Stone, Ground, Mountain, River.

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

"Stone, ground, mountain, river; each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged."

-Jalal-al-Din Muhammad Rumi.

"The trouble with you girls," Nusaybah said without looking up from the tea that she was pouring, "is that you can't think for yourself."

Asma watched the tea splash into the engraved glass. She blushed and spoke quickly to cover the shame that flushed her cheeks. "Forgive me, but I was reckoned one of the best students at Masyaf. That's why they sent me to you."

Nusaybah nodded as she passed Asma a drink. She pushed her hair back from her face and regarded the younger woman with dark and sympathetic eyes. "That's why you're here, yes, but that's not all. Independent thought is not something they teach at Masyaf. That is the real reason why you're here." She smiled. "It's something you can learn."

Asma took a sip. The tea was sweet but she was no wiser. "So that's what you're teaching me? How to think?"

Nusaybah smiled. "Yes. No doubt you think me a little odd."

Asma shook her head politely. She had spent a week with Nusaybah in the house near Jerusalem's Bab Ourika Gate. In this time she had learned many things; most of them random and all of them puzzling. Nusaybah had asked Asma to identify the one true diamond in a handful of glass beads. She had taken her up on the roof to observe the stars and down into the market to estimate the value of the clothes of every man that passed them by. Asma had thrown knives into a painted target. She had memorised the order of objects on a carved Chinese tray and picked the heavy lock on Nusaybah's front door.

Asma knew that her training with Nusaybah was not going as well as she had hoped. What she could not guess was how on earth the older woman's teachings would possibly make her a better Assassin.

It was a far cry from the relentless routine of Masyaf.

Nusaybah held out the silver pot. "More tea?"

Asma shook her head.

Nusaybah smiled and poured herself another glass. "Don't look so worried. You girls are special. You'll do things Altaïr's fidai'in could never hope to dream of. Besides," she added, "you might as well throw pebbles in a well as teach a man subtlety. The new Master is trying to improve that but he has a long way to go. Diving on a man in full view of spectators and stabbing him in the throat may well be dramatic, but it is not exactly subtle."

Asma looked up in surprise. "Isn't it traditional?" she suggested.

Nusaybah snorted. "It may be. But the Templars know what to expect of us by now-or they think that they do. We must act in ways our enemies do not expect. I have every intention of seeing that they do not expect you."

Asma nodded, but she didn't understand. She wanted with all her heart to succeed, but she had no idea what Nusaybah expected of her in return. She bowed her head, staring at the intricate designs on the carpet as she tried to blink back tears.

Nusaybah held out a china dish filled with saffron sugar wafers. "Try a sweet," she invited. "They're quite delicious."

Asma timidly took a wafer and laid it on her tongue. It burst in her mouth like sunlight, cheering her for a moment. Nusaybah sighed, put the bowl down and held out a hand to Asma. "I'll explain," she said again. "Follow me."

Together they walked over to the window. Nusaybah knelt on the window cushions and wrapped her long fingers around the carved wooden mashrabiya grille. She pointed through the mashrabiya at the bustling market-day crowds and turned to Asma. "Look down there," she commanded. "What do you see?"

Asma gazed out over the streets. She saw nothing but the crowds of shoppers on their way to and from the bazaar. Children screamed and men shouted hoarse commands as their wives fingered piles of plump oranges and discussed the latest gossip with their friends. It was the same view Asma saw every day. She mentioned this to Nusaybah, who shook her head impatiently and jabbed one bejewelled finger at the cobbles. "Do you see that woman over there?"

Asma squinted through the mashrabiya at the beggar woman who sat in a nest of crumbled rags wedged into the base of a long-disused doorway. "Of course. She's there every day."

Nusaybah nodded. "Half of Jerusalem walks past that lady every day. How many stop to give her coins?"

Asma hesitated. She had never seen anybody give the woman any money. "Very few."

"Sadly for her," "Nusaybah said, "you're right. Many people pass her by, but few stop to look. That's what I want you to learn, Asma."

Asma stared at Nusaybah incredulously. Her family scraped a humble existence in the hills above Masyaf, but even Asma's clan had been far above this lowly beggar woman. "You're training me to beg?"

Nusaybah shook her head so violently that her earrings tinkled in a sudden blizzard of sound. "Of course not. You'll mix with the highest rulers of this land. You might play the part of a poetess, a serving girl or a noble yourself. Whatever happens, though, you can't rely on brute strength to save your life like the fidai'in do. You'll have only your wits and your charm to assist you."She shrugged, causing another cascade of tinkling music. "And your blade."

Asma stole another glance at the ragged beggar woman through the window grille. Nusaybah followed her gaze. She pulled a silver coin from a pouch at her belt, snaked her slender hand through the mashrabiya and tossed the coin down to the beggar. The woman caught the coin with an agility that belied her ragged and aged appearance and instantly glanced around for its source. Her thin face lifted towards the window like a flower seeking the sun. Asma drew back even though she knew she could not be seen behind the mashrabiya. She watched as the woman bit the coin's edge to test its purity and slipped it into the grimy folds of her cloak.

"The beggar girl's a good example, but she's not exactly what I have in mind for you," Nusaybah said. "She's a crow. You'll be a beautiful parrot-one that hides the heart and talons of a falcon beneath your bright feathers and honeyed tongue." She looked critically at Asma's plain white tunic and plucked disapprovingly at the red sash that marked her as one of the Assassin order. "This reminds me. We'll have to find you some suitable clothes. What were they thinking?"

Asma looked down at her white robes. They were nearly identical to the ones worn by the male Assassin novices. "They're the best clothes I've ever had," she said truthfully, not mentioning that they were the only new clothes she had ever owned-every other item of clothing in her family being passed through the hands of two elder sisters before Asma had ever got the chance to wear it.

"You'll have better," Nusaybah said dismissively. "Of course, that's men for you. They-"

But whatever gem of wisdom she had been about to impart to Asma was forgotten as they both heard quiet footsteps in the corridor outside. The footsteps were followed by a soft knock on the door.

"Lady?" called Munya, Nusaybah's maid. "Your teacher's here."

Nusaybah turned her head gracefully in the direction of the shuttered door. "Show him in," she called "I'll meet him in the courtyard." She turned back to Asma. "My apologies. I have an appointment which I must not break. I trust that you will be comfortable here until my return. I don't think I will be long."

Asma bowed deeply in reply, slightly surprised that Nusaybah had bothered to explain herself to a novice and even more surprised that there was anything left for Nusaybah to learn. "But you-" she blushed. "You don't need to learn, surely."

Nusaybah smiled. "Every teacher must study themselves. Or they should," she added, almost as an afterthought. She stopped Asma with a gesture as the younger woman began to clear the tea glasses. "Don't do that. You're not a servant. I'll send Munya up to keep you company. We will continue your lessons when I return. Ma'asalaama. "

Asma bowed again. "Ma'asalaama." She held the pose until Nusaybah had left the chamber, then straightened up and looked around the room for entertainment. A backgammon set lay discarded in one corner -learning backgammon had been one of Asma's earlier lessons-and an embroidered copy of the Qur'an on a small table by the door. Both seemed odd pastimes for an Assassin.

She heard voices drifting up from the courtyard, followed by a familiar thudding sound that Asma recognised as a knife hitting heavy wood. She tensed instinctively, expecting a fight, but Nusaybah's voice, though indistinct, seemed pleasant and relaxed.

Her curiosity provoked, Asma tried the door and found that it was unlocked. She left both backgammon board and Qur'an where they lay and pushed the door gently open. The well-oiled hinges did not make a sound.

Asma slipped her sandals off and left them inside the door. She crept barefoot out into the corridor, closing the door quietly behind her.

Nusaybah's house was built upon traditional lines; three storeys arranged around a central courtyard. The rooms were connected by a balconied stairwell that wound around the inner walls of the old building like a snake carved from cedar wood. Nusaybah's study was on the second floor. The door opened directly onto the balcony and a low grille, carved from the same polished wood as the mashrabiya window grilles, shielded Asma from sight of the courtyard. She heard the sound of a weighted knife thudding into a wooden target as she crept to the railing and peered down.

A man's voice floated up to her; sharp and slightly impatient. "There are four things to concentrate upon when you throw a knife."

"I find that I have forgotten these four points." Nusaybah's voice was quiet and throaty. "Do remind me."

"I have told you many times." The male voice grew a little more impatient. "I cannot understand-"

"I do apologise," Nusaybah replied. Her tone did not sound in the least apologetic. "Please show me again. I fear I have forgotten what it means to wield a blade."

"Look!" Asma heard the sound of steps on the tiled courtyard below her. She craned her neck to see and caught a blurred glimpse of Nusaybah's robes. "There are four elements to a good throw. The first is grip; the second wrist action. The third element is finger action and the fourth is the release itself. I have no idea why this is so complicated."

Asma heard another thud. The balcony vibrated beneath her with the force of the throw. She inhaled sharply under the cover of her teacher's reply. "I really don't know why it's so hard." Nusaybah said, and snickered.

"It should not be so! I-" The man paused. "You know that there is someone up there." The brief sentence was framed as a question but Asma knew that it wasn't.

Nusaybah's voice was as bland as rice porridge. "Is there?"

Asma's skin prickled. She knew she hadn't made a sound, unless you counted that indrawn breath. But she had learned that there was no use hiding once you were discovered. She got up slowly, brushed the dust of the floor from her robe and leant over the balcony.

The mingled scent of jasmine and fresh cedar shavings drifted up from the courtyard. Nusaybah smiled up at Asma from below. Despite her recent exertions, she looked as flawless as ever. Not one hair was out of place.

The man was right below Asma, his single arm raised in the action of pulling a short-bladed throwing knife from one of the staircase's supporting pillars. He looked up at her with dark serious eyes and yanked the blade from the wood with one smooth gesture. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"She's one of Altair's new recruits," Nusaybah interjected with a smile.

The man did not smile. "I know what she is. I did not ask that. What is she doing here?"

The long silence that followed stretched out around Asma like a desert. The words stuck in her throat.

"Why, I imagine that she is spying, Malik." Nusaybah said lightly. "What else?"

Asma could have melted into a small puddle of water at the mention of the name. She recognised the man now. All of the novices had heard of Malik al-Sayf, and several of the lazier students wished they hadn't. Despite her embarrassment, she found the time to be slightly impressed that her teacher was receiving lessons from the second-in-command of Masyaf himself.

"You should teach her better." Malik wiped the throwing knife on his robe and laid it down in a line of identical throwing knives set out ready for use on the rim of the fountain. "I thought that you were teaching her how to pass unnoticed. That I noticed her reflects badly on you."

Asma blushed in shame. She had not meant to fail Nusaybah so early in her training.

Nusaybah looked unruffled. She laughed. "Maybe. But we each have different ways of teaching. She is curious, which is not a bad thing, and I did not order her to stay within the room. She is free to watch if she wishes. She may even learn a thing or two."

"That," Malik said precisely, "is your job. What are you teaching her?"

Nusaybah shrugged. "Oh, this and that. She is a good student, even if she thinks my lesson plans rather unorthodox."

"She is not the only one," the man murmured. His voice sharpened. "If she is a good student, then you would do well to learn from her."

"A poor teacher always blames his student," Nusaybah retorted, with a sweet smile which seemed to catch the man by surprise. He snorted but said nothing, and Asma realised that their argument was nothing to do with her, that it was a discussion that they'd had many times before.

The realisation came with a dizzying rush of relief. She clutched the balcony with both hands to keep from toppling. Nusaybah did not think her hopeless! She had actually praised Asma, and to no less a person than the right hand man of Altaïr himself. She wondered what her fellow novices would think of that, and wondered so hard that she did not hear Nusaybah's next comment until it was nearly over.

"Asma, come down here. I want to show Malik how my girls compare with his fidai'in."

Asma swallowed past the lump in her throat. She nodded to Nusaybah and descended the stairs to the courtyard in her stocking feet, her heart growing heavier with each step. Nusaybah met her at the bottom and handed her a knife. "Try for the pillar," she commanded.

The familiar feel of the wooden handle in her hand steadied Asma. She walked softly across the courtyard to the fountain, tapped the hilt of the knife against her thumb for a second, turned and threw. The knife hissed through the air like a steel serpent and buried itself two fingers' deep in the pillar next to Malik. He did not move an inch. "Impressive," he said.

Nusaybah pushed the line of knives out of the way and sat down upon the rim of the fountain. "Your fidai'in could do no better," she said. "Shall I suggest a match?"

Malik shook his head. He wrenched the knife from the pillar and slid it into his red Assassin's sash. "My fidai'in are not coming near your girls until they have been better trained," he said.

"Why not?" Nusaybah asked.

"They need no distractions," Malik snarled with a vehemence that Asma did not feel was justified given the situation. She looked back at Nusaybah, who just smiled. "What sort of a distraction could we be?" she asked.

"I have no idea," Nusaybah said swiftly, before Malik could answer.

"You know exactly what sort of distraction," Malik said from the other side of the courtyard.

Nusaybah tilted her head. "Do I? I have no idea why they would be so easily distracted." Her voice, which had been more or less serious throughout the whole counter, turned teasing. Her posture, which even to Asma's eyes had been ruthlessly businesslike throughout the whole encounter, became rather more fluid. Flirtatious, Asma thought.

Malik coughed and looked away. Asma looked from the Assassin to Nusaybah and then back to Malik. Neither of them said anything. As the silence stretched out between then Asma felt an idea burst into her head like the rising sun.

Asma swallowed as a great deal of the previous conversation began to make sense. She turned to Nusaybah. "Are you-?"

For the second time that day a conversation was interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door.

Nobody moved to answer the knock. It came again, this time with more force. Asma moved towards the door instinctively.

"Don't answer it," Nusaybah said. "Munya will be here in a moment. You're not a servant, girl."

Asma ignored her mistress. She was the closest and the most junior and it made sense to her that she should answer the door. The metal was cold against her hand as she slipped the bolt and swung the front door wide.

Outside she saw a scruffy boy of her own age in the white robes of a fidai'i, his hand already raised to knock again as she eased the door open. He was looking down as if he did not expect to be answered so soon. His hand, as he straightened, nearly touched Asma's breast. Asma stepped back just in time and the boy swallowed.

She was exactly the same height as him; she realised, and as the sun caught his face, a year or two older, too.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Asma. And you are?"

"Nobody of importance," Malik said from behind her as he materialised from the cool depths of the courtyard as soundlessly as a sand-demon and so suddenly that he made Asma jump. "As-salaam, Marîd. What do you want?"

"Marîd!" Nusaybah exclaimed from behind Asma. "We're having a lesson. Care to join in?"

The boy blinked and looked up at Asma through lashes as long as a camel's. "Yes. Of course. I mean-"

"No," Malik said instantly. "Wait outside. I will be along in a moment."

Nusaybah pouted. "Your Creed does not forbid you to mix with women," she said reprovingly. "What's the harm-?"

"Where do I start?" Malik snapped as the boy slunk off. "I can think of more than a dozen reasons why it would be a very bad idea."

"Really?" Nusaybah looked interested. "Pray tell."

"I am not getting into this discussion now!"

"That's a pity," Nusaybah said, and sounded like she meant it. "Are you leaving so soon? There's nothing that I enjoy more than a good-" She paused and ran her tongue around lips that were tinged suspiciously red despite the Prophet's ban on cosmetics. "Debate."

Malik, who was already half-out of the door, turned."Rest assured," he said dryly. "I will be back."

"Oh, I know it," Nusaybah said calmly. "Be gone, then. Doubtless there is some small Assassin task waiting."

The other Assassin looked at her for a long moment before he shook his head. Asma could have sworn that she saw a small smile fighting around the corners of his mouth. She thought he would speak but he just shook his head again and closed the door firmly behind him.

Nusaybah clicked her tongue- whether in irritation or amusement Asma couldn't tell-and led Asma back to the centre of the courtyard and the ring of throwing knives. "Well done," she said when they reached the fountain.

Asma shook her head. "I don't understand," she confessed.

"You held your own," Nusaybah began to roll up the knives. "I love dearly to see Malik disconcerted, and you accomplished that with ease. I would love to see you when you're older. You'll be one of the first female Assassins, and the most respected. I will see to that, "Nusaybah smiled, "I guarantee it. After all, don't we exist to open the minds of men?" She sighed. "It's just a pity that they can be so dense. But don't worry. I have plans for you. We'll take steps the Templars don't expect-and maybe the Assassins as well."

"Will we?" Asma asked eagerly.

Nusaybah's smile widened. "I guarantee it," she said.

Assignments

An Assassin's Creed ficbit by xahra99

Part 1, for nerrianah, and part 2, for everbright. Written for the prompt: Malik and Altaïr; banter and speculation on the nature of the pieces of Eden.

"So tell me," said Altaïr, "how you left to search for one Eden fragment and returned with two."

It was a few days after Malik's return. They were in the Master's study, sorting papers in the dim grey afternoon light. It was a cold grey day, with lowered clouds, and even the huge stained glass window behind Altaïr's desk cast precious little light.

"I-" Malik began, and hesitated. He had not been looking forwards to explaining himself to Altaïr. His mission had been a success, but there were certain things that he had overlooked.

"A lucky discovery," he said eventually, embarrassed. "Although I did not think so at the time."

"How so?"

Malik outlined the Templars' pursuit across the desert and the discovery of al-Ghurab's orb with as much dignity as he could muster. Altaïr waited until he had finished before he said "You make it sound as if you nearly did not return."

Malik shrugged. "I did," he said. Privately he thought that he had given Altaïr a rather optimistic version of events.

"A skilled Assassin maintains control of his environment," Altaïr said, unsmiling.

"There are times when a place is impossible to control." Malik snapped. He did not like where this line of questioning was going. "Are you calling me unskilled?"

"Far from it. An unskilled man would not have returned."

"Do not mock me, Altair."

"Then at least return the favour," said the Grand Master of the Assassins wryly.

Malik snorted and turned back to the papers he had been arranging. "I did the best I could."

"I do not doubt it," said Altaïr, while a flurry of sleet beat against the stained glass window behind him. "You know you have my gratitude. Every orb snatched from the hands of the Templars is thousands of lives saved."

"I wish I thought that." Malik shook his head. "Two orbs is only twice the trouble in my opinion."

"Two orbs is twice the opportunity to learn."

Malik's eyes narrowed. "You told me that the world needed to do without the Eden fragments for a while. And since when have you cared about learning?"

When it was clear that Altaïr had no intention of answering him he asked, "What are they even for?"

"They tell me that they're relics of those who came before."

"They're talking to you now?" Malik said in surprise. "That is foolish. We know they manipulate minds. They're devices of control. And you should not-"

"The Assassins seem more resistant to their influence," Altaïr pointed out. "As you learned yourself. But why? We have so much to learn. Is it our training? Mental discipline? Or our bloodlines? Why are we the chosen ones?"

"Why have you changed the subject so quickly?" Malik retorted.

Altaïr gave him a small, wry smile. "They are important questions," he pointed out.

Malik resigned himself to the fact that he was never going to persuade Altaïr to renounce the orbs. It was not easily done. "Maybe. But we are not chosen. Those who think themselves chosen are inclined to think that everyone else is excluded," he pointed out. "Besides, Marîd developed some measure of resistance and he is not a born Assassin. Maybe control can be developed?"

"We should teach the young," Altaïr agreed. "Train them to exorcise these demons so that we may start anew without fear."

"That is one of your better notions," Malik conceded.

"I'm glad that we agree for once." Altaïr said. He made a mark on a sheet of paper. "You can start with the fidai'in. Tomorrow."

"It is not my job to teach novices." Malik argued.

"It is n-"

"And if you tell me that it is now," Malik said, "then I shall use my knife on you."

Altaïr smiled. "I cannot think of a better teacher. Although after hearing of your foolishness in Morocco, I have my doubts."

"Foolishness? Whatever it was that I did, it cannot be more foolish than certain of your plans!"

They both broke off as a fidai'i came hesitantly up the stairs. He took one look at the quarrelling Assassins before retreating silently back down.

"You know," Altaïr said after a long moment of silence, "that I am the Grand Master now? I must set an example for the novices to follow." He paused again. "I could have you demoted.

Malik snorted. "We both know that you won't."

Altaïr glared at him. "And we both know that you are right far more often than not," he said. "But do not take such risks again. Masyaf cannot afford to lose you."

"I have no intention of that," Malik said. "At least for a while. You give good advice, Altaïr. Maybe you should follow it once in a while."

The Grand Master snorted. "I'll consider it," he said as he picked up another sheet of paper. "Besides, after a year of this...this clerk's work, the Templars will seem a welcome distraction, I assure you."

Malik shrugged. "They'll still be around."

"Unfortunately, yes," Altaïr said, and grinned, teeth white even against the pale wool of his hood. "But so will we."

Feathers

An Assassin's Creed ficbit by xahra99

Written for sapphyashi for the prompt: Pre-game Auditore family shenanigans.

"A race?" Federico said doubtfully as he lounged against the sun-baked wall of the Auditore family palazzo.

"A race?" Ezio said, lounging in a near-identical but not quite as louche position further along the wall.

"A race." Petruccio replied. He raised a chubby hand and pointed above his head at the palazzo roof, where a white seagull's feather dangled precariously from the gutter above the second floor balcony. "Whoever brings me the feather first wins."

The elder Auditore brothers exchanged glances. Neither Ezio nor Federico needed any excuse to exercise their rivalry. "When?" Federico asked.

"Now."

Federico plucked at the strings of his velvet doublet. "Does it have to be? This is my best jacket."

"That's just an excuse," Ezio scoffed. "You know that you'll lose."

Federico gave a long-suffering sigh. "Maybe, Ezio, one day you will learn the value of keeping up appearances."

"Maybe one day I'll have to," Ezio snapped.

"Of course. Your charming temperament alone is such an attraction-" Federico bit back another insult as Petruccio coughed. "I'm ready. Let's go."

"As ready as you'll ever be," Ezio muttered.

His elder brother elbowed him in the ribs.

Petruccio produced a spotless white handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish. Federico spat on his hands and took up a position as close to the wall as he could manage. Ezio yawned, sighed deeply and joined him.

Petruccio held the handkerchief high. "Go!" he called as he brought the scarf down. His order changed into a coughing fit as his brothers rocketed forwards, in a cloud of dust, clawing at each others' sleeves in vain attempts at sabotage.

Federico reached the wall first but Ezio climbed faster. Federico tried to kick him in the ribs but missed by a mile as Ezio clambered up the wall. He wedged fingers and toes in gaps that should by rights be too small for either and hauled himself upwards like one of the tiny geckos that prowled the sandstone walls in summer.

He reached the gutter half a head before Federico and stretched his hand out for the feather.

He never touched it.

A small pale hand snaked upwards through the carved wooden grille of the balcony's overhanging ceiling and took the feather gently from its resting place. Ezio's outstretched finger raked through the space where the quill had rested just as Claudia stepped out onto the balcony below.

"Petruccio?" she called. "I have your feather."

Petruccio smiled radiantly as Claudia let the feather fall. It spun in lazy spirals towards the ground. Petruccio caught it as it fluttered to the floor.

Two disappointed faces peered down at their little brother.

Claudia gazed sweetly up at them. "Don't look so surprised," she called. "This is not the first time either of you have been outwitted by a woman."

"I take exception to that," Federico called.

Claudia smiled. She blew them a kiss, sidestepped neatly and vanished into the room with a wave of her hand.

Revelations

An Assassin's Creed ficbit by xahra99.

Written for yumearashi for the prompt: Ezio finding out about a bastard child.

They were, appropriately enough, in bed when Caterina told him. Ezio was in the middle of drawing slow circles on her nipple with the tip of his middle finger when she sat bolt upright and said "Ezio?"

"What?" Ezio said absently. He didn't look up, intent on his task.

"I'm pregnant," she said.

Ezio's hand froze. He said the first thing that came to his mind, which was almost always a mistake. "Congratulations."

His comment was greeted with the frosty silence he deserved.

"Is it...?"

Caterina sighed and swatted at his bent head with her hand. "Of course it's yours, you fool."

Ezio blinked. He slid his hand down from Caterina's breast to the concave plane of her belly. "How long-"

"Long enough," she said. "Two moons, by my reckoning."

"I-"

"You?"

"I will support you. You know-"

Caterina pulled away. Naked and regal, she looked every inch a duchess."Here's what I know," she told him. "Two moons is close enough for peasant work. This child must be my husband's, Ezio. Do you understand?"

"I understand," he said reluctantly. "But-"

"But nothing. It is the thought that counts. My husband's thought, to be precise. I canpt afford to have him shown a cuckold."

"But he's an idiot."

"He's a Medici," Caterina said. "And he is still my husband." She cradled one hand protectively over her belly.

"I did ask you." he said.

"And I refused," she said firmly. "You would make a terrible husband, Ezio. We have been over this before." Although her words were harsh, her tone was gentle.

"But we will make a beautiful child," he said. "He will be a great warrior, just like his mother."

"He will be beautiful." Caterina twisted one of her own red-gold curls around her finger. "And he will certainly be a fighter. But I do hope for his sake that he has more sense than his father."

"For his sake, I hope that he has half of his father's luck," Ezio said. He dropped a kiss gently on the crown of Caterina's red-gold head.

She smiled. "You are impossible."

"Nothing's impossible." Ezio bent down to pick up his shirt. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Caterina said. She looked at his shirt with distaste. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Leaving." Ezio offered, but he let his shirt slide to the floor.

"Why? We have plenty of time." Her smile turned sad. "Besides, this might be our last opportunity for a very long time. You must not think the worst of me if I make the most of it."

"But you're-"

"Pregnant? Yes. But there are ways around that." Caterina arched one eyebrow. "And at least I will not become pregnant twice."

Ezio made a resolution to be more careful in future as he pulled Caterina towards him. Because he was Ezio, he broke it a week later.

But at least, as Caterina said, it was the thought that counted.

Disarm

An Assassin's Creed ficbit by xahra99

Malik/Altaïr, for auragirl.

Altaïr's mouth was warm and hungry, his stubble rough against Malik's chin. He smelled of sun and freshly washed linen. Taken by surprise, Malik had no choice but to concede the kiss. He had no intention of giving up the fight. As Altaïr's eyes slid closed Malik leaned his weight into the stalemate. The other Assassin's eyes snapped open. He stepped back an instant between Malik's blade would have cut his throat.

"I am going to kill you," Malik said precisely.

"You can try," Altaïr said as they circled each other. It was very early in the morning, early enough that the sun's molten light slid from their blades like liquid fire. The sunrise was beautiful; saffron-yellow sky striped with lavender clouds against a ridge of purple hills-but neither of the fighting men noticed it. They were too intent on each other.

"I will do more than try." Malik threatened.

"That would be difficult to explain," Altaïr murmured.

"Not as difficult as this." Malik retorted. He attempted another stalemate. This time his blade slid from Altaïr's sword, but he had his chance a moment later when Altaïr circled and stepped in close.

This time it was Malik who leaned forwards over their crossed swords. The kiss was far shorter than he would have liked-he could not hold Altaïr at bay for long-but he had never felt the need. One day, he thought hazily as Altaïr's tongue slipped between his lips, they would go too far and Altaïr would cut his throat. At times like this, Malik thought it would almost-almost, but not quite-be worth it.

He disengaged and tried another thrust. This time he didn't have quite enough reach. Altaïr pressed him back; blade hovering a bare inch from his throat in a move that would have been a killing stroke in any normal match.

Malik snarled. As Altaïr smiled mockingly and stepped away he leaned back and kicked the other Assassin in the chest. It was not a move he would have tried in a real fight, but it caught Altaïr completely by surprise. He dropped his blade. Malik trod on the flat of the blade to stop Altaïr snatching it up and let the tip of his sword drop to the sand. "It seems that I have won," he said.

Altaïr's eyes narrowed. He stepped in past the reach of Malik's lowered blade, and grasped his right arm. His fingers bit into the flesh of Malik's upper arm and he looked involuntarily down at Altaïr's hand for a moment. As his gaze returned to his partner's face he realised-too late-that a knife had materialised in Altaïr's right hand.

"It's not over yet," Altaïr murmured. "I told you I would win."

"I counted on it." Malik retorted, and let his sword drop to the sand.