Assassins Through the Ages- Chapter 11

Age 17:

Malik was in alone, in his room. He was supposed to be studying, but he found that he couldn't focus. He subconsciously tugged on his Novice gray hood angrily, fury seeming to roll off of him in waves.

"This isn't fair!" Malik hissed out loud, slamming his fists against the table, making the objects on it rattle, "I'm older than he is, and we were made Novices at the same time! This isn't fair!"

Malik sat there for several minutes, fuming silently to himself, his fists curled tightly against the table to keep them from shaking in his anger, clenched hard enough that his knuckles were turning white. He took several deep breaths while he tried to calm himself.

He had scared Kadar out of the room earlier, somewhat unintentionally. When he had found out, he had flown into a rage, throwing their meager possessions against the walls of the room. Kadar had scurried out of the room, leaving Malik to vent, and had not returned since. He did not particularly care, for he was happy to be alone. Malik figured that he would just be at the entrance of the fortress, waiting eagerly for the nine ex-novices, the chanters, and Al Mualim to return.

The ceremony of when a Novice becomes a full member of the order takes place in a very secluded place near Masyaf. The ten Novices would stand in a circle, all facing the middle. Al Mualim would walk around them in his ceremonial green robes, while the chanters stood in a wider circle around them, with their backs to the Novices. The chanters would begin their incantation as the Grand Master walked around the circle of the initiates. All at once the chanters would cease, and Al Mualim would plunge a dagger into the nearest initiate. The rest would be given their hidden blades, the choice to amputate their left ring finger, and would be welcomed as full members of the order.

Many assassins believe that Al Mualim signals the chanters somehow when he is closest to the weakest initiate there, but no one can prove or disprove otherwise.

Without warning, the door swung open. Malik looked up to see a white-robed figure stride confidently into his room, accompanied by the faint smell of burned flesh, making Malik's nose wrinkle in disgust. His hood was up so that Malik could only see the bottom of his nose and his mouth, which was upturned in a haughty smirk.

"Congratulations." Malik spat bitterly, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in his gray robes.

"Thank you." said Altaïr, still with that arrogant half smile on his face.

Malik appraised him skeptically, his charcoal eyes running up and down the assassin's body, his eyes resting on his left hand where his new hidden blade gleamed, and the place where his ring finger had once been was bandaged where he had cut it off and burned the wound closed with a hot fire poker.

"I see you decided to amputate your finger." Malik observed disdainfully. For some reason, this did not surprise him.

"Yes." Altaïr agreed, drawing himself up proudly, flexing his remaining fingers and allowing his new hidden blade to snap out, "It's kinda weird, because it feels like it's still there. Are you going to when you become a full assassin?" He put emphasis in the word "you," making Malik's fists clench again, so hard his fingernails dig painfully into the palms of his hands.

"No, I will not." Malik snapped curtly, "I have no interest in mutilating myself."

Honesty, he had been planning to cut of his ring finger as a display of his dedication to their order, but there was no way he was going to do it now. He didn't want to appear as a liar, and even if he wasn't worried about that he wouldn't anyways out of a combination of spite and stubbornness. He would have to make sure that Kadar didn't either.

The two teens held each other in an icy silence for a couple moments. Altaïr had moved so that his face was angled in a way that Malik couldn't quite see his eyes, but he could see a small golden glint to indicate where they were. Altaïr crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight over to one leg.

"What's your problem?" Altaïr said suddenly, tugging off his hood with one hand to inspect the person before him.

"What do you mean?" Malik asked coldly, holding his gaze.

"Clearly something is bothering you." Altaïr snapped.

"What makes you say that?" Malik said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "It's not like I have anything to be remotely angry about."

"Oh, really?" Altaïr snarled, "Just spit it out already!"

Malik glared at Altaïr, trying to keep in mind that it was unusual, although not unheard of, to be made an assassin at that age. Most people become assassins when they were about twenty to twenty three. Still, at the risk of sounding childish, it wasn't fair. Malik was older than Altaïr and just as good in their studies, even better in some areas.

"Do you have anything important to say to me, or are you just here to gloat?" Malik hissed scathingly.

Altaïr momentarily looked stunned. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and his mouth thinned into a line. Altaïr blinked several times before his face slid back into its usual expressionless appearance.

"Fine." he said coldly, pulling his hood back up and crossing his arms over his chest, "Fine."

Altaïr turned and stalked out of the room, leaving Malik alone once more. Malik shouted in fury and grabbed the text he had been studying before and threw it, hard, against the wall. The book hit the stone with a slam! before it slid to the floor and landed with a slight plop, open, on the ground, scattering Malik's notes all over the floor.

Malik's fists clenched and uncle chef as he stood in the middle of the mess for a moment, chest heaving and his shoulders rolled forward, before grimacing and taking a deep breath through his nose. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed out the breath through his mouth and crouched down to clean up the mess he had made.