"How long have I been here?"
Hashima looked at the young woman in her care with a mixture of relief and pity. For two weeks she had lain unconscious while the fever scorched her frail body and after it had broken, another week went by before she was even remotely coherent. During that time, she had talked. Talked about things both wonderful and horrifying and Hashima was once again glad the Templars had suffered the fate they had. The scars on the girl's body were nothing compared to the scars in her spirit and Hashima regarded her with a level of wonder. So many others would have taken their own lives before suffering even a piece of her torment and yet, she lived.
"Three weeks, child," Hashima answered. "Although you probably will never remember the first two." She waited patiently for the next, inevitable question.
"Where is Malik?"
Hashima concealed a smile by looking down at the tub as she poured in another pot of hot water. "I imagine he is at the fortress," she said. "That is where the Assassins stay until they are sent to the cities."
"He is...alright?"
"He is fine, child," Hashima assured her. "The Master has already sent him on two missions since he returned."
"Kadar and Altair?"
"They have recovered as well," Hashima replied. "Come, child. The water is warm."
As the young woman slid out of her clothes, Hashima clenched her jaw to keep from reacting to her emaciated form. Even tending her wound, the old woman had not truly seen the full, horrific extent of her captivity. The girl was, quite literally, skin and bones. The little softness she may have retained had been burned away by her fever. Hashima steadied the girl as she stepped into the water and began bathing her with gentle hands. When she started to lather her hair, she stopped. The girl's long, dark tresses were hopelessly matted. Sighing, Hashima left the room and returned a moment later with a pair of shears. The young woman gasped in horror.
"No, please," she begged. "Not my hair."
"I am sorry, child," Hashima told her. "There is nothing else to be done."
"Not my hair," she whimpered.
"It will grow back in time," Hashima promised.
Tears fell down the girl's cheeks as she listened to the rasp of the shears and felt the weight of her hair disappear.
Once she was bathed and clothed in fresh garments, Hashima fed her hot stew and ignored when the girl touched her shorn head with trembling hands. Her cheekbones were sharp in her gaunt face, but the light of life in her dark eyes revealed an unexpected strength. Hashima had little doubt that the girl would recover completely from her ordeals and was certain that a husband would help wonderfully.
Days of regular sleep and food began to quickly fill in the sparseness of the girl's body and within a month, it was difficult to see that she ever been so close to death. As she regained her strength, she began to help Hashima with chores around the house. While she was not strong enough yet to make the journey to the market, she started taking the laundry to the creek and took great pride in bringing them back looking nearly as fresh as new cloth. However, she only went when there were no other women around, unable to ignore the condemnation she felt radiating from the people of the village.
On a particularly fine afternoon, she knelt on the creek bank, scrubbing one of Hashima's robes and humming contentedly as the sun warmed her back.
"You look well."
Startled, she spun around to find Malik standing behind her and she immediately breathed easier. "As do you," she replied. "You are, aren't you?"
An easy smile parted his lips. "My wounds were not severe," he assured her. She did indeed look well. Her face was free of pain and the harsh lines of her body had been replaced with gentle curves. She practically glowed with health but her eyes were unchanged. Serious, wise and searching. "What do you look for?" he asked. "What do you expect to see in me?"
His question startled her and her full lips tightened into an anxious line. "What I have always seen when men look at me."
He approached her slowly until the space between them was only an arm's length. "Do you truly expect me to...use you in such a way?" he asked, his voice pained. He had hoped she would trust him a little more than that.
"I did," she answered. "But...you seem to see me differently. How can you?"
"You are no Templar harlot," he told her firmly, "only a victim of their cruelty." As he said the words, it seemed that a small part of her soul settled back into place and certain amount of peace returned to her.
"How can I repay the kindness you've given me?" she asked softly.
He smiled gently. "There is nothing to repay," he replied. He glanced over his shoulder at the road leading to the fortress. "I must return." He turned to leave.
"Malik?" she called after him after he'd gone several steps.
"Yes?" he faced her again.
Her heart pounded in her chest and she couldn't catch her breath. "May I ask something of you?" she asked timidly.
"Of course," he answered and walked back to her.
Her mouth opened but her throat tightened and choked off all sound. "I...I would...like very much..." she stammered helplessly but was determined to finish her query. "Would...would you...be willing to...give me a name?"
His entire body radiated surprise at her question. Then, a tender smile filled his dark eyes and he cocked his head to one side, studying her. "I would be honored," he said at last. "Allow me some time to consider it carefully."
She nodded, convinced she would never be able to speak again and as he walked away, she allowed herself the briefest moment to study the lean lines of his body, the certainty of his stride, the precision of his steps.
"So many names, each one from a different man to show he owned me, however temporarily," she whispered as tears stung her eyes and burned her throat. "I would have one from your lips, Malik al-Sayf, though it will most likely be the only thing I ever have from you."
As the days passed, she saw Malik more often, although they did not speak as often as she would have preferred. Usually, when she saw him, he was in the company of other Assassins in the village or schooling the novices in the field outside the walls. She'd followed him outside the village one afternoon and found herself mesmerized by his confident instruction to the young Assassins. After a time, she realized that she was not only watching Malik, but that she was closely observing the younger men as they ran, dodged boulders, trees and other various obstacles while ducking the rocks he threw at them. She was not sure which was worse when they failed, the physical pain, or his cold reprimands. At the same time, something bothered her, like a chill breeze that finds its way down the neck of your shirt and yet, you cannot find its source. Then, that evening as she ate supper with Hashima, she realized what it was.
"You do an old woman an honor, child," the old woman was saying. "Never have I seen a youngster perform such menial chores with such content. One could almost be fooled into believing that you are actually happy with such an existence. You will make a man a fine wife one day."
She froze. That was it. No man would ever take her to wife, not if she were the last woman on earth. Especially not an Assassin, nor a man affiliated with them and that was all there was in this village. Her heart sank and she tried to find some consolation in the fact that it was just as well. She had been unfit to be a wife before the Templars had had her.
The next afternoon as she left to wash the laundry, she was still so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not notice three other women standing on the bank until it was too late to avoid them. She ducked her head and skirted the group, hoping they would leave her in peace.
"You've never told us your name," one of them called to her.
"She does not have one, Nadia," another answered snidely. "That's the first thing a Templar takes from a woman."
Her first reaction was to demand how the woman could possibly know such a thing, unless she'd tasted her share of Templar cruelty, as well. She stayed her tongue and concentrated on her laundry, not wishing to antagonize them and make the situation worse.
"We've seen you talking to the Assassins," the third woman announced as though she'd caught a child stealing sweets. "Especially the one...what is his name? Malik al-Sayf?"
She clenched her jaw at the fabrication. She only spoke to Malik and she would not have his name soiled by gossip. "He is kind to me," she answered softly.
"I'm sure he is," Nadia replied with an arrogant lift of her chin. "The lepers in the city also speak of him so."
At that, she paused and looked the woman in the eye. "Of that, I have no doubt," she replied.
Shock rippled through the group and the women briefly whispered among themselves. They seemed miffed that their barbed words failed to elicit the desired reaction and they turned away with hateful whispers and poisonous looks.
Her scrubbing was nearly reflexive as her thoughts wandered into dim places. She had no place here...or was it this place had no spot for her? The shadow of a desire began to form in the back of her mind, too small and insubstantial for her to even identify it.
A hand touched her shoulder and she gasped.
"Are you alright?"
Malik. She relaxed with a nervous laugh. "I am...fine," she answered.
"I called to you three times," he said, concern in his voice.
"I was...lost in thought," she replied.
"Ah," he nodded, then looked past her at the other women. "What did they say?"
She was surprised to hear the protective undertone in his question. "Nothing of consequence," she told him. She started to turn and look at them, feeling the disgust in their eyes.
His grip on her shoulder tightened. "Do not look at them," he commanded in a low voice. He fixed the women with a dangerous glare and they quickly left the creek with their laundry half washed. "They would not survive an hour of what you suffered, and yet they would elevate themselves above you," she could hear the snarl in his voice.
She bowed her head. "I am not so certain I have survived," she said quietly.
He knelt beside her. "You are alive."
"There is more to survival than being alive," she replied morosely. "And even then, how can I say that I am truly alive when I live every moment in fear?"
"Are you always afraid?" he asked.
A soft smile touched her face and she had to concede. "No, not always."
"I say you are alive for more reasons than that you breathe," he told her. "You are firm, difficult to intimidate and refuse to reveal when you are. You are happy with the life you have, however small it may be. And you are curious, wishing to learn. One who is dead does not feel fear or happiness in any amount and certainly does not care for learning about the world around them. And they would never risk their life for another."
She ducked her head, embarrassed by his praise. "I could not have stood by idly," she said.
"Your actions need no explanation," he told her. "Especially, not by way of disowning them."
She looked at him in surprise. Was he scolding her?
"You made a choice that day," he continued. "You did not act under compulsion, nor order. You chose. And that, is definite evidence of life."
A blush was working its way up her neck and her cheeks felt warm. When had a man ever elicited such a reaction from her?
"I've seen you watching us as we train," he said.
Her blush faded and she glanced at him furtively. "Is that forbidden?"
"No. Unusual, perhaps, but not forbidden."
She could hear the amusement in his voice and could not help but smile herself.
Malik watched her with something akin to awe. He had looked into her eyes and seen the scars on her soul, he had watched her bleed for Kadar, for him. Losing his brother would have been the cruelest blow. So many wounds and yet, as she sat on the creek bank scrubbing laundry, there was a quiet calm about her, a regal air that defied her years of torment and suddenly, he had a name.
"Aliyah," he said.
She looked at him curiously.
He nodded to himself, confirming his decision. "That is your name."
She looked down again, trying to hide the fact that she was unable to breathe.
"Unless, you disapprove?" he asked gently.
"I am unworthy of such a name," she answered. Sublime, he has named me. Exalted. Me?
"I find it befitting," he replied.
She finally met his eyes. "Thank you," she said softly
"Malik?" Kadar called his name. "Ah, there you are." He jogged to the creek. "The Master has an assignment for you." He handed Malik a small scroll.
"I shall leave immediately," Malik replied after briefly scanning the contents. "I am to travel alone this time?"
"Apparently," Kadar answered. "Altair is otherwise assigned and I...well, the Master still finds me too lacking to accompany you on this task."
"Even after you survived Pierre Delacroix?" Malik asked incredulously.
Kadar shrugged indifferently. "Perhaps if I had killed him without assistance, I might have been raised to a higher rank."
Aliyah looked away, ashamed that she was the reason he still wore the gray of a novice.
"No," Kadar told her, his voice alarmed. "Forgive me, I did not mean those words as they sounded. I will forever be indebted to you."
"And it is that debt that inhibits your advancement among your peers," she said quietly.
"My advancement is not so inhibited," he said with a proud grin. "I am no longer among the novices."
She looked up at him and saw that, indeed, his garb was different than when she saw him last.
"Aliyah, you saved his life," Malik told her firmly. "There is no shame for him and no one who will not admire you for that."
"Aliyah?" Kadar looked from her to Malik in confusion. Then, his expression cleared. "Ah, a fitting name," he said warmly.
She felt a blush rising into her cheeks again. "So he said," she replied, looking at her shoes.
"You don't agree?" Kadar asked in surprise.
She looked at the two brothers. "It may take some time for me to become accustomed to it."
Kadar nodded, satisfied with her answer. "Safety and peace, brother," he said casually to Malik as he walked back toward the fortress.
Malik shook his head in disapproval. "His admiration for Altair results in an ever decreasing attentiveness to respect and guidance. I fear the day he no longer heeds my words. I hope to find you well upon my return," he said to her.
She nodded. "Safety and peace, Malik." The words sent a thrill humming through her veins and she wondered how he could not hear her heart pounding.
He inclined his head gratefully. "And upon you as well."
As he walked away, she reached out as though to call him back, then closed her hand, forbidding herself to ever take such an action. The ashes of a child's dream floated in her mind as she remembered how dutiful she had been in her lessons, only wanting to become the perfect wife of a good man, and then, by consequence, the perfect mother to their children. That dream had long been burned away and she tasted the bitterness of its remains as she watched Malik leave, the good man she had always envisioned when fantasizing about her future as such a wife. She realized with a pang that there truly was no place for her in this world and tears stung her eyes.
"Safety and peace, Malik," she repeated.
Suddenly, her tears ceased as the words thrilled through her once more and the world seemed to settle solidly around her for the first time in years. The shadow of desire that had passed over her mind as she knelt on the creek bank returned, solidified, and she knew what impossible thing she wanted.