Smell was the first sense to return to her. Later, she supposed it'd make sense, considering the marketplace in which she was born—full of exotic spices and traders' incenses—but right then, she could only make note of a certain smoky fragrance in the room. Frankincense, perhaps?

A soft thud off in the distance compelled her to open her eyes. She was staring at a dull, brownish ceiling—unremarkable, but strange, considering the last thing she remembered was seeing a similar colored ground drawing closer and closer to her face—

Images and memories swam before her eyes: strong arms, a fatherly embrace, kisses on the forehead, the sound of leather boots against the gravel as she followed the white robes through the marketplace—

The hairs on the back of her neck were tingling. She could sense a certain danger approaching. Looking around, she took in her surroundings, took in the bed she lay on, which had a musty smell to it obviously not her own; a sort of shopfront, lined with shelves of books and paper and ink pots; two doors—one to her left, closed, and one to her right, open. Through it she could see a shadow flickering, obviously human, and she could hear low mumblings of "…left for only one day…all this blood…better have a good explanation…"

She looked down at herself and realized that her shoulder had been bandaged, clean and pristine, much better handiwork than she could have accomplished on her own. Without thinking, she made to get off the bed, wondering vaguely where the assassin from earlier had gone—her feet hit the floor with soft thuds—

There was the sound of a sword being drawn on reflex. Whoever it was in the next room had heard her. The room suddenly fell very silent as two pairs of ears strained to make out the other's noises.

She wasn't sure when or how she managed to glide to the wall of the open doorway, but the next thing she knew, she was poking her head through, eyes darting this way and that into the adjacent room to find the source of the sounds.

To her surprise, the room seemed empty. There was a wooden mesh fence that served as the roof, and the latch at the other end was closed. The fountain below it was void of water, though the muddy footprints on its ledge were tell-tale of another presence. On the floor were piles of large cushions…and bloody bandages that she supposed must have come from her wound. No assassin. Blinking, she took a few steps, until—

Something cold and sharp pressed against the side of her neck. She tensed and froze.

"What is your business here?" A menacing voice growled from behind her, every bit of threatening intent oozing out of his tone. How he managed to even get there without her noticing?

Uncertain how to face such a situation, she tried inching her body sideways to get a view of her aggressor, only to have the blade press harder against her neck and cause the man to bark, "Do not move."

She swallowed. "I'm—I don't have any business here," she said truthfully, trying to keep her tone as even as possible, blinking back the panic tears that burned her eyes. "I woke up after…after—there was a man who was with me—he—?"

"Speak sense, child!" The man snapped, impatience creeping into his voice now. Then, slower, in a calmer, more dangerous tone, "Are you a Templar kin?"

She blinked, feeling the urge to turn around a little more than overwhelming now. "A Templar? No…?" She took a deep breath, her own nerves stretching thin. Shutting her eyes, she spoke as steadily as she could. "No. No, I'm not. I don't know where I am, I don't know why I've been taken here, because the last thing I remember is me collapsing in an alley somewhere, and the man that was with me—I suppose he's the one that brought me here—?"

"Rafiq." A different voice—cooler, more distant—but one that she recognized.

Her eyes flew open, and she saw the hooded assassin from earlier: his robes were stained, and from what little face she could see from under the cowl, she could see sweat and the heaves of a slightly uneven breathing. At catching her gaze, he flashed her a lopsided smirk, then proceeded to address the man behind her.

"Rafiq, she's with me," he said lightly, leaning against the doorframe.

The blade on her neck promptly lowered, though slowly, as if the man was still assessing her. "Altair," came his voice, and the tension was gone from it to be replaced by a kind of knowing exasperation that now made the voice sound much older than earlier. "This is only your fourth independent mission, and already you've brought two unwarranted guests into our Bureaus—do not even try, boy—you think I'm deaf to what happens in Acre?"

The lopsided smirk turned into a lopsided grin. The assassin—Altair—shrugged his cowl off.

He wasn't much older than her, the girl realized, and certainly much younger than the rafiq, who was an older man with an already graying beard. She was a mere fourteen, and Altair looked no older than Sahar, who was only seventeen. But something about the way he stood, the way he poised himself against the doorframe, the way he walked and held himself…there was a different aura. An older one, perhaps, but certainly one that tingled her alarm senses and kept her on edge.

"I couldn't just leave her," Altair said. "She was dying. And because of me, too."

"The last woman about whom you said that claimed to have been kidnapped from her husband."

"A husband that was beating her publicly—"

"In a private family affair—"

"Rafiq—"

"We are followers of a Creed, Altair. Not a vigilante service to fuel your ego. If you wish you prove your worldly capabilities to Malik, I suggest something more productive to Masyaf than saving random people off the streets."

Altair's mouth drew into a thin line and his eyes settled slowly on her. She quickly looked away, finding his ember gaze too powerful for her to look directly into. "She was not random. Or at least, turned out not to be."

The Rafiq raised a quizzical brow. "Oh? Do explain." He sounded amused, if anything, and the girl couldn't decide if that was good or not.

"Take a look at her left hand. And the back of her neck."

The girl did so before the Rafiq, but she already knew what she'd find. A scar on the fourth finger on her left hand—at the base, right above her knuckle—and a burn mark on the back of her neck, right under the place her hair ceded to skin. Altair must have seen when he bandaged her shoulder. She'd had them as long as she could remember, always assuming that the finger scar was from a cooking accident of sorts and the unshapely mark (or she assumed it was unshapely because she could never see it) was from some welting incident, but now…

Under the scrutiny of the Rafiq, whose eyes steadily widened, she wasn't so sure anymore. Perhaps they marked her as a "Templar kin," as he put it venomously earlier.

"She's of Masyaf," the Rafiq breathes, seemingly in disbelief. "A Masyaf Pillar child." The last words were said so softly that she couldn't be sure if she even heard them.

The Rafiq and Altair exchanged unreadable glances over her shoulder, and a contemplative silence fell.

Finally, she spoke up. "I-I mean no harm—"

"Child, what is your name?" The Rafiq snapped.

"I-I'm-my name—" She blanched. Not because she didn't know, but because she was known by many names; almost one for every person she met, every city she stayed in. "Hanan, I think," she said finally.

"You think?"

"It's my most recent name. It's what Sahar calls me, anyway."

"Sahar?"

"He's a friend."

"And…your last name, I dare venture?"

The girl's silence and downcast eyes were answer enough. What followed were a series of uncomfortable questions regarding what she knew of her birthplace, who her parents were, how she had ended up where she was, where she had been, what she knew of her past, if anything—some she had been able to answer, but most she couldn't. And with each time she failed to give a satisfactory answer or explanation, a mix of empathy and graveness washed over the Rafiq's face, even as Altair stood passively in the corner, staring at them silently.

When finally, the interrogation was finished, the Rafiq sighed deeply and concluded, "She does not remember anything, it seems."

The girl looked up, confusion, panic, and frustration all thrumming in her veins. "Remember what? What do you know about me?"

"I think, child," the Rafiq said with a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "That you should find out for yourself. At the heart of the matter."

"We're taking her to Al Mualim?" Altair asked, excitement barely contained in his mask of indifference.

The Rafiq shot him a look. "Fortune apparently favors your work, Altair, for you have chanced upon one of a rare Masyaf bloodline." Here, he looked down at the girl, then back at the assassin. "Ride for Masyaf immediately with this message. Al Mualim will know what to do."

"It will be done," Altair replied promptly, habitually. "But before I go, perhaps a word of praise for my judgment in bringing her here, someone productive to Masyaf? Had my arrogance not heeded—"

"Such insolence and pride, son!" But the Rafiq was practically laughing regardless, recognizing his own words in Altair's. "It was Allah's will, and do not forget it. Go, now, before you frighten the girl any further. And send word of Al Mualim's decision, should I need to pull another assassin for escort."

Altair bowed out with a grin and a "Safety and peace," his cowl back up. Within seconds, he was gone.

And with him gone, the girl was forced to be left behind with the old man, who had returned to his shopfront and began sorting through various books and maps. She watched him for a minute, contemplating whether or not she could ask about what he had said earlier. But remembering he had said that she should find out for herself at the heart of the matter, she doubted he was going to say much in the way of explanation.

Perhaps…"Was Masyaf my home?" She asked earnestly.

The Rafiq looked up from his map and thought for a moment. "Yes, it was. Something must have happened that cast you away, Hanan." He crossed his arms under his dark blue robes and gave her a fatherly smile that crinkled his eyes and shook his beard. "Do not be anxious, child. It may be by coincidence that you crossed paths with Altair, but ultimately it is a good coincidence. You are of the Creed. We will look after you."

But she didn't need looking after, the girl wanted to say. She was fine where she was, where she had friends, where she had Sahar, where she had a home, a family—

"You'll soon have a new family," the Rafiq said with a smile which the girl returned weakly. "Rest now. Your journey is soon to be long."

A/N: The year is 1183, 8 years before the start of the game, which puts Altair at 17, and our pathetic heroine at 14.

Reviews are appreciated.