#for the uninitiated: the bit of mmw is altaïr is secretly a woman

[noficbyhalves]

(Soooo... whumptober huh? We're not talking about how this "just a quick scene" became over two months and almost 3k in my notes app, and it still isn't finished. "Oh I'll just wrap this one up and then work on one of the skies whump prompts" I am a clown and a fool) Anyway enjoy Altaïr being a walking disaster, as usual lmao:

"They will see the Assassins as their common enemy because of me. Because eight powerful men on both sides of this war are dead by my hand. Robert will not need to twist any words because we are already damned. And I am his instrument." She fought to swallow the lump in her throat. "My blade is his."

Malik's pen froze mid-stroke. "You are treading awfully close to treason, Altaïr."

A bitter smile curled across her face. "You of all people know I have every reason to take our mentor at his word. But he's been keeping secrets, important ones. Leaving us fumbling in the dark."

"And you expect me to trust your blind assertions over his, is that it?"

Altaïr shrugged. "We can never know anything, only suspect. I suspect this business with the Templars goes deeper, and I cannot let that lie. No matter how little I like where it leads."

Malik was quiet, contemplative.

"As a dai, maybe he will give you answers instead of silence." She offered.

"As a dai, I cannot leave the city."

Had that always been the case? She had no idea, the comings and goings of bureaukeepers had never been important to her before.

"Walk amongst its people, then. Perhaps you'll see something I could not."

Malik stared at the half-written letter on the counter.

"Fine. I'll... look into it. I cannot promise you anything."

"Your ear has been enough, dai." She bowed, finding she well and truly meant it, and turned to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Arsuf," was out of her mouth before she registered that he probably meant it rhetorically.

"Fucking- you're covered in blood and blatantly favoring your right arm. The guards will swarm you in minutes. Sit down."

It was unsettling that he had noticed that when Altaïr hadn't even been doing anything. "I'm fine," she said.

He gave her an unimpressed look.

"I'll patch it on the road," she hedged.

"And risk taking on Robert with a raging infection? Are you out of your mind?"

If only the gash were lower, closer to her forearm. Then she could roll up her sleeve to expose it. "Malik, I can't," she whispered, gesturing loosely at her own torso to avoid the risk of prying ears. A bureau full of brothers taught to eavesdrop as babes was no place to keep secrets.

"I know it's not... ideal. But unless you have someone in the city I can send for..." He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "I'll do my best not to look more than I have to."

It was a nice sentiment, if entirely pointless. Malik's eyes were not the problem. "The brotherhood is always watching," she said. 

She couldn't see any novices peeking around the doorways of the bureau, but that was likely due to her own state, or Malik's exacting standards for those under his command. A master assassin visiting your post was uncommon enough that gawking at them was a frequent pastime for fledgling assassins. God knew she and Malik had both done so, back when they were young and starry-eyed. Altaïr's recent notoriety certainly wouldn't reduce the appeal.

Malik frowned. "It's only me." 

<...>

"Everyone stationed in the city has gone to ground. I didn't want to risk de Sable's men retaliating. So that won't be an issue at the moment."

She hesitated. It went against every instinct she had. 

(But Malik was still here, when all others were scattered to the winds. Not unarmed - she had no doubt there was a longsword hidden somewhere within easy reach - but alone, and out of practice. And the bureau's grate had been open, waiting for her, despite the turmoil in the streets. It felt like forgiveness, like faith, in a way too overwhelming to contemplate. If she looked at it directly it would blind her with gold, gold, gold.)

Altaïr stepped back into the office. Her bloody hands fumbled at the straps of her sword belt, setting it on the counter. Disarming herself one layer at a time (frankish blade, janbiya, two sheaths for throwing knives but only half of one full, she should check if Malik had spares).

Malik seemed content with her compliance, and turned to gather medical supplies from the shelves. "If it's as bad as I think it is," he said, "you'll need to be my other hand. Putting stitches in one-handed is deeply unpleasant."

She wasn't sure if he meant for her or for him. In her experience one-handed stitches were vastly preferable to tightly wrapping an injury and hoping for the best, even if they were an uncomfortable bloody slog to put in. Malik would at least have the benefit of not having to feel his own handiwork in the process.

Her fingers hesitated for a moment on her cowl. She hadn't been bare-headed in a bureau for... probably ever at all. Circumstances being what they were, it was unlikely to ever happen again.

With a deep breath, she pulled both it and her mask over her head, thumbs raking through the fuzzy overgrowth of hair near her ears. She would need to shave it again, but that was a problem that could wait until Robert was dead.

The rushlight seemed brighter without a hood to mask it, but the silence was somehow more pronounced. For once Altaïr could clearly smell the incense permeating the bureau - sandalwood and something fainter she could not quite place. It was... nice, to have something other than sweat and blood and death lingering in her lungs.

Pulling her robes off was not a comfortable experience, but at least the layers below kept them from sticking too badly. She would begrudgingly admit (if not out loud) Malik had been right about the quantity of blood on them - her sash had masked most of it when she was only looking quickly, but the rusty swathes were garish without it.

(She would've liked to point out that very little of what was visible on the outside was her blood, but that was a losing battle if she ever saw one)

"What happened to your armor?!" Malik's voice cut through the path of her thoughts.

She glanced down at herself, checking if the bracer with her hidden blade had somehow been seriously damaged. But the only piece in poor condition was the one on her wounded right arm, which was to be expected.

Most assassins rarely used armor in the traditional sense - aside from the occasional Masyaf-bound brother who had chosen mail over his own advancement. It typically consisted of a layer or two of boiled leather, cut specially to avoid impeding movement. They wouldn't save a man from a direct hit, even if he had small metal plates stitched in critical locations like Altaïr did, but that wasn't really the point. A man who could not avoid direct injury as a full assassin was already a dead man walking, but the leather could absorb the occasional glancing blow that got through one's guard and keep them from piling up into something more debilitating.

This blow had been... much more significant than glancing. Thankfully it didn't seem to have hit bone. Still, she wasn't sure it warrented that dramatic of a reaction - if she needed stitches in her flesh why would her armor be in any better shape? 

"She had a greatsword?"

"Your breastplate, novice!"

Oh.

She had forgotten those were usually part of one's kit. It wasn't like she made a habit of being near brothers when anyone was less than fully equipped.

"...you have to get those fitted, Malik," she whispered.

He stared at her, some emotion flitting across his face faster than she could catch.

Altaïr briefly considered pulling her cowl back on, feeling suddenly very exposed. Instead she opted to tug at the ties of her bracer, peeling the rough edges away from the bloodsoaked mess of her arm.

"Let me."

Malik's voice was uncharacteristically soft. He waited for her shaky nod before loosening the lacings with nimble fingers. Altaïr could feel his sharp inhale at the first clear sight of the gash. The bleeding had mostly slowed (another benefit of the bracers - built-in compression), but it was a deep, ugly thing, ragged on one edge and sticky with half-congealed blood. It would certainly leave a scar.

At first Malik tried to roll up her shirtsleeve, but it was so soaked that it pulled something awful. Her vision swam as the pain spiked, going white-hot and bitterly numb in turns. She couldn't tell if she had made a noise or if it was just the ringing in her ears.

"Stop," she hissed, shoving him away and squirming out of her shirt. It was still agony yanking her arm out of the sleeve, but it was blessedly brief, and she caught herself on the counter before her knees could even think about buckling. Altaïr turned the motion into a hop to sit upon it, within arm's reach of her pile of armaments. She was pretty sure her face was schooled back into neutrality by the time she was seated. The dark spots scattered across her sight only lasted for a few seconds.

By the time Altaïr registered the visible discomfort on Malik's face, it had already disappeared. "Don't get blood on my fucking counter," he groused.