Hello owo, for those who are reading, if you see any problems in my grammar or you see contradictions in my writing, please tell me. I'm not very good with English and I want to also try to make this merge with history that makes sense. Before Saladin controlled Syria, Nur ad-Din was its ruler and both practice religious tolerance. So there did exist Christians within the cities. Also, this was the time the emigration of Gypsies moving throughout the middle east occurred as well.

The sky was in its transition, ready to change from night to morning, dawn. Not yet had the grand sun rose into the sky, still just behind the horizon waiting for his time. I was kneeling on the floor, my hands were placed palms-down on my lap. Mommy hummed a slow but warm tune to herself as she brushed my hair. My hair was quite a character, mother would say. It would cling and knot, refusing to give way to the stroke of a comb. I would pull my hair at night, trying to part the tangles, the conflict and would just let it be. But my mother was patient. Slowly did she bring the brush upon my head and unraveled the dark mess I claimed as hair. Never once would I complain that momma was pulling on my hair too hard, because she never did. She brushed my hair and it smoothed out like magic. I wrap my hijab around my head, covering my hair with the dark gray cloth. I tuck the ends in just to be secure. I then ran to join Zahra and the other girls sitting by the corner. We were getting ready for our prayers. Mother went to place the mats on the floor with the other women.

'We are to accept our neighbors regardless of their beliefs', mother had said. Yet I hear the gossiping, the quiet murmurs and looks Zahra gets. I look at her, concerned, but she only smiles. Her grey eyes sad, but determined. They gave away her origins. Her mother was a Christian woman, a woman of bright blue eyes and hair golden like the sand. Zahra took after her mother and father, silver eyes and dark hair. She was half European but she followed Islam because of her father. I've always thought her as beautiful, even with the hijab covering her hair – her eyes were so piercing. Her mother did not join us in prayer.' She was under the course of the moon, so she couldn't pray anyways' Zahra said. 'Don't worry Asra, they only whisper out of curiosity, Zahra always sounded so confident in her words 'All they have to do is talk to me and they'll know I am no different from them!'

Sure enough, when her intentions were clear, there was nothing to be afraid of. There was just a room of little children laughing and talking of what they wanted to do today, the things they wanted to see or get. Buckets lay in front of us and we took turns washing our hands and feet while being careful not to get our clothing too wet. Mother comes and quiets us down; I hear the bell of the mosque ring. Men prayed at the mosque, and the women at home. All of us get up from the ground and stand by the mat, lining up. We face the window which opened towards the shrine in Mecca, Kabah. I looked at my feet, hands to my chest as I listened for the opening prayer: takbiirah.

Allahu Akbar, prayers had started. Before the dawn, we were to perform two units of prayer.

The first rakah was spoken and in reply we kneel:

Subaana rabiyya-al-a'iim three times spoken, and we stand.

The body of a dying soldier falls in front of me. His eyes empty, his throat ripped open with parts of his flesh just barely attached to the side of his neck.

A nudge, a shake, a shove and I jolt into reality. I blink my eyes rapidly, trying to pull them open without actually touching them with my hands. My fingernails were caked with dirt and sand. Another little girl had gotten sand in her eyes from rubbing too hard and would have been infected had Janan not cleaned it out for her. Janan was the woman who helped me walk that night. I sigh, barely a sound emitted as my throat was too dry. Not even my good memories could be re-lived without the reminder of that man. Bakr too…I shake my head, wanting to forget but I couldn't. The image existed when my eyes were open or closed, and my dreams were stained with the same person dead and bleeding. I stare blankly at the ground. Dust and dirt clung to my dress and shoes. My lips, cracked. The cut I had received scabbed, the blood still caked on the side of my mouth.

There were other children around me. They all sat in the wagon still, their legs aching from the same crunched up positions they had been sitting in. I sat in silence, listening to some of the conversations that would come up from time to time.

"No guards, kidnappers do what they please where I live"

"One of my sisters was taken a year ago."

"My father was taken by war, my mother the plague."

It was noon and the 'traders' had stopped to wait out the sun. The boxes which obstructed the opening of the wagon were removed. Who would dare try to escape, with the desert surrounding us on all sides? There was crying and I glance up absentmindedly. I turn my head to look out of the wagon. In the distance, a boy was on his knees, Janan was wrapping a splint between the joint of his elbow. There was a blotch across the side of his arm, a bruise of purple and red. One of the men who were driving the wagon walked towards them. Janan stood over the boy. I wasn't paying much attention, I watched them converse. But it got louder. It looked like she was trying to reason with him. I glance around and realize the other children were sitting and watching. We were silent, now.

"It is only a sprain," Janan looked up at the man; my attention was now on her. She was between the boy and a sword that the man held in his hand. The slaver grabbed her by her collar and shoved her to the side. With a swing, the weapon cut right through the boy and he no longer cried. Janan flinched back in fear as the man feigned a swing at her, then he laughed as he spat on the ground, heading back into his tent. Janan pulled herself up from the ground and walked towards us.

"What happened, Janan?" one of the girls asked. She had reddish brown hair and green eyes. She was one of the girls from the non-Muslim community. Damascus allowed people of all religions to live in its walls.

"We are almost at the next town," Janan shook her head, "the boy got too close to the horses, they stepped on his arm. The man considered him deadweight"

"And yet…" Janan whispered to herself. "We are so close."

"So close to what Janan?" another girl asked. Janan only smiled. I wondered what she meant as well. It has been well over a week or so of traveling. There was only one time the bandits had stopped and it was to add a second group of men, a second wagon. I found it strange, as we were only children, ones the men had randomly taken from the streets – some with no family to their name. We were expendable, just as the boy who lay dead outside. No longer could he be seen, the wooden boxes and supplies once again covered the opening. Janan sat with us again. She was not with us the other night, and we were afraid she had been sold or killed. But she came back today and no one else thought anymore of it. The wagon had started to move, each bump from hitting stones and uneven ground made us bump into the walls. Everyone listened to the hooves of the horses and the turning of the wheels.

"Feel that?" a brunette spoke, after a few hours had passed.

"What?" one of the boys asked.

"Exactly. We must be headed towards a big city,"

"How do you know?" I looked at the girl sitting in front of me. She was older than me by a few years, She had an old scar that ran across her cheek that was so covered in grime I could no longer see it now. Sabina was her name.

"I've traveled lot with my parents. We were nomadics ya' know? I could feel the difference between traveling on well paved roads and roads with just shit and dirt" her eyes looked at me; a small smile appeared on her face as she appeared proud of knowing something she could share. Only one side of her face had a dimple when she did, smirking.

The wagon slowed to a stop.

"Halt and state your business," A voice said. Everyone in the wagon quickly quieted.

"What is this? We are not even at the entrance to your city and you stop us?"

"We are taking precautions"

"Of what? We have done nothing wrong."

"We have not accused you of anything, we ar-"

"We just wanted to make sure you weren't Mongols trying to sack the city, isn't that right?" Another voice spoke up, with a hint of amusement trailing behind. If his comment was supposed to be a joke, it certainly did not impress our captor very much.

"Do the words coming out of my mouth sound Mongolic to you?!" The slaver replied, his temper rising. Swords were drawn, there was a yell. Crimson red suddenly cloaked the side of the wagon cover and brought forth our screams from inside the wagon. We tried to keep ourselves below the walls made of wood as the sound of metal clashing and screaming came from outside. I covered my head with my hands, my heart quickening in beats as I prayed that no weapon would cut through the wagon's cloth cover and cut any of us. I knew it wasn't acceptable to pray when unclean but I couldn't help it.

The fighting was stopped as quickly as it had escalated. I looked at Sabina, she looked at me, her eyes wide from fear, but there was curiosity as well – what had happened? Just as Janan stood up, a sword cut through the fabric of wooden wagon. It almost looked as if it would cut the woman right in the torso, but it stopped.

"Only you think this to be funny, Assassin." Janan scoffed. Sabina and I share glances again. What was happening?