She tore through the streets, lungs burning and legs aching, the desert air drying up her throat to the point where she felt she was swallowing on sandpaper. The stolen parcel of food in her arms was slowing her down, she cursed silently, wishing she had taken less.

"You'll pay for that, thief!" One of the soldiers behind her shouted. It was encouragement enough for her to urge her muscles to carry her faster.

No sooner had she turned the corner, however, did she see another swarm of soldiers, snapped to attention now because of her raucous entry. Muttering obscenities, she turned back around and kept running, and upon finding the nearest stack of crates, climbed them hastily, too messy for her tastes, especially with the parcel of foot dangling awkwardly from her arm and impeding her speed.

The soldiers were quick to follow, but she had spent years on these rooftops and she knew them well. Swallowing her shallow breaths, she kept onwards until she could no longer hear the soldiers' shouts and screams. She lowered herself onto a balcony and squatted there, catching her breath.

Then, distant shouts jolted her to attention again. Her heart thumped loudly as she wheeled around, trying to find where the soldiers had spotted her—but how could they? She was in a fairly secure place, and she was squatting, for god's sake! Her gaze rolled down the street, where she saw a battalion—an entire battalion!— of guards running after…she shifted a little over the edge of the balcony to see better…after someone in white robes. Relief washed over her as she realized she hasn't yet been found, silently thanking that unfortunate victim for his timely distraction.

That was the end of her gratitude, however. Because said robed stranger quickly settled on a similar stack of crates she had jumped earlier, and was swiftly making his way up to the rooftops, uncomfortably close to her new hiding place. In the split second it took for her to decide whether she should crouch lower and pray they miss her, or to get up and bolt, he was already sprinting across a dip in the building, and was beelining straight for her balcony.

Cursing again for her misfortunes, she picked up her food and stood up, gloriously revealing her position for the soldiers behind her, and turning right, ran for the poorer district.

"That's her!" She heard one of the guards yell immediately. "That's the thief from earlier!"

"Forget her, eyes on the assassin!"

Assassin? She stole a glance over her shoulder and blanched when she saw that the man in white robes was following her, only a few rooftops behind. She could no longer be sure if the guards were chasing her or the assassin, or maybe the assassin was chasing her?

She had no time to ruminate on this, however, because when she looked up she suddenly saw herself looking at the edge of the roof of the last house on that block—there was nothing but the open market waiting down below, and no other roofs across which to jump, only a bell tower to her right. The assassin caught up to her in stride and, in the moment in which he passed her, nodded an acknowledgement to her—and her eyes widened at the sight of that youth, that cocky smirk playing on those scarred lips—was this all a game to him?—that promised an equally handsome face—before turning right sharply and launching himself up the tower.

She watched for a second or two, gaping in awe as his deft fingers clutched at the cracks in the wall, hoisting his figure up steadily and speedily, as if he was born to scale such heights. And she wished vaguely she was blessed with such talents, as it would make stealing much easier.

"Quick, follow him!"

"No, get the girl first—"

As soon as those words reached her ear, she knew her capture was imminent. There was nowhere left for her to run, as the assassin had successfully weeded her out of her hiding place and stalled her long enough to hinder her escape. Granted, she was slow, but…

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something dive off the tower and out of sight. It was for only an instant, but her heart pounded madly in shock and she sprinted the rest of the way to the edge of the roof to see where that thing—the man, she supplied—had landed from such a height.

But there was no sign of him on the streets below, only a haystack cart, a few crates, and bustling citizens seemingly unaware of what was going on above them. A jump like that would impale someone, she thought wryly, dread creeping up her spine. She stopped just short of the edge, her toes almost dangling in the air, and watched as dust and debris crumbled off to the ground below her—so far below her.

"Sir, the assassin is gone!"

"Doesn't matter now, at least we have the thief!"

And with that, a rough hand found its way to her shoulder, yanking her back. She struggled, and god, she struggled hard, the parcel of food dropping from her arms as she hit, punched, scratched, kicked, and yelled in every which direction. She failed to notice how the guards had inched closer and closer to the…

And that was when the heel of her foot slipped from the edge.

She fell backwards, wide eyed and mouth in a silent "o," a guard still tangled in her arms in a bizarre air dance of sorts. She was going to take him down with her, and their arms were still battling as a sharp shriek-like gasp escaped her lungs as she felt the solid roof abandon her footing.

Time seemed to slow while she was in the air. All she knew was the rush of survival instincts kicking in, and the sole, utterly dominating thought that she needed to live. She had family to feed. Thing to take care of. Places she'd like to visit. And even as that thought hit her, her body was already inching sideways, her other arm reaching as far as it could to grab the guard's right hand sleeve.

It was an instantaneous jerk, but the guard was unprepared for it—and she was too, at her sudden surge of strength, her sudden impulse of coordinated action, and the success of it itself—and found himself pinned to the bottom as they dived toward the ground.

His body hit first. There was sickening crack. She felt it. He broke under her weight and the impact of the fall, and she could feel the crush reach his organs and bones, feel the soft but sure internal squishing, and closed her eyes as she herself followed a split second later, his body softening the fall but making it no less painful. Her left shoulder still hit the ground hard, breaking the skin and possibly dislocating the joint.

Feeling winded, she allowed herself three seconds to regain herself, wincing as pain shot through her left arm at her attempt at steeling herself against the ground. Both those three seconds were too long. The soldiers from the roof followed suit, and although she was already running when she heard their thudding footsteps on the ground behind her, she was nowhere fast enough.

"How dare you!" One of them yelled behind her, obviously angry at her act of murder.

They were upon her in seconds, grabbing at her and eliciting a pained scream when a hand snaked up to jerk her shoulder harshly. They had their swords drawn, she noted bitterly, eyeing a glint of metal in the air as four of the gained on her. By then her mind had given up as she had fallen, and let herself be dragged up by her arms and tunic and hair. But her body seemed to have a will of its own, still struggling madly, maniacally against the men who tried to restrain her.

Faintly, she registered the crowd that was gathering, and an unbecoming figure among them, lurking the back, eyes staring at her through the darkness. It sent shivers down her spine.

A fist slammed into the side of her face, and she doubled back, a yell caught in her throat. She must have looked so ungodly right then, worse than the most shameless of beggars.

It seemed, however, that the guards were becoming more and more amused by her struggling. She was catching bits and pieces of laughter and snorting between all the yelling and screaming. When one of them forcefully ripped the front of her tunic, she got the point.

"No!" She spat indignantly, swinging her arm like a madman and hitting the nearest face.

They laughed their disgusting laugh and tugged at her torn tunic more. "Feisty, this one!"

"Best to show her her place. In front of everyone."

The menace and anticipation in his voice was tell-tale and palpable. And it was encouragement enough for her to renew her burning need for survival. She was not going to be shamed in public, even if it meant the death of her.

"No! Let go of me! Let me go—no, no—stop, let—"

There was a sharp sound of metal sliding.

Her current aggressor froze, as did the other captors. He made a gurgling sound, eyes wide and mouth agape, before his knees gave away under him and he crumpled to the ground, face first at her feet. She bit back a gasp as she slowly, daringly raised her head to look back up, and saw the fleeting face of the white robed man standing where the guard was, something like a small, bloody blade in the air. Then he was gone, pitching himself to her immediate right to strike that guard.

Fight ensued.

More and more guards were swarming into the crowd now, swords raised at the ready, intent to kill evident in their eyes, voices, and gestures. She wasn't sure how she managed to stay alive during the scuffle, but before she knew it, she had a sword in her hand, and a guard had fallen in front of her. The white figure was faring much better, holding his own against the onslaught, sword in one hand and short blade in the other. She made a mental note to thank him for his save.

But as the fight dragged on, she realized despairingly—between blind swings and wild brandishing of her sword—that there were simply too many guards. The white robed man was steadily being pushed back into a wall, and his expression, despite half of it being hidden under the hood, was contorted in a mask of concentration and pain. There were cuts on his arms and chest, already staining his clothes in red.

As more and more bodies fell before the assassin, she found herself, thankfully, almost forgotten as all attention was turned to the man. A glint on the roof to her right caught her attention. Her head swerved, immediately locking onto the archer that was taking aim.

She looked back—the assassin was too preoccupied, swords locked with a guard, facing left. He wasn't going to notice, there was no way. The other guards were stepping back, obviously making room for the arrow—

She didn't know what it was the made her fly towards him, or what she was thinking when she called out "Assassin!" with hoarse lungs, but she saw the arrow leave the archers hand, saw it tearing through the air, directly towards the white figure—she wasn't going to make it—she was past the guards now—almost directly in front of—

A large force collided with her shoulder—or the area immediately under it, she could no longer tell—and she was thrown back into the assassin. Fiery agony shot through her veins as pain erupted fiercely from where the arrow had lodged itself. She screamed belatedly as her legs gave away beneath her and she crumpled to the ground.

But surprisingly, the guards were, too. They were taking arrows—arrows coming from…she looked up to where the archer had been, and in his place was another man in white robes and head scarf, different from those of the assassin, but the leather belt and red strap gave him away as an obvious ally. The dead body of the archer lay by his feet as the new one fired arrows at the guards.

The assassin was quick to take this opportunity. He finished the rest of the guards with mighty swings of his sword, and just as another squad was turning the corner, she felt a large, strong hand pulling on her good arm until she was faintly supported by her shaky legs.

"Can you stand?" He growled hoarsely in her ear.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, the arrow still very much there, she steeled herself against his grasp the best she could, feeling as if her shoulder was going to tear off when he broke into a hasty run. She could tell she was slowing him down, as she stumbled and lost her footing every few minutes, and he had to double back on his steps for her.

He led her this way and that, turning left then turning right, until she was so dazed and lost that she had no idea at all where they were. Despite having spent a considerable number of years in Jerusalem, the assassin seemed to know it better than she did. The shouts and screams dimmed behind them, as did the alarm bells, until they reached an empty back alleyway, and he stopped, facing her.

She bent over, catching her breath, clutching her shoulder, and marveled at how evenly the assassin's breathing was, even after the fight and the subsequent flee.

"You—I'm—the arrow—" She rasped, groaning in pain as the adrenaline began to wear off and her shoulder was burning again. Wordlessly, the man stepped forward, backed her up against the wall, pinning her there with his overbearing figure.

A hand traveled up to grip the arrow, unmoving. He leaned in close—too close—and she could see his face for the first time—golden eyes, a shapely nose, strong lips and that firm jaw—and her heart thudded uncomfortably despite her predicament as the handsomeness of the combination of those features struck her—

"This will hurt."

That was all the warning she had before his free hand shot up to cover her mouth, and his hand on the arrow tugged sharply. A scream was wrenched from her throat as she felt what seemed like a hot poker being torn in—or out?—of her shoulder. She could feel—hear—her flesh tearing under the sharp back wedges of the arrow, could feel it ripping as the foreign object was yanked out of her. Warmth gushed out and flowed freely down her arm, her chest. Her breath was ragged now, and her free arm was gripping the assassin's that was covering her mouth and muffling her screams.

He held her there for a moment, hand pressing painfully firmly on her bleeding wound, the other in a vice-like grip over her mouth. He let her yells and incomprehensible protests fade to grunts and whimpers as she fought back the pain and tears. He gave her a moment to sort it out herself, pinning her there for her to cling onto, and when she seemed to regain herself a bit, he let go of her mouth, but the hand on the shoulder remained.

Then when even that hand left, she felt the absence of warmth taken away when he stepped back and dissolved the proximity. Her own hand quickly replaced his, pressing on her shoulder, but her eyes never left his.

He made to leave.

"Wait," she managed feebly, attempting to pry herself away from the wall, but failing and collapsing back against it. "Wait, no—" A foreboding darkness was creeping into the corners of her eyes. She fought it back desperately.

He paused, but didn't stop. She wasn't sure what made her call out to him again, what made her lunge forward with her remaining strength in an effort to touch him—but something in him reminded her of…she couldn't quite recall. But there was an undeniable familiarity in his presence, his movements, his sureness, and it put her in mind of childhood memories she had long since banished and forgotten. And curiosity took the better of her.

Her vision faltered for a moment, and she saw the swimming image of the assassin's backside—his short sword, the scabbard, the leather belt and the sash—and her own bloody hand reaching for him—before she saw dirt. Something cold and hard hit the side of her face—"Father," she heard herself whisper—and then she was gone.