Thank you to my lovely reviewers iz didn't do it, CourtGoesRawR, and Rindou Kiara! You guys rock.

The men carried them away, restrained, gagged, and blindfolded on the backs of their camels. They worked against their bonds, but it was of no use. The men stripped their bangles and precious things from their bodies; they took Rani's brass bangles but left the worthless bead necklace hanging at her neck. She heard her sister's desperate whimpering pleads behind the strip of cloth wedged in her mouth, and her chest constricted. When at last they stopped, they'd journeyed for what felt like days, and the two of them were sick with fever and anxiety. The two desert girls, what they called Bedouin, had no inkling of their new whereabouts. Just that the air smelled rank and the streets were loud. Then they were sold together, an easy affair comprising of rough fondles and the clinking of coins being handed over. They felt their dignity being stripped away with every assessing touch. Still blindfolded, they heard a goat being traded as well, their kidnappers cruelly unimpressed with the price they were getting for them both. Bruised from the cramped space and lying in their own vomit and filth, they were fed and given water but treated worse than animals. Somehow the two held onto their faith that all would be right, and amidst their misery they found themselves utterly complacent. Then they were taken to their new home. The man who bought them- Abdul. It was terribly ironic, for Abdul meant 'slave'.

Rani's life became a hazy dream. Two months passed, but they couldn't feel it. The passage of time had become as alien as comfort. The sun rose and set, but they were trapped in their master's home. For two months Radha's new husband raped her relentlessly. She bled between her legs and cried and cried and clawed at the injustice she was being dealt until her nails cracked and fell off.

Their captor didn't come for Rani. He didn't touch her- she was too young to conceive; not yet worth his effort. He would probably die if he forced her now. Yet still, Rani's mind felt detached from her body. She didn't understand at the time what was truly happening, and Radha refused to explain when Rani asked. All the younger knew was that her sister was suffering dearly. As she spooned thin broth between Radha's bruised and cracked lips, trying to stop her from choking on her own sobs, Rani wondered if all this was real. How could this have happened? The girls had heard similar tragedies befall other families, but never had they thought it could happen to them. They held each other and cried every night after he left, mourning for their mother's embrace and their father's kind voice. They must think they were dead by now. They must have grieved, their mother would have clutched at her chest and sobbed. Their father would have shed silent tears, and their brothers would have wallowed in misery they couldn't yet understand. And what of Mohammed, who professed his love to Radha just days before everything had changed? They missed home, the kind smiles and love. Instead they were trapped in this house, forced to live in a single room that smelled of years of rancid milk and centuries of dust. And until Radha pledged her life to her new husband, Abdul would not even allow them the smallest of liberties. They were trapped in the musty room that could only have been meant for servants, with Abdul entering once or twice each day to set down breads and water and watch them eat as if they were merely his pets.

Ripped of their lives, the girls' will was breaking. They were strong daughters of the desert, however, and they comforted themselves despite the dark times. Rani would nurse Radha to health, and though her body mended each time, some part of her mind broke away and shriveled into herself. She was never the same again.

"I will tell Adbul I am with child," Radha said abruptly one hot night, "and he will allow you to work his fields; you are strong enough." She didn't even look at her; Radha's eyes were swollen. "You need to escape... I am done."

She didn't say any more after that, just drifted off to sleep, but Rani bit her lip and couldn't stop the tears. The tables had turned abruptly; now it was her turn to take care of her sister, and she was so incompetent at it. She didn't know what to do. She reached across the stained cushions and drew her sleeping sister to her chest, her tears falling into the crook of Radha's neck.

She arrived in a mess- her clothes were bloodied and her hair was uncovered and matted with dirt. She was defensive like a wounded animal, and to many of the assassins that described her perfectly. They didn't understand her words, but even so Al Mualim seemed impressed. He led her away by the hand even when none cared to touch her.

After the Grand Master took her in, they taught her Arabic first, just enough so they could glean a better understanding of exactly who she was. They clothed her in apprentices' clothes and fed her. Usually they did not take children in from the street, certainly not into the fortress, but Al Mualim said that this Bedu girl arrived at a very conspicuous time. Midsummer, when the sun and moon took equal reign over the sky.

A scholar who was familiar with desert dialects was called. The girl spoke little at first, regarding her surroundings with wide eyes. In bits and pieces, she managed to relay the last few hellish weeks to the kind scholar, whose stomach turned with the very thought.

"We will keep her," the Grand Master assured the scholar when the distressed man made clear his concern, "do not fear."

Al Mualim was expecting the girl to run off in the night, but instead she humbly obeyed every order barked at her. She was like a pigeon, he mused- as soon as she laid eyes on him, he who had saved her from starvation and an untimely death, he became the center of her universe. Like a baby bird emerging out of its shell to see a man, or an elephant, or a cat. Immediately and unquestionably, the bird would swear to the man, elephant or cat its complete loyalty.

After the initial fear and panic wore off, Rani proved to be an able student. The connections between proper Arabic and her poetic desert tongue were subtle yet significant- it simply took comparison and explanation with help of a translator for an easy transition. It was soon determined that the girl would become fluent in Arabic. Nonetheless, the scholar stressed to Al Mualim that the accent would likely remain.

Like with the youngest of children, the old scholar would smooth out the sand on the ground with his hand, and then with a stick would draw symbols onto the dirt. "This is alif," and he made her repeat it and draw the same symbol. Then he would move on, drawing something else: "this is ba'a." Slowly and painstakingly, Rani learned the Arabic alphabet. When Mistress Khitan, the coordinator for the female apprentices, discovered this she was furious. Surely the Grand Master was not considering keeping her here permanently! Rani was separated from the other young apprentices. She knew too little and would not be able to socialize until she had a better grasp of the language.

But day after day Rani was taught the basics of communication, and as more of her story was unveiled Al Mualim seemed to take a keen interest.

"She will never learn our ways quickly enough," Khitan trailed after him one evening, determined not to let him out of her sight, "I have enough apprentices to take care of as it is, and do pardon my insolence, but she is too old and too rash."

The old man finally rested himself on a bench overlooking the lush lime and jasmine trees in the garden, the lanterns casting a soft light over the scene. The dry season had come and gone, and blossoms flourished in the clay pots lining the garden's walls. Sounds of gentle lapping water from the garden's fountain veiled the din of the city, of children playing and carts being loaded with merchandise. The great banyan trees swayed peacefully. The sun was slowly loosening its grip on the city, and Al Mualim adored this time of day.

"Then we will do all we can," Al Mualim said, "teach her our tongue and let her make friends with your apprentices. We will not turn a pleading child away."

"We are not a charity," the old mistress cut in, wringing her hands. Finally, she heaved a sigh and appeared to succumb, but continued to pace the length of the garden. Her hooded robes fluttered in the light breeze. "What would you have me do with her, then? Would you make her a concubine for the assassins?"

"No."

"She is too old to take lessons in mathematics and literature. It will take all our efforts to make her fluent in our language. She's currently illiterate and cannot count, Grand Master."

"Neither can Altair, and they are about the same age."

Khitan gaped. "But… But he is a separate case, Grand Master." Though it was true that Al Mualim's latest prodigy showed utter incompetence in all things academic, he was like a miracle on the obstacle courses. When he would learn the blade, there was no doubt in her mind that he'd prove to be a genius with it. Rani, however, was a girl and her worth was not determined by her physical ability. Besides, considering under what circumstances Altair came beneath their care, they had more than a moral obligation to take the boy in.

Al Mualim was silent for a while, and in the dim glow of the lanterns Khitan could barely make out the old man's glazed expression. She waited. Finally, he shifted a bit and changed the subject, "what can you tell me about her past? Where did she come from?"

"She is indeed nomad," Khitan reported dutifully, "but her parents are camel herders, not thieves. It is possible that her family had ties from the east, but that is unimportant. She and her sister were kidnapped and sold to a man in Jerusalem, who bedded her sister."

Al Mualim scarcely blinked. Such happenings were not uncommon. "And what of her?"

"She is untouched, or so she claims."

"Very well. What happened then?"

"They escaped, Grand Master. Rani buried some supplies each day in the sand behind the man's house and built up a stash. They slipped out on horseback one day and sold what they'd collected. Her sister perished from an accident involving the horse, and the girl found herself here."

"Then we are fortunate to have come across her so young. How is she reacting to your teachings?"

Mistress Khitan huffed. She wanted the girl gone; she didn't have time for her, but she was also obliged to report the truth. If only Rani had reacted poorly, had any sort of behavioral issue, then it would've been easy to get rid of her. But the girl had been completely obedient so far, and it was getting on her nerves. "She is eager to learn from me and eager to forget herself. I asked her last night if she'd want to be returned to her family, and she refused. More afraid than anything else, I presume."

Al Mualim seemed pleased, "we will send her to the instructors to be taught separately at a fast pace, so that she may learn what is required in time before she is fourteen."

Having had enough, the mistress threw her hands up in a gesture of exasperation, "Master! She is illiterate, she is an outsider! She will cause you nothing but trouble and resentment!"

"What would you have me do, then?" The Grand Master snapped suddenly, "turn away a blessing from Allah? So what if she cannot read or write? She can learn. She has a spirit that I want to see blossom. A Bedouin, Khitan! Known for their prowess in battle and ingenuity, they have a way about them that is hard to find in the sprawling cities. I've seen those city apprentices of yours. They scramble at the sight of a bug!" Besides, he noticed her glassy almond eyes and petal lips and saw the potential for beauty. The assassins have long used women as distractions, as instigators, as spies for collecting reconnaissance. This was made all the more relevant by the Holy War between the Muslims and the Franj that tore their land apart. In addition, Templar meddling interfered with their work constantly. Al Mualim was prepared to defend the importance of a spy against their most skilled killer.

"You cannot know she will come to possess all these great qualities you speak of," Khitan countered. "You-"

Al Mualim cut in harshly, "then you will ensure that she does. I intend to make her a spy, Mistress. Exotic concubines are common as dirt in the city, but one with a spirit like hers is hard to find. Perhaps it was Allah's will that she found herself at our gate on Midsummer's day, the beginning of the battle season. Perhaps it is a blessing that she lived as Bedouin for so long. She perhaps will retain their spirit." He rose to his feet, his aged joints cracking in protest, "Hm… View it like a gamble, my girl. The investment is minimal, but the winnings may be massive. She didn't come here expecting luxury, Khitan. I will see to it that a place is found for her. Have hope." He nodded politely to the mistress, who was still simmering beneath the surface. But one look at his eyes, which crinkled at the edges with buried wisdom, and the Mistress was silenced.

"Yes, Grand Master."

Al Mualim began his steady trek to his quarters. Khitan stood there watching aimlessly, her checkered palms itching. As the distance between them increased, she burst out with a final question, "how would I introduce her to my apprentices?"

The Father did not even slow his pace, did not even turn around as he made his way up the stone steps. "She will be Aasha, and we bought her from her family in the desert. There was no struggle. No need to hide her origins, but do hide her experiences."

"Yes, Grand Master." Khitan lowered her head in a bow, though Al Mualim was already long gone.

"Why don't you want to go back, child?" The aged woman demanded, her coarse long hair now unbraided and uncovered. "I could arrange it."

The child frowned, confused, "but Al Mualim saved my life."

"That he did."

"So my life belongs to him," Aasha explained, "I must repay his kindness in some way." Her family taught her to be honorable, to repay good deeds in the name of Allah. Once her brother was bitten by a poisonous snake while in the city, and a stranger took him to his home and treated him while he was delirious with fever. Then, just as her devastated parents were about to give up their search, the stranger delivered Mudil back to them. They praised Allah and promised the man that they would repay his kindness. Later that year when the man's eldest son died and he had no one to work his fields, their father sent Mudil into the city to till his soil and irrigate his crops for a whole season.

"Your life is worth nothing to us," Khitan sighed, hoping the girl would not detect she was merely trying to be rid of her, "you must understand that our purpose is to kill, to take lives."

"To… kill." They were assassins. Aasha didn't know much about them or what they did, but her father never held them to contempt whenever he mentioned their work. And besides, she was treated with such kindness here- maybe they were a type of soldier?

"Do you have any idea of the gravity of this decision? There is no turning back, girl."

"Yes," she said quickly, "I understand."

Khitan refused to give up her attempts, "why don't you tell me where your family is?" If she could have the child wanting desperately to go home, maybe Al Mualim would consider her appeal.

Aasha lowered her dark eyes, keenly aware of the woman's distaste towards her, "You will not find them, uma."

The truth remained that her family were nomads. They were more than likely no longer in the same place, and only Allah knew where they'd decided to take up shelter next. Though Aasha yearned to be reunited with her family, the heavy shame of returning alone froze her very thoughts and made her hands tremble. And would she even be marriageable? This girl who was kidnapped and held captive by slavers… Who would believe her virtue then? The men would call her a witch.

"What did you call me?"

"Uma?" Mother.

A look of disdain, "don't call me that. I am your mistress, you will treat me with respect."

A blank stare. What was more respectful than that?

Khitan shifted, looking slightly wary. "Listen then, child. Al Mualim has decided that you will remain with this Order, and as such I suppose you will not be able to leave."

Aasha stared at her with wide eyes. Then why had she even taunted her with the possibility of return? Was this some sort of test?

But no, she steeled her resolve. Her heart ached for her family greatly, but Allah had delivered her here, given her clothes and shelter and food. She would receive a better life here, and that was all her father had ever worked towards.

For some reason, the bones in her body held her feet heavy to the ground. Her intuition flared out at her, and it was as if her mother was there, slapping her wrist and telling her to stay where she was and don't you dare move.

She dropped to her knees and fell prostrate, but the Mistress' cold eyes showed no sign of satisfaction. Her visage was impenetrable, and for a moment Aasha thought she would have her sent away regardless. Her forehead brushed the floor. Her breath was caught, waiting.

"Well then," Mistress Khitan said at last, "your life will expand quickly before you. Prepare yourself, tomorrow morning we begin lessons."

As Mistress Khitan had feared, Aasha was an immediate outsider; a desert girl, uneducated, uncivilized. Her apprentices, all daughters of landowners or assassins, regarded the girl with disgust. They whispered about her to her face, and held tight in their small social circles. They made Khitan's head ache, but she was busy with administrative matters and could not be bothered to involve herself.

There was something about her that unsettled the others. The way she went about barefoot, wearing the heavy ankle bracelet of the nomads, singing odd songs in a foreign tongue. She'd jump into thorn bushes to hide, and come out laughing! The other girls turned their nose up and thought her a wild child. That was all before Mistress Khitan finally ripped the damned anklet away and forced her into shoes and shut her mouth. Good riddance, they thought.

Aasha, on the other hand, was only slightly dismayed at first at the attitude displayed against her. She was somewhat used to alienation due to her nomad blood, but her dismay grew to anxious desperation when she thought of herself all alone. Sometimes she forgot her new name, and sat there like a dumb person when servants called out for her. But overall, Khitan was surprised to see how determined the girl was to forget and force herself to accept the new. She didn't complain when the Mistress berated her for unwomanly behavior, only pouted. For her humility, Khitan allowed her to keep her bead necklace, an ugly thing that was nonetheless her only reminder of herself.

The young gypsy couldn't contain her gasps and sighs of appreciation as she was lead around the compound for the first time, marveling at the smooth stone floors and the manicured plants. In the day, the windows were flung wide to the garden, the curtains billowing in the breeze, inviting in the fresh scent of jasmine. The furnishings were humble to the others, and they sometimes complained about their simplicity before Khitan silenced them. Nonetheless, the girl couldn't help but wonder at the designs carved into the wood- how unnecessary but beautiful they were. In her home, basic stools and tables were scattered wherever they were needed, and her whole family of seven shared two hammocks and a floor.

The apprentice's robes closely resembled a white tunic with a hood drawn over, not at all like the chador Aasha was used to. Nonetheless, she was beyond happy to see pants; this would make running and walking much easier. Apprentice girls wore one set of outfit, and boys wore something similar. Then when the children reached the age of fourteen, they were formally taught gender-specific subjects. Girls went on to learn the art of seduction, how to maneuver through a conversation to extract key bits of intelligence. The courtesans dressed like respectable, wealthy young women, while the spies dressed in assassins' attire in accordance to their rank. There was no regulation to keep heads covered within the fortress. This was one norm that Aasha was particularly surprised with; were they indecent women, then? Respectable women were supposed to keep their heads covered.

"Not at all," Khitan snapped when she asked, "identity became an issue in the past, so the regulation is lax here. But go on a mission, however, and you'll find that wearing a cover attracts less unnecessary attention."

Men went on to learn the art of the sword and blade, and moved through many ranks in correspondence to their skill with weaponry: Novice, initiate, apprentice… perhaps even master. They learned to scale walls with ease, to disappear and to kill without arousing attention. Women had only two trades: courtesan or spy, and all the same ranking system. These women were given the most basic education on weapons handling so they might defend themselves, but their priority when engaged in combat was always to flee if possible.

Aasha took this all this in eagerly, and wondered what would become of her. The courtesans strolling the gardens seemed decent enough, dangerous intent gleaming behind their soft breaths and calculated smiles. But she only had to remember that they were courtesans- that they spread their legs to achieve their goals, and she would shiver with horror.

She wouldn't want to be a courtesan, not after what she'd seen happen to Radha. She'd excel in her studies so they'd think she was smart, so they wouldn't make her a courtesan.

She was determined.

She was no longer Rani, weak and helpless. Rani let her sister die. Rani... Her nose started to burn and the world began to close in on her- No, she pushed her former self away into the back of her consciousness. She would become Aasha, strong and independent and useful to her savior.

Like clockwork, she rose before the sun and visited the women servants' baths to bathe while the sky was still green and blue. She began with mathematics in the morning with the instructor, alone. He didn't bother to become familiar with her, and after three weeks had passed he still didn't remember her name. It was very odd for her to have another man in her presence. Luckily she didn't have to speak to him at all; he never cared for her opinion. After mathematics, Aasha learned literature with the rest of the apprentices, her grasp of the language having been deemed stable enough to absorb the information. Then the girls all broke for lunch, where they would eat sitting on sheets spread on the floor, gossiping and laughing about each other. When Aasha drew near, they would fall into a stony silence until she left the vicinity.

The other girls whispered that Aasha was some kind of witch, what with the way she poked at scorpions and petted the dirty animals from the stables. They wrinkled their noses at her and laughed at her uncouth behavior. They didn't act out against her, of course- the witch would curse them.

Aasha was not allowed to think of home again, not allowed to tell anyone her story in case she should stand out too much. She mourned her sister, but thought of her as a pretty flower in her heart and was content in the knowledge that though she'd suffered a severe injustice, Radha lived a happy life and died smiling. In the desert, the dom regarded death with an inevitability that could only come from harsh lives in the sands. Shifting sands which aged people too soon, took children from their families and livestock from farms. Mourning in the desert was a silent and respectful affair, not at all the extravagantly melodramatic event the city made of its dead. Her parents and brothers had probably mourned for their death. Where were they now? Father was probably at market by this time of year, renting out their camels and selling their cousin's harvest of mangoes and oranges. Which city was he in? Some years their family went as far as Persia.

She eyed the horses being led in and out of the compound, grazing on hay. How easy it would be to clamber into one of their saddles and gallop away? But that would be stupid, when she owed her honour and life to Al Mualim. He'd agreed to spare her, and in turn she would devote her life to his work.

Though her Arabic had reached a semi-working proficiency, the girl was still reluctant to speak for fear she'd embarrass herself. After Aasha ate alone under the banyan tree in the court, she'd hurry off to a lesson on general knowledge such as geography, basic sciences, history, astrology, et cetera. Most instructors were men, and they were impatient with their work. Sometimes they refused to answer questions for fear it'd cut into their time with their own male students.

"What use will you have for sciences anyway?" One instructor huffed, "just know that sun rises on that end and falls on the other."

Most of the accomplices agreed- sciences bored them anyway. The most important class of them all came last- theory, in which Aasha learned the ways of the assassin, and her role in its agenda. She learned the creed and agreed that women were best used as courtesans and spies. After all, their beauty and tendency to be underestimated were their greatest weapons.

If she'd been younger, perhaps she could have made many friends. In the desert, family was all- nomads didn't live close enough to each other for children to have many friends, after all, but having four siblings was often company enough. Aasha didn't know how to make friends with someone who was not her immediate family, whereby the social structures were already set and easy to fall into.

And then one day Aasha met Nadia, the daughter of a respected landowner from Damascus. While the others outwardly shunned her, Nadia studied her contemplatively as if she were some sort of exotic bird. Neither of them reached out to one another, both of them being deathly afraid of what could happen if they did. Nadia rose for breakfast like the other girls and tidied her hair before donning her apprentice's robes. She gazed out the window during mathematics lessons, her eyes trained on the men sparring in the ring. She watched them fight, and the place between her legs grew warm. Embarrassed, she'd tear her eyes away and once again try to pay attention in class.

Eventually the girl from the desert was introduced to the class, and Aasha stood there awkwardly, her normally defiant eyes downcast while the other girls made a face at the thought of having to sit next to her.

The instructor didn't seem to notice, and went on with his lesson.

The girl neared a cushion closest to her, only to have it snatched away. "My back hurts," said the other apprentice, Leyla, who used it as extra padding for her own cushion. Some giggles burst out in the back of the room.

Nadia waited for Aasha's reaction, noticing her clenching fists and the spastic twitching in her neck. Then the gypsy snapped in her wood smoke voice, "maybe it wouldn't hurt so much if you stopped jumping into haystacks with the boys." Her mouth wrapped firmly around each word, taking pains to punctuate them perfectly.

A shocked silence fell over the class. Then some girls muffled their own laughter. Leyla was known to be overly playful, but no one made a thing of it since everyone knew she was being raised as a courtesan anyway. The insult was funny.

"Bedu witch," Leyla hissed, and the instructor at last turned around and, exasperated, ordered Aasha to sit in the next available space.

That was how Aasha found her place by Nadia's side, and there she stayed for the rest of the day. They didn't even speak to each other, Nadia merely tolerating the other's company. This arrangement carried on for a few more days, and eventually the two began speaking. They helped each other gather their items, and Aasha started to ask the city girl for help with her work. They traded notes and Nadia pretended to be grateful even though she couldn't read the other's sprawling handwriting. Eventually Nadia found a sort of companion in her. Aasha was fiercely loyal and had a lighthearted yet committed attitude that convinced her they would soon make good friends. Nadia's own circle of friends did not question her choice, allowing the Bedu to sit with them for their midday meals but not speaking to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Within a month of this, Nadia was sitting alone with Aasha, the two laughing and giggling over mundane things.

Their friendship confused the others- that a girl like Nadia, who had such a good reputation, would associate with a girl of the sands. Nadia taught her the different types of flora around the compound, and helped her in her studies when the other was stuck. In return, Aasha charmed the girl with stories of the desert, and taught her how to whistle to the birds.

On some mornings, the two woke earlier than usual and went out into the gardens.

"Would you like to learn to climb a tree?" Aasha asked one time, gripping a low arm of a great tree.

Nadia gaped, "goodness, no! Why should I want to do that?"

The Bedu blinked, her warm brown eyes reassuring, "because it feels like freedom."

"Well, I find freedom in embroidery," Nadia huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "Don't you?"

"That's not the same," came the reply, "though your needlework is beautiful."

And their friendship continued on like that, easy and unstrained. Aasha still climbed trees in the mornings and rested there, waiting for the day to begin, and Nadia sat under the tree working on her sewing. She would make intricate designs of fantasy flowers- a frivolous activity to Aasha, but she still loved looking at them.

Interaction between male and female members of the assassin order occurred on a daily basis, but generally the boys avoided the girls, and the girls clumped together like bees in a hive. Suddenly, when the transition happened that the female apprentices were assigned trades and the boys began their weapons training, something changed. Aasha was fourteen years old.

As she had hoped, Al Mualim had decided on the spy's trade for her, and her training now included tactic and some physical lessons. She would need to climb walls and be able to outrun guards, so sometimes her training put her in the direct paths of the boys, now novices. By a cruel but predictable twist of fate, Nadia was chosen to be a courtesan. Nonetheless, the two still shared quarters together and told each other of their days with enthusiasm. Their friendship, it seemed, had not suffered.

Slowly but surely, Aasha gathered accomplices, then friends. The girls – women, some were much older– she now attended class with were level headed and mostly calm. What menacing traits they once possessed as girls leeched out of them as they matured, and the reality sank in that they only had each other in the Order. Their lives depended on one another, and it made no sense to hate each other. The spies mostly cooperated, while the courtesans continued their gossiping ways. The drama was heightened now by the young women's waking sex drives, which pitted them against each other for the affections of certain novices.

Aasha was not immune to the charms of men, but she was more confused than seduced by the young men she encountered. Despite having excelled at lessons and becoming almost fluent in the common Arabic tongue, after two years in Masyaf she still had much to learn. In the desert, women rarely ever met their prospective husbands before the wedding. Marriage was a thing of necessity. She was not familiar with this concept of courting, gift giving, flirting, seducing, and all the backstabbing that seemed to occur here on a daily basis. She was sick and tired of watching her friends conspire against one another.

They watched the young would-be-assassins spar with great interest, noting which ones came from wealthy families and which ones were handsome. Aasha blocked out their chatter and watched their blades deflecting the sunlight, gleaming sharp and deadly. One by one, the others talked about all the young men that came to train- Abbas, whose father ran away… or was it that he killed himself? How disgraceful… And what about Murad now, who would look so handsome if only he didn't have such a big nose… And look at Malik! His father was a Master Assassin, did you know? Of course we all know, you can see it in the way he moves. And who's that? He's very pale, isn't he? Yes, that's Altair Ibn La'ahad. His mother was Franj, I hear. He looks so handsome, and he moves like a master already. If only he'd just look over here, maybe…! Oooohhhh! Oh stop swooning, Leyla! His eyes, his eyes. Look how beautiful they are, are they gold or orange? No, I think they're green. Are you stupid? Hahaha, look how angry Malik looks! Is he jealous? Of course not; no one wants to be like Altair. You know what they call him…

Aasha tuned out the high-pitched chatter and focused on getting from one place to another. This routine fared well for her, and then one morning while she was making her way with the rest of her companions to a class, someone ran right into her. They had tried to make way for the group of young boys running late to their lesson, but still the idiot hit her and they both fell. He was running so late that he just muttered an apology, didn't even look her in the eye, and rushed off to join the rest of his friends. He was still a child, perhaps two years younger than her.

Aasha shrugged and forgot about him for two days until she met him again, this time in the early morning hours. She frowned; she never remembered any of the novices being fond of rising early, except perhaps Altair. But he almost always was up as a consequence or discipline for some foolish mistake he'd made, and never got in her way.

Rumor had it that some horrible prank was played on Altair a few days ago, leaving him injured. Apparently he even cried. The whispers even said that Al Mualim himself saw to his recovery, and even now he was there lying in the Grand Master's chambers, crying. Aasha shuddered at the thought, knowing far too well the other's position. Half Muslim and half Franj, the others said of him, a bastard child, a son of none.

But the boy looking up at her from under the tree was getting restless.

"What's your name?"

"Aasha. What's yours?"

"Are you supposed to ask my name?"

"Am I not?"

He fidgeted, not used to being spoken down to by a girl. "You're the Bedu, aren't you? They told me about you."

"What have they been saying?"

"That you should watch yourself."

"Oh," she wasn't exactly sure if that was meant to be a menacing or caring statement.

"I'm Kadar."

"Alright."

"My father is a Master assassin."

"…That's… interesting. I really must go."

"…Oh."

He looked dejected, but Aasha still had to bathe before the day began. She clambered down the tree she was nestled in and made her way to the women servants' baths. That day they had a particularly interesting lesson, and Aasha was distracted when she broke for lunch. A hard hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, and she jumped. Her immediate impulse was to push the offending hand off- she felt it was a man's. But as she turned to retaliate, she felt the challenge in his grip. So she let his hand rest there. It was a boy looking at her- he had very familiar eyes.

"Are you Aasha?"

"Yes. Are you Kadar?" No, she thought as soon as the words left her lips. He was much older than Kadar, maybe even older than her.

"No, I'm Malik, his brother."

Oh. "Nice to meet you." She was still contemplating the day's lesson, and did not bother to look at him as he spoke. In fact, she even started to walk away before Malik's hand moved and shot out to grab her arm. That was too much. She tried to fling him off, glaring. He had not expected that, apparently, but he hid his shock quickly. His grip loosened but remained steady.

"Look, I want you to stay away from him, okay? I will personally cut you up if anything bad happens to him because of you."

A few of the others stopped to watch the harsh exchange, intrigued. Aasha swallowed tensely, thoroughly confused. Cut her up? What had she done? Surely he didn't think she was going to use some evil magic or something to curse his brother?

"I- I don't understand."

"No, of course you don't."

He was belittling her! She knitted her brows, "you can't cut me up, you don't even have your own blade yet."

Malik flushed, "then I'll steal one!"

"You wouldn't," she bit back louder than was necessary. "You're a coward, a fox with no teeth. Now let me go!"

His brow twitched, "watch yourself, girl." He did release his grip, his hand falling uselessly to his side.

"Fine, then!"

"Fine."

And then he turned on his heel and pushed through the people who'd gathered to watch, slipping away. She regarded his retreating back with a sense of doom. What just happened?

Later, she scrutinized herself in a mirror by the bath, and noticed her widening hips. Her black hair was long and lush, shining from her healthy diet of yoghurt, fruits, breads and meats. She had a shape to her now, and her breasts were beginning to fill out. She touched them and winced, becoming very scared. There were the thinnest hairs she'd ever seen growing now down there, on what her mother once told her was her most prized possession. What did all this mean? Tears gathered in her eyes. If only she had her mother to comfort her, to stroke her hair and tell her all would be alright. She was so afraid of herself that she had to tear her eyes away and wade back to the bath with the rest of the girls she now called her 'friends'. They welcomed her with open arms and charming smiles. She sank into the bath, her heart tumbling with relief at the sensation in a way only a desert girl's heart can react to water.

She didn't particularly like this bathhouse, always preferring the humble conventionalism of the servants' bath. The soaps here were flowery and never worked up a lather, and the towels were huge and fluffy and never soaked up any water. Completely useless, all of it. But her friends were here and they were laughing, and they didn't stop laughing when Aasha joined them. She couldn't help but smile and be drawn into their warmth.

No one said anything about what had transpired with Malik, but Aasha noticed that behind the smiles, some of them must be angry. She couldn't imagine why, since she didn't even do anything to directly upset them.

It was Nadia that had to finally explain it all to her, making her throw her hands up in frustration. She hadn't even wanted this, and now it was her fault? It was his idiot brother Kadar who tripped over her!

It was also Nadia who had to calm her frantic screams when Aasha woke several weeks later to a lone streak of blood trailing down her thigh.

No one had ever told her this would happen. Her first reaction was that she'd somehow lost her virginity in her sleep, that someone had raped her. A djinn, maybe? The nightmares of Radha's ordeal never quite went away... it didn't help that she was noticing how she began to closely resemble her now; they had the same hips, those thin ankles... The budding breasts. Aasha clung onto Nadia and felt she was crying, but the tears didn't come.

End of Chapter 2.

So I wanted to give Aasha a childhood, and at the same time highlight her transition from an insouciant child into a conscious young woman. This period of change is confusing and difficult for most girls, and I don't buy that "I am myself I will not conform" bullshit some teenagers (including myself at one point) spew. The truth is that we are hard-wired to want to be liked and accepted, and the change is so gradual that we don't feel as if we are making conscious choices.

Bedu is a generic term meaning `desert dweller`. However, it is most associated with the Bedouin peoples, or the nomadic gypsies of the Arabian deserts.

Please leave a review if you like the fic, they really do make my day. Someone PMed me about anonymous reviews, so I enabled it. Criticism is always welcome. Thank you!