Malik practically vibrated every day as he did whatever chore his mother asked. He knew each night came with a new story about his father. He knew his father was a smart man but with his mother's words, the man could have been a prophet altogether. A messenger with a mind made of gold. Gold. That was good right? She declined when Malik asked if his father had been a scholar.

"All but in title. Perhaps in a different life."

He'd been gifted quite a few stories within the last few days. Small, delicate gifts. Malik felt they were precious pieces of his mother's soul. The way she drew a picture into his mind with her soft spoken words. His mother was worrisome at first. She only gave him small tidbits, short insights as to who his father was, what he was like. His favorite book being the one Malik had in his possession. Not precisely for its content but more so for the personal value it held.

He taught me to read with that book. I sold it to him... for a name. His name.

His father had been a tall man, like young Malik in many ways even when his age caught up with him. Amani spoke of the time he went into the markets to buy ink from her stall many years before they met again and were wed. She was young then as was he. The way his mother spoke of him, she became a lovestruck girl all over again. Her cheeks blushed a lovely rose color when mentioning his father's small knacks.

The way his shoulders swayed as he walked with his chin held up high. How his father, no matter how irritated or angry always made sure to speak kindly to Amani, make her feel at home. Home? Malik thought for a moment. Then he must not have been from Jerusalem. His father, only ever a name or imaginary figure slowly but surely built form in the young boy's mind.

"You've said before that I have his eyes."

"You do," she said with a warm smile, "Eye's radiating with the passion of his younger years. Filled with pain, wisdom and strength, Malik."

Malik had stayed behind to help his mother with chores around their home. Namely the dull stitching made in his younger cousin's shirt. Ilma tried to sew a tear herself but only managed to make it worse. She and Rahim went to accompany their father at the markets that day. Malik was thankful to be alone with his mother. Their home could at least now be more quiet than it normally was. He was glad for the small gift of peace.

"Father was not from Jerusalem." It wasn't a question as much as a statement, "You and he lived together. But not here."

"And why do you say that?" Amani was slightly taken aback at the sudden break in silence. She continued to chop vegetables and prepare their meal for the evening.

Malik cut through the crude stitching of Ilma's shirt, "You're choice in words. He made you feel at home. Home is in Jerusalem."

They had lived there all his life. Malik knew of no other area as his home. His mother and uncle had been born there. His cousins were being raised there. It was their home. No matter how small or how filthy, it would always be their home.

"Home is not always where one was born, my love. One day I hope you will find that home is in the soul of another person." As always, his mother only further confused him with her cryptic words.

"Was he from Jerusalem? You were born here. As was Uncle and his children. I was as well."

"No," she said with a smile that made it seem as though she was trying not to cry. She always did that. As if it pained her to be happy. She was still beautiful in the boy's eyes, "No, Malik, you were not born in Jerusalem. And neither was your father."

"Where?"

It took her a moment to answer. Malik didn't mind, he waited patiently. Amani sighed, paused from her cutting board before biting her lip and went on to chop her vegetables, "Masyaf. Nearest the brightest star in the sky. When you hear the sound of clashing metal, the smell of roses from the gardens, you will know you have arrived."

Malik watched his mother put on a fresh pot to cook their meal. "Masyaf... but that means-"

"Yes." she paused from her cooking to look up, ponder at nothing in particular yet everything at once, remembering the peaceful times in Masyaf long before, "Your father was an Assassin. Highly respected."

"An Assassin," he whispered to himself as if the word itself was forbidden. He knew of the Assassin's and what cruel things they had done throughout the land. But his father could not have been one so terrible, could he? No his mother must be mistaken. "But they are corrupt. Most are evil, they tax those who are not wealthy enough to purchase even a meal."

His mother wiped her hands on her already filthy skirts. She lent on their table making sure Malik had given her all his attention. Her face gave the appearance that he would be scolded for saying such words.

"No. Their Master is corrupt," Amani said in a whisper, her voice suddenly afraid to speak ill in case an ear passed by their window, listening in on their conversation. She quickly came back to her wits, keeping her chin up high, "The Assassin's were once proud warriors. Honorable. Dedicated to their craft. They followed their creed. Their true Master. All changed when Altair went missing."

"Altair? Those are only stories. He has long died."

Perhaps they were once great men but what was happening now, outside in their city and many others... And what silly talk of Altair. Ridiculous. They all knew the stories. That was all they were after all. Only stories told by the Master and the Assassin's. The children themselves played games out in the dirt based off those stories and legends.

"Has he?" she asked, her lips curling slightly, "Altair was a great Assassin. Your father spoke highly of him. They were close, having grown up together. Fought together. Malik was often left in charge during his absence..."

Malik thought a few moments. He finished cutting the crude stitching Ilma had left behind and abandoned the shirt on his lap. If what his mother told him were true then there was a possibility his father was in Masyaf. He must be. And he surely would be waiting for Malik to join him at his side.

"He will return- father I mean," he looked up into his mother's worry filled face, his own eyes radiating with hope, "I promise to you, mother. I must be ready for when he does. I will become strong. He waits for me. For us, Umi."

"Yes, Malik. He waits for us..."

Malik would keep his promise to his mother. He would guide them through the journey to his father. But first, he must become the man his father surely wishes to see. And finally his family will be complete.

A much shorter chapter but the next will surely be longer thanks for reading!