Author's Notes: Wow, I'm really surprised how much support this got! Thanks very much! There were some reviews I couldn't reply too, such as PBandJam, thank you very much for your positive review, and no, don't worry, it's definetly NOT going to be one of those stories.
Mint, thanks to you too! I will continue on with this, but with exams and stuff I may not update often.
Natesa, your review was lovely, I'm glad I kept Altair in check!
Motnur, thanks soooo much for your kind words, and I just had to blatantly plug my favorite Shakespear in my fanfiction somewhere!
As I said, with exams and study, my updates may not be too often, but thanks to EVERYONE who reviewed, you're all so kind! I just felt compelled to continue once I thought of a reasonable storyline. It won't be anything too heavy, or ass-kicking, my character isn't really the ass-kicking type you see. She's a house wife, pure and simple.
Please bear in mind, these chapters may (and most likely will) contain sexual content and should strictly only be read by over 18's.
This chap however, only has a little 8D.
Summer's End.
The next week for me had almost been too hard.
My duties as my husband's doting wife were cooking, cleaning our spacious house, sewing and washing clothes, collecting water from the well, and of course, abiding to my husbands wishes. At first, I went along with it, after all, every woman should. I was the wife to my husband, my duties to him were clear. But lately…
Something had been stirred within me, I think.
Perhaps, I realised just how much I hate my husband.
Our arranged marriage was quite the affair. Much more money was spent than I ever expected to dream of from my parents, and it gave us a beautiful wedding. At the time, I convinced myself I would grow to love this man I was forced to call my husband, and after a year and a half, I did just that. I convinced myself.
I swore under God, to love this man in everything he was. And God… God I tried. I tried so hard.
And now I have a house, in one of the richer parts of Jerusalem, my husband being decidedly well-off. Myself, my husband, and a faithful canine called Adham, thanks to his dark ebony fur.
And my husband… he… does dote on me. He says he loves me, and sometimes I believe him. He treats me like any man would be expected to treat his wife. He puts the clothes on my back, and money on the table, and I take care of him, the house and the food. My husband is in charge of the trade routes of Jerusalem, and though he tells me nothing of his work, I suspect he is of ill deed.
Men, ragged and desperate looking constantly show up at our doorstep, pleading to see my husband, and urging to speak alone with him. When I ask of him their intentions, he slaps me hard and tells me nothing. So I do not persist.
I worry. God, do I worry. I sometimes lay awake at night praying I stay safe, and no harm will come to me, my husband, or my family. But when men hammer down your door and demand your husband see them… I'm sure you can feel my worry too. But I kept quiet, as any wife would.
However, lately, it has been harder and harder to pretend everything is alright. I came home ragged, bleeding, bemused and ruffled from that night. My husband, worried sick, slapped me viciously as I returned home and demanded to know what became of me.
Lord forgive me, I lied to him so much I fear my tongue would blacken and fall off. I told him I was attacked and escaped with nothing but a cut on my side and a sore back. He slapped me again, hissing and spitting obscenities at me, saying it wouldn't have happened if I just stayed at home, where I was supposed to be. He had a point, I admit, but I never planned this, it just… happened.
I cried, pleading for forgiveness. He stayed stony faced for a good hour and a half before he gave in and cradled me in his lap, sighing, telling me how worried he was.
Guilt wracked at my thoughts then, tears flowing freely. Guilt of leaving him to worry. Guilt of defying him. Guilt of committing adultery with a man I didn't even know. Guilt of looking at him that night and realising how much I really, really don't love him.
I hate his secrets, his lies, his false words, his violence, his temper and his job entailing that I be harassed by shifty men and money grubbing fools. And what I hate most of all is that I am so afraid of him that I obey, without hesitation. Even now, when I have finally come to terms with the fact that I just don't want to be here anymore.
What's worse is, the assassin from that night, I couldn't possibly be rid of my thoughts of him. Curse my hopeful, imaginative mind. My foolish, fanciful female mind. I could remember his face so clearly, so vividly, how every deep shadow blackened across his visage, his deep set eyes completely hidden under darkness as he pulled up his white hood, the curving smoothness of his lips. His smell, his taste, his touch, his growling, arrogant voice.
I couldn't, and shouldn't have him. I was dedicated to one man, and I'm sure I could convince myself to love my husband again, if I ever even loved him to begin with. He was danger, he was forbidden, and how dare I of all people go against the wishes and rules of my husband, of God.
No, it will take time, and I will rid myself of that night before I cause myself, my husband some real harm.
Ever since my acceptance of this fact, I have prayed my heart and soul out to God for forgiveness. But I am sure God can feel my insincerity. He knows what I really want, he knows I am sorry, but not truly regretful for what happened. He knows I am sorry… simply because I should be. But I hope God will be… merciful. Perhaps this is his plan for me?
So I sat pensively on the stuffed cushions of the lounge, stroking Adham's fur. My eyes were cast to the night, the rolling stars, the velvet sky, cloudless, typical of a late springtime night. My husband was in a good mood today, but that only meant more work for me.
He softly padded into the seating area. I, liking the house better when it is exceptionally clean, refused to let him walk around with his shoes on, or anyone else for that matter. Shoes are for keeping off the dirt of the streets, not for bringing said dirt onto my clean floors. He gently patted Adham's head, who shied away from his touch, and took my hand.
My husband is… not unattractive. He is tall, slender, but his posture is awfully lazy. He has ebony hair, cut short and cropped, but usually wore a turban. He looks… just as every normal man would from Jerusalem, thin, dark.
His intentions were easy to read, being married to him for a year and a half, it was blatantly obvious where we were going and what we would be doing. He lead me to the bedroom where we would be "making love" for the night. But I didn't see it that way.
I don't think I can see it that way anymore.
His touch felt clammy and unpleasant. But I did as I always did. I play acted the whole thing, despite how hard it was for me this time. Before, he aroused some soft of excitement within me, but now…
Not once that night did I feel any warmth radiating from the man on top of me. While usually tried my best before, now I just seemed to have lost my sense of love, of what it feels like to have a man with me, holding me. But my husband didn't hold me! He held himself poised above, while I was left below, pretending, simply so he would "love" me in return.
It was perfectly natural for the woman to go away unsatisfied, and I had countless nights before. But I have never felt so empty, so shallow, so sickened before in my life.
Since the first night of our marriage, my husband and I have tried for a baby. Unsuccessfully of course, and I cursed myself for being so inept. Perhaps I could not bear children, I thought dismally. And now, as he spilled inside me, I thought vaguely how it was hopeless for me to conceive a child with this man. He hissed my name in my ear, and I had to turn my head away from him, his body draped on mine, heaving chest, sweating skin, and I couldn't have wanted this any less.
I lay awake for hours that night, praying, naked before God and the world and begged the Lord to answer me, tell me what it is I should do. Be rid of my impure thoughts of that white robed assassin. Make me love the man I am married to!
God didn't answer, but that's the whole point, I guess.
My husband was talking me out today. He said he had… business to attend to. I followed wordlessly behind him and two of his co-workers. They climbed into a horse driven cart, and I clambered in next to them, my long dress catching slightly on my sandals.
It was a hot day, summer peeking through early this year. The air was musty, devoid of draft, and my skin was crying out for either moisture, or cold.
I gazed at my toes as my husband talked quietly with his co-workers. Two cargo hand-managers, both of them ignored me. The cart shook as the horse took off in a trot.
My mind, off in a dreamy state caught only snippets of their conversation. They spoke as if I wasn't there, and I treated it as such. My husband spoke of a courier by the name of Mu'ayyad, who failed to deliver a special crate of something or other, and now must be found.
Part of me didn't want to listen. I knew full well of what my husband was capable of, so if he knew I was listening I would pay dearly. Why exactly did he want me here?
I caught vaguely that we were travelling to Masyaf, to visit more traders and discuss the terms of the missing man and the crate. I've never been to Masyaf before, so needless to say, I was a little excited. It was dampened however, by my husband's slightly agitated expression. Something about the name Masyaf lingered with me, as if I knew something but I couldn't quite remember, so I huffed, willing the confusing feelings away.
My husband said we were near, now chatting freely about other topics with the men, and I looked up to the road nearing, to see a castle looming over in the distance, surrounded by cliffs and steep, dangerous looking hills. There was more of a breeze up here, which I was eternally grateful for and soon the cart rolled into a stable just outside the wooden gates of the small village.
I hopped out, walking past the high, wooden gates behind my husband. He waved off his co-workers, gesturing for them to "scout" while he led me towards the castle at the end of the village. I stared around, fascinated with the people in the village, but my main focus was on the castle. It was truly a beautiful piece of architecture, though, as I got nearer, it was more like a fortress than a castle admittedly.
And as my gaze wandered, it instantly dropped to a white robed man standing a few feet away from me. My heart jumped ferociously in my chest and I dared to look twice. Thankfully, it wasn't him. He was too small, and his robes were positioned all wrong, but the armour was there, and the sword. I calmed down.
But at first… I could have sworn it…
My husband tugged on my arm, hurrying me forward further towards the fortress and quickly under the stone arch.
Walking under that arch was like stepping into a nightmare.
The men. All of them were like him. All dressed the same, in robes of beautiful white, warriors and fighters who crowded around a ring, in which a battle between two took place, their cries echoing around the stone walls. Others talked in hushed voices, watching us beneath their hoods as we walked into their castle.
My head suddenly ached, they all looked the same. My knees wobbled, guilt ridden, wanton memories rushing back in a sickening wave.
But maybe, just maybe he's not here. He's not one of them, he couldn't be! Oh Lord, please Lord please don't let him be here! Could this be the assassin fortress so many men feared?
More and more, so many white robed my men my heart felt like it was going to explode in shock. But… none of them were him thankfully.
At least… I haven't seen him. Yet, I thought fearfully.
I walked up the slope towards the stain-glass windows, eyes darting at the groups of men all dressed as scholars and monks, and yet like soldiers. My husband striding past, his posture tall and proud, almost defiant.
I broke into a sweat, the feeling of both fear and dread building up in my throat, cursing everything and everyone who could have brought me to this place, where he could be. Of all the places, in all of the Holy Land, why here? Why now? Why ME?
And though my husband's walk was one of pride, he was immediately stopped at the door to the castle, the guards flanking either pillar crossed their swords to the entrance.
"What business do you have with the Grand Master?" The guard on the left asked, his tone crisp and cutting.
My husband, curse him, puffed his chest out, trying to give off some sort of air of superiority over these men. Against so many tall, muscled men, I personally thought he looked the fool.
"That is none of your business." He spat, and I cringed at his lack of respect. "I must speak with Al Mualim at once. It is of the utmost importance!"
Resisting the urge to cover my husband's self-proclaiming mouth with my hand, I stared contentedly at the guard to the right, who raised a dark brow, exchanging a look with his fellow officer. They both nodded.
"Do you have a name, sir?" Asked the one on the left.
My husband frowned. "Mundhir Nidal-Amir, of Jerusalem."
"Good. We were informed of your arrival. Go through." They both let their swords, standing once more at attention as my husband passed, seeming smug with his victory. Unfortunately, they once again bared the door as I tried to walk through. I flinched as the metal of their swords connected in an X, preventing me from following my husband.
"That is my wife." My husband sighed. "Allow her passage."
"Is she completely necessary, sir? The Grand Master only gives audience with those who are absolutely needed."
Honestly, I was perfectly happy to stay outside. My husband was glaring at me, as if it was my fault. I tried to speak, to tell him it was alright, to go without me, but he spoke before I had my chance.
"She is the reason I am here." He said. "Let her through!"
Reluctantly, the guards withdrew their swords, and I shakily stepped forward. My husband grabbed my arm, dragging me through the marble hall with him.
God… he didn't know, did he? Was that why we were here? Was that why he insisted on bringing me here? I felt close to tears with worry, my heart painfully banging around the inside of my ribcage, reciting old prayers over and over again in my head.
Perhaps God was punishing my ill deed. Perhaps that was what this was for.
I was walked up stone steps to a podium on the opposite side of the hall, where an old man stood behind a desk, tending to an eagle in a giant cage. He let go of my arm, almost flinging me away as he stood in front of the desk, demanding audience with his heavy strides, his proud stance.
But the man was still turned away, wearing robes of the deepest blue, trimmed with white. His hood was up, his old, knarled hands closed the cage door, stance slightly bowed as he turned slowly to face us. His left ring finger was missing, I noticed.
His right eye was blinded, turned a haunting milky white. His face was aged, grey and yet, strong and toned for such an old man. Features were ones that once must have been very handsome, and time aged it gracefully, so now he looked wise, intelligent.
The man's expression did not change when he looked at my husband, eyes darting to me, catching my gaze for just one icy second, the back to the man standing before him. Still he did not change as two guards stood either side of his desk, though I had the suspicion he could easily kill my husband without the aid of guards.
After all, this was the home of the assassins, I mused dismally.
He inclined his head, gesturing for my husband to speak, and folded his arms.
"Al Mualim," he began, "I bring news from Jerusalem about Mu'ayyad and his crate."
The old man said nothing at first, joining the tips of his long fingers together, like a prayer. "Could you not have sent word by air?"
His voice was well spoken, with a thick Arabic accent, and surprisingly deep for a man so old. My husband shook his head. "Not for this."
Al Mualim simply nodded, bowing his head. He reached out to one of the guards beside him. "Send for Altair. Tell him I need a word."
What was going on? I knew my husband's deals were shady, but what could possibly need assassins? What dilemma was it that needed the help of ruthless killers bound to balance the crusades and work behind the scenes? I was so confused, and worried even still about what it was my husband needed. Who was this Mu'ayyad, and what was so important that he had to deliver?
The guard hurried off. Al Mualim turned back to my husband.
"I presume you do not have the crate?" He said gravely.
"No, I-"
"As I thought." With a heavy sigh, he walked behind his desk, into the sunlight casting through the high, gothic window. He looked up, out into the sky, the jagged cliffs worn with time and weather; sunlight was becoming of this man, I thought. He stayed silent for some time, I could see my husband fidgeting in impatience.
"When does anything we do go as planned?" He asked, more so to himself. He sighed again, and turned back to face us.
"This woman," he gestured to me, "what business does she have here?"
His gaze caught mine, and I stiffened, awkwardly bowing curtly in greeting, feeling foolish and unnecessary under his scrutiny.
"She is partly the reason I'm here. My wife," he gestured to me with his open hand, urging me to take it and I did with only a second of confusing hesitation, "was out getting water from the local well in early morning, and was attacked by one of Mu'ayyad's men."
My head snapped upwards as the lie easily slid out of his mouth. Incredulous, I stared, slack jawed and his hand clenched mine for a second, not so much to reassure me as to threaten me to stay silent. How… how dare he!
Though I was slightly relieved, the emotion was overtaken by anger. He dragged me to Masyaf, to fool and old man? He is using me? Me! His wife! As though I were nothing more than a tool for trickery! I cook, I clean, I do everything and anything a good wife should, and now this?
I wouldn't have minded half as much if he warned me before hand, so I could prepare myself.
"Mu'ayyad is fleeing, and both myself and my wife could be in danger!" He said, releasing my hand.
I, shocked, stared worriedly from my husband to Al Mualim, who's expression was impossible to read. The old man was once again silent, his gaze studying me and my husband, and I quickly tried to change my disbelieving face. If the man did not believe my husband, I would be the one to suffer the consequence for messing up. His eyes once again caught mine, and I was trapped with a calculating stare, so much like his that night, but it was reading me, like parchment almost. The white eye was haunting to look at.
"… Do you know Mu'ayyad's whereabouts?" He asked finally, eyes sliding away from me and once again fixing my husband.
"I have a few leads, and most of them say the same."
"Good. I will give you aid of some of my most skilled assassins - ah! Here we are." He gestured to the stairs on the left as another white robed man walked fourth, and my blood ran cold, "This is Altair, a masterful assassin of the Creed."
Al… Altair…?
From the second I looked at him, I lost the ability to breathe. He walked fourth, seemingly in slow motion, and the world came to a screeching halt. My ears were filled with an angry buzzing sound, my jaw fell open, eyes wide and my throat closing up, winding me.
I felt like someone clubbed me, dizzying colour and heat whirling in front of my eyes.
I don't quite know if it was gut wrenching fear, or excitement that was gripping me. Either way, it felt like my heart had escaped my chest and began making it's way back to Jerusalem.
Most of the assassins here looked the same. But there was something about him, the posture, the head movement; it defined the man. Eyes, still hidden under the hood, I could almost feel them scanning the room, and then locking onto Al Mualim as he was addressed.
Lord in heaven, this could not be mere coincidence.
"Your leads had better be correct, Mundhir." He said, the slight edge of a threat lacing his words. "Failure is not an option with this man. Altair?" He addressed the man, who stood to attention. "You know of Mu'ayyad, correct? It is on three of your leads that got the information."
"Yes." Came that voice, the one that has been haunting my mind for a week and a half now, still as cold, as heartless, as rugged as I remember.
"His men attacked Mundhir's wife." Al Mualim gestured to me, and I instantly stiffened, feeling the eyes sweep over me for a second, then look back, in sudden realisation.
It would have been slightly comical to see from another perspective as Altair's stance faltered at the sight of me, obviously quite taken-aback. But he covered it well, and pretended like nothing was wrong. I however, could still feel the glare from beneath the hood, icy eyes piercing straight into me like a knife. His expression hardened.
I must have looked different that night. Well, truth be told I was a little ragged looking, I tried to look as such to walk the streets without being noticed. I guess, seeing me in my proper clothes, bathed, with washed hair must look somewhat different. But he was still smart enough to recognise.
"Or so he says." Al Mualim continued. "I, personally, don't believe you. Though I do not doubt Mu'ayyad, it is far too early for him to begin attacking people, and your wife would be easily killed. So how was it that she got away, hm?"
My husband spluttered in incredulity. "Why, the nerve of you! She has the cut on her waist and a bruised and beaten back to prove it!"
I blushed vividly when I felt those eyes suddenly sweep over me again, and I looked away, finding my sandaled feet much more interesting. Though I was heavily embarrassed, it only intensified when I knew that Altair knew my husband was lying, because HE made that cut, and my back was bruised from the wall he pushed me up against.
"… Very well. Considering the associations of Mu'ayyad, I will not take any chances this time, where the innocent is involved." He turned to the other guard. "Go and get Bashir and Sofian. Altair, get your blades and other weapons ready. Be back here before the hour is up. Understood?"
Altair nodded and bowed, his gaze sweeping over me before hurriedly leaving, his gait proud, his movements swift and fluid.
Al Mualim then turned back to my husband. "Two of my assassins will follow you and your leads, where one will stay posted at your house to guard. Usually I do not order such posts upon my men, but… under the circumstances… Mu'ayyad is not to be trifled with, and I fear his treachery is only the beginning. The two will make sure you come under no harm. Your wife…" He cast a look at me, I assumed it was one of comfort, "will be safe. I will post Altair with her. If your story is indeed true, and your wife was attacked, they are likely to attack again, and will hold her life to ransom. Mu'ayyad's men will not be merciful with her. But rest assured, Altair does not, and will not fail."
It was a wonder how I didn't faint dead away on the spot. God… God my husband will soon find out about my adultery, I am sure the assassin will tell him, will say something, anything to give me away. Such cruel fate has been laid for me! I looked fearfully at my husband, who was staring at the floor.
His once proud stance was faltering now, his expression creased with worry and agitation. I didn't understand what all this was about, all I knew was that the assassin who was with me that night would be near to me now, and to my husband.
The part of me that would have been thrilled, was horrified that my husband will discover the truth.
So many negative, mixed, swirling emotions were confusing me to the point where only a numb feeling settled in the back of my head, and a sharp pain stabbed at the front. My husband put his hands on the side of Al Mualim's desk, bracing himself, and took a deep, ragged breath.
"Tell me what you want me to do."
The old man stared pointedly at him, looking down his long, crooked nose. "Mundhir, my assassins are loyal to me and me alone. If I find that you are of ill deed, that you are playing games of trickery against the Creed that asked the simple task of receiving a package, they are on strict orders to kill you without a moment's thought. Understood?"
Author's notes: Thanks for reading. Feel free to drop a line, if you wish.