Author's Notes: Ooooooh, I'm on a HUGE writing buzz recently, and it doesn't seem to be calming down anytime soon! YUS!!
Reviews, as always, were wonderful. Thanks so much for all your compliments, hints, and helpful critisisms!
Warning: Please, take heed that the following chapter is quite violent.
Whiplash
I vaguely remember rolling in and out of consciousness. I could feel a soft sway beneath me, from my point of view I seemed to be on the floor somewhere as my eyes fluttered open, catching voices, salt air drifting into my nose. At first I felt nothing, and became unconscious again.
But the next time I woke, my head was exploding in agony.
I groaned, eyelids heavy as I opened them and swayed as I tried to get up. The floor was stone, dirty and covered in grime; like the walls, a dark pewter grey. I was face first on the floor, my hands against the damp, grimy tiles.
Chains rattled when I moved my hands, pulling my wrists down before I could touch my face to brush my hair from my eyes. I was cold, dirty, the cracked feeling of dried blood in my hair against my back. Everywhere ached, my right shoulder was throbbing insistently, knees tingling from lack of blood flow due to my squatted position, my jaw felt as though it was at least two inches to the left. I groaned again, in pain.
There was a dark wooden door some feet in front of me. A metal shutter slid back from the top corner, eyes peeking through at me, then sliding shut again with a snap. I looked down at the floor, squinting my eyes shut when a hot stab of pain jolted through my brain, my neck struggling to keep my heavy head upright. Clenching my teeth, I tried to will the pain away and concentrate on where I was and how I got here, but I could only barely remember what happened.
Instead, I chose to focus on the sound of water dropping from the ceiling in a rhythmic plink, until I found my wits.
Keys rattled, and the door swung open on creaky hinges. I shakily raised my head, a bulky man dressed in shining armour entered, flanked by two guards with faces hidden beneath helms. The man looked far too pasty to be a resident of the Holy Land, his cheeks burned red, fair haired and freckled, but with a stony expression and deep set wrinkles.
"Enjoying the accommodations?" He sneered, and though he spoke in perfect Arabic, there was something distinctly different about his accent. He was foreign, that much was certain. I looked down, unable to think of a suitable answer.
His worn, calloused hands took a slender cane from the guard on the right, and I eyed it nervously. "There are two ways we can do this." He said, tapping the flat of the thin wood in his hand, pacing the small room. "I will ask you questions. You can either answer me when I ask, or you can say nothing, and I can beat the answer out of you." As if to prove his point, he slapped the stick against the floor and I flinched.
A grin slid easily over his thin mouth, pleased with my reaction, and my heart thudded fiercely as he paced, eyes on me, cold and grey.
"Now, tell me woman, you are the wife of Mundhir Nidal-Amir, are you not?"
I nodded dully, a lump sticking in my throat, unable to speak. Noise was however, forced out of my mouth when he snapped the cane across my left shoulder and I yelped, my hands wringing against the chains to pat the stinging skin.
"Words, if you please." He hissed.
"Y-yes," I stammered, tears burning my eyes, "I am h-his wife-"
"Whose wife…?" He waved the cane threateningly, and I was shaking in terror and sharp stabbing pain.
"Mu-Mundhir Nidal-… Amir."
"Very good."
Pacing again, he tapped the cane against the plate of armour on his knee, eyes rapt with boredom, his nose in the air. His plated boots clinked off the stone, echoing painfully in my head.
"Tell me, woman. What do you know of your husband's involvement with Mu'ayyad?"
My mind, foggy and disorientated, fought hard to remember the information relayed to me over the past few weeks about my husband. Something about the Creed, Al Mualim, a crate to deliver…?
Jumping badly when the cane whacked against the wall, I stumbled over my words, terrified. "A-Al Mualim, the assassins paid my husband to receive the crate from Mu'ayyad. But it was n-never delivered and Mundhir in-informed the Creed to-"
I stopped the instant he started tutting and shaking his head. "Tell me something I don't know."
I bit my lip, head down, searching the filthy floor for some answers, anything to help me, but my thoughts were reduced to a pained, buzzing mess, burning and aching. The floor was covered in marks, some of them looked like the recoil of a whip crack, grooves that could have easily been swordplay. Bloodstains, blackened by time were next to fresher, red and brown ones. How many people have been in this same position?
The man sighed, tapping the cane impatiently in his hand, rolling his grey eyes to the heavens. "I see you don't quite understand. No matter, I shall ask a more specific question." He paused, twirling the strip fondly between his fingers, eyes still on mine. "How did Mundhir come to know of Mu'ayyad?"
"Did the assassin Master not bid him for help?" I hazarded, looking upwards pleadingly.
Tracing the edge of the cane across my cheek, he tapped it lightly against my nose while I desperately searched my thoughts. "Not unless they knew he was somehow connected to illegal trading in Jerusalem."
Who else could possibly know of the man, I thought. My husband told me nothing, of his work, of his friends or close acquaintances, so how would I of all people know? The only people I would know of is Diya Al Din, Hassan (Johara's husband) and Aludra's…
Abdul-Matin, Aludra's husband…
"I grow impatient woman." He said threateningly, raising the stick upwards.
"Wait!" I cried. "Abdul-Matin, the fish monger! H-he has connections through the rivers, does he not?"
The guard gave an exasperated roll of his eyes and crossed his arms, his voice becoming higher and louder by the minute. "Abdul is a trusted tradesman of Mu'ayyad. There is no real reason for him to tell your husband other than general amusement, and I highly doubt he is that sort of man."
My mouth went dry, my hands sweating and clammy against the cool tiles. He stood to my right, jerking his shoulders back and rolling his head, to crack his neck. I gazed fearfully, mouth open, eyes pleading for mercy and stomach doing somersaults into my insides.
"Last chance." He said, raising the cane above my back, a gleam of anticipation in his cold eyes. "Who are your husband's leads?"
I didn't know. I didn't even understand the question. I was shaking, my eyes wide and fearfully glaring at the wood, mouth open in confusion and terror.
"I… I don't know…" I croaked, voice restrained.
He looked down at me, with something akin to delight. "That is not an answer."
There was a swish and a hard crack as the cane slapped across my shoulder blades, and I cried out, first a numb feeling travelling over my spine until it grew unbearably hot and stung like a thousand needles. Every part of me burned.
"How is your husband associated with us?" He snarled at me, cane raised again, but the answer was still the same.
"I-I d-don't-"
Another swish-crack and burning red welt searing across my spine and shoulders. I yelped in pain, tears threatening to fall, but I clenched my teeth, bracing myself. I knew nothing of this, so there was no real way to break me down into telling the truth, if I didn't know the truth. I decided I must be strong, I must endure, because if I break, there will be nothing left of me.
"How did Mundhir know our stronghold of Damascus?"
"…I d-d-"
And again, he hit me hard along the base of my neck and shoulders. My breath came painfully from my lungs in quick pants, winded, elbows failing for a second, my chest hit the ground hard, but I managed to shakily raise my torso up again.
"You know something woman, be out with it!" He bellowed. "How does your husband know of us?"
"My husband t-tells me n-nothing-" I rasped, but he interrupted me again.
"You liar!" He hissed, swiftly bringing the cane back to meet my twitching shoulders.
It continued for what seemed like an age. He swore vicious obscenities at me, spat at me, with every unanswered question he roared, slapping the wood across my back. I've never known such pain, not even when my elder brother was training with his sword out in the field, and I had chosen that exact moment to step in his path.
God, I missed them. My brothers, my sisters, my mother and father.
My breath tumbled from my mouth in yelps, dry sobs and cries of blinding pain, eyes clenched shut, my ribs protesting sharply as I tried to defiantly hold myself up. I couldn't breathe, I could barely think through the burning ache and contrast of icy numbness tearing through my spine, all my physical strength was used solely to hold myself upright. My clenched jaw was throbbing dully when I clamped my teeth together.
The only way I could think of sparing my sanity and moving my thoughts elsewhere was by praying. I recited old prayers again and again in my head, over and over. My fingernails scratched at the floor at a particularly hard snap of the cane, and a verse of my prayer tumbled out of my mouth in a horrified cry.
"God won't help you now." He sneered at me, and again asked me more questions I couldn't answer.
Every inch of my skin was on fire, and as my wandering thoughts wavered, I pray for someone, anyone to help me. I prayed and prayed, Altair the last thought coming to mind, and when I did think of him, I couldn't find anything else.
Begging God, I asked him to send Altair a sign, anything to indicate I was alive, and I wasn't ready to die, not yet, not now when I was getting so close to him it hurt me just thinking about it…
"You will protect me, will you not?"
"It is my job."
I wondered what Mundhir was doing now? Was he in as much pain as I was? Every bit of this, every pound of that cane was a reminder of how this was all my husband's doing. The men killed in my house. Adham going missing. My own paranoia of the people I used to be able to trust, to call my friends. My kidnap and this torture.
And for once, I didn't apologise for thinking these wicked thoughts, because it was true…
I think… just a little part of me was starting to get angry. I could feel my face heating up, every snarled question fell deaf upon my ears. My jaw tightened, I ground my teeth at yet another vicious swipe of the cane, eyes glaring at the floor as my breath weakly rasped past my lips.
"I'll ask you again." He spat. "Who are your husband's leads?"
"I don-"
The swish-snap once again met the tender flesh of my back. I clenched my jaw.
"Is he planning to kill Mu'ayyad?"
"I don't know-"
Again, another hit.
"You are a fool, girl. Answer me!"
My left elbow failed, sending me downwards in a shuddering motion, my still braced arm shaking violently as my hands clutched at the filthy tiles. My knees and legs felt cold, unmoving, deprived of blood flow from my current position.
He raised the cane again. "What is your husband planning-"
"I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" I shrieked, throwing my head up and glaring at him, tears finally spilling fourth from my stinging eyes, my shoulders searing in agony. The guards near the door shifted, looking to each other and shaking their heads.
The man sighed, folding his arms at me as though I were nothing more than a disobedient child. His pale face darkened, eyes hidden under shadow when he stared me down, smirking positively predatory. "It seems you do not know your place, woman."
Her passed the cane to the guards by the door. "Get her up."
Wordlessly, they approached me as the man stood back, watching from the door as they hauled me up, chains and all. I struggled weakly, my shoulders protesting as I was turned around, back to the door and my arms were raised above my head. They lifted me so I was standing barely on my toes, and looped the chains binding my hands around a hook on the ceiling. I fearfully looked up at it, heart thumping wildly. I could feel my pulse beat in my wrists against the chains.
The guards stood back as the man approached, and he was behind me. I flinched, gasping as a knife ran slowly, lazily down the back of my dress and ripped the material. Whimpering, he bunched the sleeves impatiently around my shoulders, hands the complete opposite of gentle against my throbbing back.
Eyes wide in disbelief, he ran the flat of the cold knife alongside my overheated skin, and chuckled.
"Now you will learn the consequences," he whispered darkly, pulling my hair, "of disrespecting a man like that."
He stepped back, as if to revel in my moment of quaking terror, and I could only stare at the filthy wall, flinching at the soft tap of hard material hitting the floor.
It was after that I realised how much more painful the whip was, compared to the cane.
I must have fallen unconscious, because when I woke up, I was more tired than I have ever been in my life.
Just lying there, trying desperately to gather my thoughts, I was highly confused as to where I was and how I got here. First of all, I was warm, and very comfortable. A soft, feathery mattress supported my back, my head sunk into a squishy cotton pillow.
Cracking my eyes open, I was greeted by a room decorated in rich drapery, whites and creams, an open window allowing the balmy summer air through, fluttering the thin butter coloured curtains. From my position, I could see the room extended, but I could only see the top of a dresser and wardrobe, the headboard of the bed I was lying on, and the open window.
Could it just have been a dream…?
Trying to raise myself upwards, I quickly realised it definitely wasn't a dream when my back stung ferociously, scabs from recent wounds cracking. I groaned, my throat parched and dry. Ceasing movement, I fell back down, my stomach twisted in hunger, my arms weak and heavy.
I glanced down, noticing my clothes had been divested and now I wore (a particularly beautiful) dark red dress and shawl with fine gold embroidery. It did however, show off far too much of my chest, and I whimpered quietly at the sudden realisation that not only had someone dressed me, but had to undress me before doing so.
Either way, I felt cleaner, the faint smell of summer air and aromatic soap drifting about me, my hair soft against my face, it had been curled, brushed, even styled, so the soft waves fell about in tresses of dark brown. I would have felt appreciative, if not terrified by the lack of knowledge of where, when, and how I got here in the first place.
What in the name of God was going on…?
I heard movement, and turned my head towards it, eyes tearing away from the ceiling painted an odd ochre colour.
"She wakes. (1)" Drawled a cool, deep Arabian voice from the foot of the bed. I heard the shuffling of his footsteps as he drew nearer, and a tall, darkly tanned man came into my line of sight. His mahogany hair was messy and tousled, cinnamon eyes roving over me for a second, accessing me, then closing when he smiled down kindly. A handsome man, but something was off.
I didn't trust him.
"You are comfortable, I hope?" He sat his bulky form gently down beside me, the bed creaking with his added weight, eyes not moving from mine.
My throat was too parched to answer, so I nodded, cautiousness etched into my brow. He laughed.
"Why so serious?" He got up, offering me a hand upwards. I hesitated, taking it gingerly as he gently pulled me to a sitting position. His hand reached up to scratch as his curly brown goatee for a minute, then reached across.
Passing me a bowl of water, he laughed dryly again when I clasped the pottery eagerly and quickly gulped down the cold, satisfyingly wet liquid. I watched as he walked towards the window, gazing fondly out into the unknown city below. Biting his lip, he held his hands behind his back, light coloured robes billowing with the breeze. I perched the bowl on the edge of the bed, uncomfortable as my back was still sore, and very tired.
"Where am I?" I asked quietly, wringing my fingers in my lap.
"You are in Damascus." He stated simply, turning to face me. Gesturing for me to come over, I looked at him hesitantly, then looked away and got up, approaching the window with cautious reverence. My back was on fire, and he noticed me wincing with every movement.
"My apologies." He said. "Gareth has a tendency to be rough."
I sniffed, silent. He was obviously referring to the man who lashed me in that stone room earlier.
God, what was wrong with me? It was like I wasn't even alive. This horrible, floating, drifting feeling stayed stubbornly in my chest, making it seem like I wasn't even part of this world anymore. I felt empty, emotionless, brooding dare I say it. Almost as if I was trying to harden myself to the world, expecting an attack.
Much like Altair. Lord, where is he?
"Who are you?" I asked stiffly.
"It doesn't matter." He answered, aloof.
Walking away from the window, he made his way to the back of the room, to a large wooden desk on top of which perched paper, ink bottles, quills and many gold ornaments in curling designs.
I looked away from him, glancing out the window to the city. The terracotta gleamed back at me in the sun, a city of bright colours, bustling people and, just like Jerusalem, full of guards and traders. I was high up, in a tower possibly as I looked down along the walls of a small, yet unmistakeably impressive castle. Rolling turrets and high, thick stonework hiding slim archers.
Stiffly, I made my way back to the bed, taking a second to appreciate the soft cotton of the duvet, and turned to face the man, twirling a gold coin between his fingers. He gazed at the metal with a fondness I've only seen once or twice before, and it could only be described as an insatiable obsession…
Catching my prying eyes, he slowly made his way towards me, coin dancing between the digits. "No doubt you would want to ask me some questions, but for the moment, let me just give you the summary."
He placed the coin in his pocket after looking rapturously at it, and continued. "Firstly, you are here because you have something of value. Yes… at first your husband was but a mere annoyance to me, but now he is really starting to grate on my nerves, and quite frankly I am tired of it. Secondly, I apologise for my guard rough handling you, someone so…" He eyes travelled over me, and I instinctually crossed my arms over my scantily clad chest, "pretty, should not have been treated in such a manner."
My cheeks burned, and no doubt he could see at as a smile slid easily over his mouth. I felt sickened, not just by the way he was looking at me, but with everything. Every damn thing that has happened so far, can nothing go right? Who was this man, and what did he want? Why was I so angry?
I could feel my rage starting to build, no matter how much I tried to control it. But I was frightened as well, terrified in fact, of this man I didn't know, speaking so informally to me as though I were a long lost friend, but looking at me like I was a piece of meat. I edged away, too scared to meet his gaze, though I could feel the brown eyes looking down on me, smouldering.
"How did I get here?" I asked, quietly.
He snickered. "Surely you remember how. Though that assassin proved rather troublesome, we got you here in the end."
My eyes widened, and he noticed with a grin. "Ah yes, one of Al Mualim's trusted students. He managed to take a good number of my men before they eventually overpowered him."
"What did you do to him?" I hissed.
"I?" He said, with sarcastic incredulity. "Why, my lady, I have done nothing. We took him with us, as we did you, but of course, he put up much more of a struggle than you managed to. Though, if you ask me, you should be more worried about your husband, than the killer."
I turned my head away from him, as though I had been slapped hard across the face. He… he didn't understand what I've been through these past few weeks. All the pain and sacrifice and worry, I was just about ready to tare my hair out. How dare he say such a thing, as if to mock my anxiousness for the man who promised to protect me.
But my face softened, and I bit down into my tongue. God, were they doing the same to Altair as they did to me?
He didn't need more scars, not on my behalf.
The man beside me seemed to find my reaction hilarious. "Oh, now what is this?" He sneered. "Could that be genuine concern for the assassin? This is just too priceless! And so the beautiful maiden falls in love with her lowly protector, how very fairytale of you-"
"Why am I here? For you to make fun of me?" I snorted. "Haven't you done enough?"
His expression fell for a second, eyes blank and unreadable, his hands lowered by his sides. It unnerved me, until he smiled again, showing white teeth, baring overlarge canines at me like an ravenous animal. It reminded me of a story my father told me about the crocodile, and how his sneering mouth was used to lure in prey, it's white teeth gleaming, a grin so carnivorous and well hidden; anyone could fall for it's cleverly laid trap. But I knew better, I wasn't the helpless victim falling into serrated jaws, and I refused to let that grin lure me.
"I suppose I owe you that." He began to pace, twirling his goatee around his finger. "I suppose you already know why you're here. You know something, something related to your husband that we need to know. I do believe Gareth used the wrong method of asking you, so I had you brought up here, cleaned, dressed, and comfortable."
"That… guard, has already asked me plenty of questions, and I don't know the answers."
Sympathetically, he glanced at me and sat down on the bed, patting the space beside him. I reluctantly followed, sitting on the edge rather, uncomfortable.
"Come now," he said, "no whips or chains in here, right? All we need to know is how your husband found out about us, and from whom."
My lower lip quivered, eyebrows twitching. I was so confused and annoyed with this. I, in all honesty, didn't know anything, and I didn't even know enough to use my imagination and lie. How would I possibly know? All I do is cook, clean and sew. Nothing more. Mundhir rarely speaks of work, rarely speaks to me at all in fact. I am merely a tool, so why should I know of these things? I wrung my hands in my lap, defeated, worn out, fed up with this mess.
"Please," I looked up at him, eyes watering, begging for him to believe me, to understand, "I don't know anything about this. You must believe me when I say I honestly have no idea what is going on here. I don't even know where my husband is."
He threw me a pitying glance. "Let's try this a different way. I'll ask you a question, and you answer what you know, alright?"
Though I didn't agree at all, it's not like I had much of a choice, and there was something about this man I didn't trust. I could tell he was fake, lying through his teeth as though to keep me at ease, but it wasn't working, I could read it better than he thought I could.
He wasn't giving me much credit. Talking to me like a child wasn't helping.
I nodded dully.
"Good. Now, I understand that your husband was paid by Al Mualim to receive a crate, yes?" I inclined my head, and he continued. "Do you have any idea how your husband found out about this crate?"
"No," I said, "it is my husband's job to run the trade routes, he tells me nothing of his work."
"I see. Your husband is quite connected with the traders in Jerusalem, more connected in fact, than one would presume for a head-tradesman. So, no doubt you have seen some of his criminal activity, correct?"
I bit my lip. Yes, though I have seen snippets of situations to lead one to believe that my husband was of ill deed, I have never actually seen him involved in such acts.
"There have been… times when I thought my husband may be included in illegal trading, but I have never personally seen him doing such."
The man chuckled softly and rose from the bed. "You are quite the woman, do you know that? Dutiful to the very end, even under torture you still utterly refuse to speak. How… honourable, and yet foolish."
"It is the truth!" I cried, standing up to face him. "Not a single person here will believe me. Why?"
He narrowed his eyes, folding his arms. "Even now, you lie to me, all to save your worthless husband."
I backed away, and he seemed to follow, strides slow.
"I am telling the truth!"
"I'm sure you are." He said, voice dripping with condescending sarcasm. "Yes, you are quite the woman. Strong, emotional, and yet weak, like a flower."
"Please, you must-"
"And beautiful too." He fixed me with a lascivious stare, and my skin crawled, drawing ever nearer with calculated steps. "Your husband doesn't deserve to have a body like yours in his bed."
Swallowing hard, my muscles forced themselves into a sickened shiver. He was but an inch from me, and my eyes caught with his freezing ones. I stood stock still, he, much taller than I, towered over me, pinning me back against the wall, between him and the bed.
And despite how afraid I was, I was angry too.
"I'm sure I could find some other, far more interesting uses for you than simply answering questions." A hand, tanned and oddly smooth ran lightly along my cheek, eyes the colour of pepper baring down onto mine.
Sickened, I slapped his hand away, and only realised what I had done, after I did it.
Obviously he wasn't one to take direct force lightly. It happened fast, and before I knew what he was doing, my back hit the wall, cracking hard against the marks left by the whip and I whimpered in agony. A rough hand tangled in my hair, forcing my head back to meet his gaze, his knee parted my legs, free hand flat against the wall beside my head.
There was no faint sneering smile now, it had been replaced with a dark look, lust filled, arrogant snarl. "I can do so much worse to you than Gareth ever could." He hissed at me, and I whimpered as the grip on my hair became tighter. I pulled uselessly at his wrist. "You are a fool for resisting."
I could feel his breath, hot and humid against my face, he slid his free palm up my waist, thumb brushing across the swell of my breast and I whimpered again, his face so close to mine, eyelids lowered and dark, hateful.
"Let go of me!" I wailed.
Why was this happening? Did God have no mercy for me? Must everything that happens to me be against my will? I wish, for once, something would go as I hoped it would.
Pulling uselessly at his arm clutching my hair, I looked at him pleadingly, begging God for help. Tears poured their way down my face, I struggled, trying to twist my waist out from underneath the man, but his grip was too strong, and I was trapped.
Again. Curse me, for I am far too weak for this. At least if I go down, I will do it fighting. I can't give up, not this time.
"I'm going to enjoy this." He whispered, dark and heavy against my face.
I clenched my jaw, preparing for the worst, when a loud caw of a bird echoed through the window, startling me. He paid no attention to it.
It was then that a loud, urgent knock rattled on the door when his lips were but a hair's breadth from mine, and he frowned.
"Ignore it."
But it refused to be ignored, and the knocking continued until the door was swung open, and a very disorientated guard tumbled into the room.
"Ugh, what is it?" He spat, tearing his head from mine.
The guard bowed down low, his forehead touching the floor, muffling his hurried ramblings. "My apologies, Mu'ayyad sir, but there is situation urgently in need of your attention."
"Well, out with it!"
The guard flinched. "A m-man has infiltrated the castle, sir. He has already killed fourteen guards, but we can't locate him."
"And? Who is this man?"
"I don't know, sir. He resembles a monk, but how he managed to get inside is a mystery."
That, in it's own way, was my prayers being answered. I didn't need any more information, I knew it was Altair.
The man gripping my hair made a noise of disgust and let go of me, striding quickly over to his desk and drawing out a sword from the left hand side.
His face was set in a deep snarl, eyebrows furrowed, teeth bared. "We will finish this later." He spat at me, then turned to his guard. "Get her back to the cell, and do it quickly. That assassin will rue the day he entered my castle!"
Author's Notes: (1) Sorry, couldn't help but blatantly plug Othello in there again.
Don't worry, things will start to get happier! Thanks for reading!