He'd grown proudly. Strong. Capable. Malik was fast, he was agile. At seventeen, the young man was ready for anything to be thrown his direction. He was alive. Young. Malik was as wild and reckless as a thunder in a storm. He was prideful with his speed. Malik was able to outrun Rahim himself and could best him easily in a fight.
Bit by bit, lesson by lesson, Malik taught himself everything an Assassin was sure to know since he first found out the truth of his father being an Assassin. He was in Masyaf for sure, waiting for him to become strong. Malik would not disappoint.
His uncle was the one to thank as well as he was the only one who'd told Malik of the Assassin ways. A man a few words, but each one held all the information Malik would need. His uncle knew little but it was enough that Malik needed.
Assassin's are talented in stealth. His uncle would tell him. And Malik would continue his day practicing his stealth. His short tips and words of advise were enough for Malik to guide his self training. His uncle was accustomed to speaking short comments as Malik busied himself outside of their home. Every mistake he made being set right with his uncle's amused observation of him.
Assassin's protect the innocent. Assassin's rise from the ashes, stronger than before. Assassin's master the art of the blade. Assassin's are wise with their actions. A reckless Assassin is a dead Assassin.
He'd been an accomplished rider in his youth. Malik knew how to handle a horse well. Having always ridden his uncles' stallion. A small gift on his tenth birthday. He was known for being fast and agile. The very best creature Malik had been blessed with. But he quickly grew old. Became injured easily. Rahim himself was forced to dispatch the horse as Malik watched.
That only helped in motivating Malik further. He'd seen a form of death. Yet that could not slow him down. He was to train. Malik took to the rooftops, climbing and jumping far distances. He practiced his stealth, being able to avoid the guards proficiently at times yet still not expertly.
Most recently, much to his disagreement, his mother occasionally sent Malik and Rahim to sell her cloth and scarves. Those were the days he dreaded. The days his uncle had very little energy to leave his bed. He was growing old as well. Just like his stallion.
Amani no longer told her son stories of his father. She had stopped crying, as well as stopped sitting outside their door every evening. It had been some time since she had stopped doing many things. Losing the energy. Perhaps losing hope as well. She'd slowly become more stubborn, instead sending him to the markets.
It was on one of those days that Malik had been sent to the markets with Rahim. The two were to sell Amani's most recent cloths. Malik despised being sent to work. He wanted to be free among his city. He wanted to feel the wind rest upon his sweat stained skin. Instead, he was with his cousins, being a merchant. Rahim kept cool beneath a nearby tree, Malik himself squinted in the sunlight as they both gazed in the same direction. They watched from their stall as Ilma sat on a bench in the middle of the courtyard with a young man right beside her. Clearly he was attempting to flatter her but failing terribly.
The young Ilma giggled, strands of her dark hair falling to her face. The young boy sitting at her side gave his most handsome toothy grin, muttering something before tucking her hair behind her ear in a swift motion earning yet another giggle from Ilma. She was not laughing with him but instead at how silly he seemed, trying to be charming. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous and filthy.
Rahim was not the least bit amused.
"I'll kill him."
"You'll do no such thing."
"Then you will kill him."
"Why is that?"
Rahim tilted his head slightly in Malik's direction, his voice dropping lazily, "You're the Assassin in the family."
It was meant as an insult but Malik couldn't help but grin. Although his cousin irritated him most days, he at least was right to address Malik as he truly hoped he would one day in his adulthood. Just as he turned away from Ilma, an older woman caught his eye on the far end of the courtyard. She was with her young son, shielding him from the few guards that had gathered around her, taunting and yelling curses. This could be his chance to prove himself surely.
Assassin's defend the innocent.
"You're right, cousin. I am the Assassin."
With that being said, Malik grabbed one of his mothers scarves from the many they had been selling. A cream colored scarf with various patterns and embroiderment decorating it, Malik covered the smirk on his face and wrapped the cloth around his head. Rahim scoffed at his cousin, ready to comment on the matter but Malik was gone too soon.
His steps were fluid. Silent yet brisk as he made his way across the courtyard. Malik reached Ilma first, grabbing her wrist as gently as he could yet still firm enough that she stood up, "Go to Rahim."
If she made any protest, Malik didn't notice as he was walking ahead once more. His eyes never leaving the woman being pestered and harrassed by guards that had nothing better to do. He growled lowly, not noticing the figure watching his every move from beyond the courtyard.
Malik reached them just as the woman had been pushed roughly by one of the guards, "Stop that, you imbeciles!"
Being a young man, Malik was ever rarely taken seriously. Those who knew him thought he was a fool. The bastard son of a husbandless woman. But they were wrong to underestimate him.
Or perhaps Malik overestimated himself. He was quick to help the older woman to her feet, sending her away before a guard went to push him in her stead. Malik caught his balance, growling and looking up. There were five of them.
Assassin's do not give in to intimidation.
Yet a few moments later he would regret his decision in fighting. He easily tackled the guard who had pushed him, turning and pouncing on another before he could draw his sword. Malik deflected and dodged the blows coming his way. He used the other guards' bodies in his favor, as his shield. Defending ones self came easily to him. But soon he was overpowered. Malik was struck behind his head with the butt of a sword and fell to the grown with a loud thud.
Malik shut his eyes tightly, holding back the pain of such a hit. Taking in the throbbing in his head. He waited for the harsh attacks of the guards, covering his head with his arms and curling into himself. But the blows never came. Malik heard one of the guards cry out in pain before the others began shouting aggressively.
A strong arm yanked him up to his feet, and suddenly another was on his chest pushing him aside. Malik shook the haziness from his vision long enough to catch sight of his savior. A white robed man attacked the guards, killing two and hurting the others before rushing to Malik's side.
Assassin.
"Others will arrive for our heads. Run!" He roughly pushed against Malik's chest, tossing him aside once again. The young man stumbled on his feet before realizing what was happening before him.
Without a second warning, Malik pushed through his blurred vision, running through the markets. He pushed anyone who was in his way, encountering guards and other civilians as they all shouted at him. Many of the women grabbed their children to run from the danger. Malik dared to turn his head and spotted the Assassin right on his tail. Guards were not far behind, cursing and some aiming their crossbows. Malik stopped in the middle of a bustling street. He looked around for a more swift exit from the crowd, hearing the shouts of the angry guards only seconds behind him.
The Assassin crashed right into him, catching his sleeve and pulling him along as he growled in a raspy voice, "Do not stop, fool. Rooftops."
Malik didn't need to be told twice. He rushed to follow the Assassin who clambered over crates. The young man's ragged breathing made his mouth and throat go dry. Malik felt his muscles ache, his speed was decreasing as he grew more tired. He grasped the crates as guards neared them. Without warning, the Assassin dug his blunt nails into his arm, pulling him over the rooftop roughly, making Malik scratch his face in the process but saving him from an array of arrows.
"Your legs, use their strength, boy." The Assassin huffed as he himself climbed up a second roof easily, Malik not far behind.
The Assassin was quite surprised will how well the young man was able to keep up as well as hold his own against the guards. Although it isn't very difficult to begin with, but being over numbered by men was no joke. The boy threw few attacks but the way he guarded himself, his style, very familiar no doubt about it as were his movements.
It didn't take long for the two to be out of sight of any guard. Safe for the time being. Malik was trying to steady his breathing, not wanting the Assassin to notice how inexperienced he was with climbing and running away from guards all at the same time. The Assassin's own breath coming easily to a steady rhythm.
"You held yourself well," he let his lips curl upward, "For a time at least. You must keep your knees bent, ready for any blow to come."
An Assassin. Those of which he had been told of in stories both good and bad. Which kind this man was, Malik was unsure. He was older yet not as old as his own mother and uncle. The upper half of his face hidden well in his cowl as the lower half peered into the sun, dark as his own skin with black facial hair. Perhaps his later 30's Malik concluded.
"I did... You are an Assassin," Malik stated, he removed the scarf from his head, squinting in the sunlight as he used it to wipe the sweat from his face. He frowned when he noticed the stained blood. His cheek surely had been injured from the ragged scratch. Still, it was better than an arrow through his skull.
The older man nodded, his hooded head turning to survey the rooftops in caution. He was careful that no other guard suddenly attack them, "Only in name," he turned back to Malik, "Why did you help that woman?"
It was now that the Assassin's face became more visible, as did Malik's anger. The man's black eyes being covered in the sweat dripping from his forehead, dangerous and wise.
"Why not? It was the right thing to do. Would you not have done the same?" His voice was harsher than intended yet Malik didn't mind. He gathered the scarf in his hands, his mother would be unhappy.
"Perhaps... in my youth."
"What is your business in Jerusalem?" Malik furrowed his eyebrows, he stood as tall as he could even when his chest still burned freshly with pain, "Collecting more taxes no doubt. Causing more trouble."
The Assassin glared at him. His face suddenly dark with irritation and anger. "Mind your tongue, boy. I may have saved you this time, but I do not intend on doing it again," he growled before collecting himself once more, casting a knowing glance toward the young man, "Your ways of fighting are much like the Assassin's themselves. Who taught you to fight, to climb?"
"I asked you a question. Your business in Jerusalem." Malik nodded firmly, puffing his chest and crossing his arms.
The Assassin did not seem the least bit intimidated, "As did I. Or I may take my leave as I had planned to do so before you appeared."
So he had been leaving Jerusalem. Malik debated with himself on whether that was a good thing or not. He'd arrived with instructions surely and now he had been taking his leave. Malik held his chin up high, "I taught myself."
"Nonsense," the older man waved his hand and scoffed.
"It is not nonsense. I can climb, I can fight, I can avoid guards!" Malik admitted, rage filling his lungs, he uncrossed his arms and put his fists to his sides, his knuckles turning white at the pressure.
"Yes. Clearly."
"I've snuck through the gates undetected every night for the past three years as your brothers have. As you have done as well!"
That might as well have been a lie. Malik hadn't attempted to sneak through the gates for a number of months. He was successful every time he did it before. But thinking back on the matter, he only attempted roughly five times before. After each night he always returned home with a number of bruises and scrapes. Exhausted beyond belief.
"You can fight for only a few moments, child," the Assassin sighed, he crossed his arms over his chest in return, "Have you trained with a sword before? Throwing knives?"
Malik rolled his eyes. He scoffed, relaxing his arms once more, "Sword. I've not had the privilege to own a throwing knife."
His uncle owned a sword. It was the only weapon in their home. He kept in hidden. It was a treasured weapon. Malik had been given special privilege as well as few lessons by his uncle before. Of course each of those lessons only a few minutes long, away from his mothers eyes before Malik continued his practice on his own. But he knew enough.
"Take mine," the Assassin said as he drew his sword, handing it to Malik before unsheathing his short sword as well, "Show me what little you know, child."
Malik took the sword, it was heavier than the one his uncle owned. A very simple design, no such detailing in it at all. The young man took a deep breath as he took his stance, grasping the handle of the sword with both hands. The Assassin's lips curled slightly as he himself took a step forward.
It was Malik who yelled out, the first to attack. The Assassin evaded him easily, blocking with his short sword before pushing Malik aside with his other arm, "Ridiculous start."
The younger man kept at it. He continued being the first to attack just as the Assassin continued deflecting all his blows. The boy was a brute. Very little brain when it came to attacking. All muscle. All power. No strategy. After another few blows and failed attempts at stabbing him, the older man decided to flip their positions.
Just as Malik went to strike once more, the Assassin rolled to the side, swiping his blade across the back of Malik's knee. The young man gave out a loud cry, feeling a light sting from his leg but refused to let his pain give in. It would not be deep he tried to make himself believe. Malik stole a glance and saw no blood as of yet. Still the pain remained. He wobbled, attempting to straighten up. The Assassin stood up proudly and frowned at the boy before him.
Pity if he were to fail so early, he had such potential.
Malik pushed through the pain. It was no worse than the scratch on his face he told himself. The Assassin stomped forward, slicing his blade through the air as he neared the young man and attacked. Malik groaned in frustration, rolling out of the way as he'd seen before, catching the Assassin's blade with his own. He used one of his hands to toss dirt at the Assassin's face for a moment to regain himself and take charge of the fight.
They danced about, Malik dodged and evaded the attacks. At times attempting and succeeding in elbowing the Assassin wherever he could. He was faster than the other man. Surely that had helped him best the Assassin. It was only until Malik used his weight to push the older man to the ground, his sword now at the Assassin's throat, did Malik grin.
"I've bested you."
The Assassin pushed the boy from his chest. He sheathed his short sword, roughly yanking his second weapon from the younger man's hands. Malik all the while checking where he had been injured. The cut was not deep, the Assassin had made sure of it. It was the shock of having been struck that was surely setting in. He must not have been use to being injured. The wound would cease from bleeding soon. Only a few stains of blood at most.
Although irritating, there was an undeniable truth lingering in the air.
The boy was good. Too good for a street rat raised in Jerusalem. His style of fighting, it was sloppy, messy and mainly brute force. Dirty, unsteady fighting mixed with few Assassin elements. For a moment the Assassin almost let himself believe that the boy's style of fighting, his anger and determination reminded him of a teacher in his youth.
But he was good. With proper training he could easily become one of the best. The boy belonged in Masyaf. He was young. He had potential. Potential could not be left to waste.
"Raw," the Assassin huffed, collecting himself, "Undisciplined. But you remind me of our old ways, along with our old teachers and superiors. What is your name?"
Malik stood up slowly after wrapping his knee with the scarf he had. Although it was a light wound he thought it best to wrap it. He then remembered what his mother had told him before. His father had been in charge of the Order for some time before they'd left Masyaf. He knew that he held much of his fathers physical features. The Assassin was older. When Malik's father was in charge, the Assassin couldn't have been older than a teenager.
Still, he decided to take caution. A reckless Assassin was a dead Assassin.
"Tazim," he squinted at the sun pooling into his eyes.
The older man seemed to have almost ignored him, he tilted his head back, his voice commanding, "Why are you not in Masyaf? You are far too good a fighter to waste your life in the slums."
Because he still hadn't made his father proud. That's what Malik wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell him how his father would one day return for him when Malik was ready to become an Assassin. A true Assassin. But he had yet to arrive. And perhaps this would be the only sign presented to him to prove his worth.
Instead, Malik tilted his head, "I- I have no horse."
It wasn't entirely false. Malik truly had no horse. Not anymore at least. How was he expected to reach Masyaf on foot? It was a weak excuse but nothing else had come to mind and the words escaped his mouth before he completely understood what he was saying.
The Assassin took his time responding, overlooking the horizon and the vast empty rooftops. Malik felt uneasy, uncomfortable with the silence. He caught sight of a scarred cheekbone within the Assassin's cowl. Pink and twisted in such a design, cutting off into strange, short patches. Surely a burn mark. Quickly, he turned away as the man looked to him once more.
"I had reason to believe you owned a red dun. A strong mare."
The young man shook his head, "No- I... you must be mistaken-"
But before Malik could finish his answer, the Assassin cut him off with a wave of his had. "I must return to Masyaf, as is the life of an Assassin," he grabbed a throwing knife from the belt of his robes, flipping it in his gloved hand and handing it to Malik, "Remember the strength in your legs."
Malik took the throwing knife, running his hand across the blade. It was finely crafted. Evenly balanced and he couldn't help but think just how beautiful it was. An honor to have such a weapon. An Assassin's weapon. He looked up at the Assassin who let his lips twitch upward. He began to walk backward, toward the edge of the rooftop.
"Safety and peace, brother." And with that, he jumped off the rooftop and was gone.
Gripping the blade close to his chest, making a fist, Malik nodded, "Safety and peace, Assassin."