), with it his skills (can’t fly with one wing). He’d lost his brother (hatchling he’d raised), he’d lost another brother (pride before the fall, but you never paid attention to that). He’d lost the position he’d held (from hunter to nest-keeper).
But he’d rebuilt his skills, rebuilt his life, taking a fierce kind of pride in it. You can clip my feathers, but I will still thrive. He even found it within himself to forgive the one who, it seemed, had ripped his world out from under him (not that he’d told the idiot, let him sweat it a while longer). But one thing he could not rebuild, that was still left in shatters within his breast.
Someone scrambled up the roof behind him. It was quiet, a Master’s work, but he had always had some of the best ears of the Brotherhood. A small, startled noise sounded behind him and he smiled bitterly. They were all so surprised that he was still skilled; that, even wingless, he flew.
“Malik…?” The voice was familiar - too familiar. He hesitated, on the verge of leaping simply to escape him. He stayed. He could not face this by himself, he admitted, in the privacy of his thoughts, and this might be the one person who could actually help him. He did not turn, or give any explanation, just stood on the wooden beam and waited. Presently there were footsteps coming up hesitantly behind him. Malik could almost feel the heat of the other against his back when he chose to speak.
“I have lost much.” He stated simply. He felt the man tense up slightly, cloth rustling.
“Yet you relearned much, did you not?” He parried Malik’s statement. Malik chuckled under his breath, a wry weary sound.
“I suppose I have. Yet some things are not retrievable, not relearnable.” He said. He shifted one foot back, and felt Altaïr shift his corresponding foot forwards, hands resting on Malik’s shoulders.
“Tell me what you have lost.” A forlorn murmur sounded against his ear Malik spread his arm as if to leap.
“I have lost my faith.” He replied. He did not miss Altaïr’s sharp hiss of breath. “I come here once a week, and never in that time have I felt the faith to jump.” Altaïr’s arms came up around him, one hand spread over his chest and the other cradling the outstretched stump of his arm in a surprisingly gentle manner. Malik rested his hand on Altaïr’s arm and closed his eyes briefly, feeling the wind pluck at them.
“Malik, I have faith.” He spoke after a moment. Malik opened his eyes again, wondering what he meant. He started to frown, wondering why the other man had come to him like this if he was just going to mock him. “Malik I have faith in you.” He repeated, and Malik’s eyes widened. “My faith in all else waned after the Temple, even my faith in myself. All I have done until this point has been for you, to win back your respect, and in doing that, my own respect.” He murmured against Malik’s ear, like a lover whispering their darkest secrets. Malik closed his eyes again, a shiver racing down his spine.
“Jump, Malik. Take a leap of faith.” He said, releasing Malik. “I shall be right behind you.”
Malik jumped, soaring on wings of renewed faith, not in himself, but Altaïr.