8/5/11: My dearly beloved readers, I am putting this up right now, at 10:57 AM to let all of you know that I am about halfway done with the next chapter. Please expect an update within a few days. Thank you all :D
A/N: I sincerely apologize for the delay of this chapter, but ehh, well, here is my excuse as to why: I have discovered Dorito Crash Course. Yes, I know, I am pathetic like that, but it's just so much fun watching your XBOX avatar getting their butts kicked by hammers and being sent flying across the screen :) I'm still having some trouble with the Japan levels...
I'll try NOT to become addicted to it and to update sooner for my next chapter.
...but no promises ;)
And for those of you who are whimpering for some sexy-time between Altair and Maria: Sorry, but you're going to have to wait... You'll see what I'm planning...heheheh... -evil laugh- But I'm glad that people enjoy the cuteness between Altair and Maria; your reviews are very encouraging and I appreciate it! And also a special thanks to Maki-San for helping me out with the Spanish translations- you're my hero!
All original characters belong to Ubisoft, everyone else is mine.
"Get him to the infirmary." Malik's voice pierced through Hildegard's and Benjamin's—as well as the entire Rose's—reverie. He stood and motioned for the small team of Assassin's. "Carry him carefully, Brothers." Malik began barking orders this way and that, ordering that the infirmary be closed off to the novices, for someone to find and crush herbs down, for fresh towels and blankets, and for someone to ready Asiya's medical instruments.
The Assassin fortress was a flurry of scrambling men in a matter of seconds.
He spared a glance at Hildegard, and a corner of his mouth turned down. The woman was still on the floor, her hands to her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks, one by one. One look at her companions told him that they were just as traumatized as she was; the big Arab and what Malik presumed to be his younger sibling were frozen to the spot, the German woman was white in the face, and Benjamin—
He couldn't care less about Benjamin. Who he did have concern for however, was the woman on her knees with heaving shoulders. With his only arm, he tightened it about her waist and pulled her to her feet as if she was made of glass. When her teary eyes met his, he swallowed and whispered to her, "Come." He held onto her arm as he led her to the infirmary, occasionally having to slow his pace down to match her shaky gait and uneven steps.
Malik frowned as he felt a dreadful, icy pressure that continued to grow on his person. He turned his head as he was about to enter the infirmary, just in time to see the dark, threatening glower of the colossal Arab man. Malik raised a bored eyebrow at the man, causing his glare to intensify. Malik turned his eyes down to the person in the man's arms. The Assassin couldn't help but to smirk as Aden held onto an unconscious Zaina.
Malik paused as Hildegard stumbled over her feet. He glanced at the woman in his arm, then back at Aden. The other man's muscles coiled together as Malik's lips twitched in pure amusement, then turned into a challenging sneer. The monument of a man looked as if steam was shooting out of his ears—a feat that Malik would have applauded to gain a response—if he had two hands, of course. Aden shook his head at the man before turning away with his sister cradled in his arms, as if she was a precious work of art.
Snorting and rolling his eyes, Malik urged Hildegard on into the infirmary. His Brothers were already there, gently placing the body on one of the tables. Asiya, to Hildegard's surprise, wasted no time in shoving her large build forward, clicking her tongue and shooing away the scout team.
Malik's arm fell limp at his side as Hildegard pushed past the scrambling Assassin's. She rolled her sleeves up and followed suit as Asiya dunked her hands in a basin of wine. The healer's face contorted as she recognized the blonde, European woman. She eyed Hildegard up and down, muttering incoherencies beneath her breath. Sighing, Asiya slackened her shoulders and marched over to the body.
With a gentleness Hildegard and Malik did not think possible from the brutish woman, Asiya removed the few scraps of clothing from the boy. The three of them gasped and cringed from the damage; Hildegard covered her mouth and bit her bottom lip.
Damiel's dirt-, blood-, and sweat-covered skin was dotted with punctures. The holes ran across his entire front, and Hildegard could only guess that his backside was the same. Large, circular imprints lined themselves in an unnerving, straight line down his chest and to his navel and the area between his legs. The brand on his penis was purpled and swollen with fresh scabs here and there.
His arms, so bony and thin, had the flesh wrangled and torn at with what appeared to be—
Hildegard swallowed the bile building up at her throat. Stitches. There were stitches running in zigzags over his arms. Cruel, harsh stitches woven together with hair-thin wire that pulled at the flesh, making any sudden movement rip the skin in two.
Asiya shoved damp towels in Hildegard's and Malik's faces, motioning toward the boy. "Gently clean body." The healer gathered the herbs on a nearby stool and threw them into the mortar. The salves that the scout team quickly made would not nearly be enough for the gruesome task ahead.
Hildegard nodded and brought the cloth to Damiel's arm. The rag went flying across the room and hit the floor with a soggy thud when an arm shot out and held onto Hildegard's wrist with a firm, deathlike grip. Hildegard didn't even have time to gasp as Damiel's eyes sprung open.
He stared wide-eyed at Hildegard. Not even the slightest bit of recognition touched his face as he glared at her with impossible brutality.
Hildegard squeaked and motioned for Malik and Asiya to stop as they hurried over to her. With her free hand, she rubbed it against the one suspending her wrist. The corners of his eyes wrinkled from the kind gesture—the first he'd seen in over a month of never-ending torture. His grip loosened, and she brought his hand to her face.
"You're safe now," Hildegard whispered into his palm, "Damiel idiot. You're safe, you little fool."
Still no recollection crossed his mind. He licked his cracked lips and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Hildegard nodded in sympathy and traced circles on his palm with her thumb. A croak, then a cough, escaped his lips as he struggled to form words. A sentence, so faint and soft, tumbled from his mouth. His lower lip quivered in irritation as he tried again for Hildegard to hear him.
"Padre, haz que termine, haz que todo se detenga," he breathed out just loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Hildegard creased her brow and looked over her shoulder at the other two present in the room. They shook their heads, not understanding the boy either.
Damiel's eyes widened, his irises almost consuming his pupils. Hildegard was just about to soothe the boy and calm his nerves, but his hand on her cheek latched around her throat. Malik was at Hildegard's side in an instant, but again, the woman halted him.
Damiel's eyes slanted into two angry slits, and the vein in his forehead protruded forward. "Llevate lejos el dolor—duele, Padre!" he cried out.
For a moment, his hand clenched and unclenched, then went slack as it fell back onto the table. Hildegard took a step back, her hand at her neck.
"We need to restrain him," Malik said as he unwound a bolt of cloth. "He's too unstable to trust."
Hildegard shot a glare at the man. "No," she countered. "No, we will not do anything of the sort." Malik gave her a look that questioned her sanity. "Does he look like he needs more mistreatment? Or are you blind to the cuts and scars all over his body?" She didn't wait for an answer as she continued, "No, what he needs is trust right now, and binding him won't do him any good."
"It will do us good though," Malik deadpanned. "I hardly think risking our own health is worth—"
"And I hardly think that you comprehend how important this boy is," Hildegard finalized with a clipped tone. She shook her head and grabbed another wet cloth. She pressed her lips together as another scream tore through the air.
"Dios mio, haz que se detenga! Sus manos, me lastiman! Cúbreme ya con el beso de la muerta, Padre!"
Malik's brow twitched, and Hildegard's face paled as they continued cleaning the wounds.
"They travel all over," Damiel whimpered, tossing his head to the side, "hurting everything they find… duele, Padre… Oh, Padre, duele demasiado."
"Damiel?" Hildegard whispered as she dabbed his face. "Damiel, what's hurting you?"
He was silent for several moments before groaning out, "The nails… in the box, everywhere… scraping—the heat. It burns. Padre, it's burning me. It finds its way into my skin, enroscándose y azuzando… Blood. Everywhere. Mi sangre."
Malik stopped and stared at the boy. His face, now clean, was youthful but drained of any form of spark or life. His eyes were sunken and cheeks hollow, but underneath his fatigue and stress was a boy no older than twenty years. If he was still alive, if that veteran didn't slice the life from him, he'd be near this boy's age. Malik gritted his teeth.
"The voice does not soothe," Damiel whispered, "it promises more pain." He turned his head so that his dull eyes bored into Hildegard's. "More pain?" he asked with uncertainty dancing in his eyes. His lips trembled as his eyes watered.
"No, Damiel, there won't be more pain—"
"Sí," he nodded, "necesito más dolor. Necesito muerte." His head rolled to the side so that he could see Malik. The Assassin felt his entire body, bones and all, freeze when the boy's eyes fell on him. The face he held was terrifying; it was as if he was searching for an answer that Malik held. "I kept her safe, Padre." Damiel cracked a small smile, lazy tears falling from his eyes.
Malik swallowed.
"Ella está a salvo," he sighed. A devious, wicked, but yet happy smile stretched across his dry lips. "But I am dead," he announced, looking back and forth between Hildegard and Malik. Damiel frowned. "I am dead," he assured himself, blinking at Malik for confirmation. "Estoy muerto, sí?"
They both mouthed the word 'no'. Damiel's face fell. His eyes found the cloths tending to his wounds. His gaze settled on a crusty gash near his knee. His face first twisted in horror, his neck becoming taut, then shifted into confusion, and from there, into understanding. His weak muscles relaxed, and his body emitted a strange calmness that startled his two caretakers. His eyes crinkled at the corners again, and a compassionate grin graced his face.
It was as if he was trying to comfort them. "It laughs," he declared. His eyes twinkled as if he knew a secret that could change mankind—a forbidden yet comforting secret. "It laughs," he repeated, nodding his head at Malik. "It laughs—lindo—and gleams in the darkness. And then," he sighed, "then it is inside me. Everywhere. Los dientes del demonio muerden mi carne.
"His hands," Damiel continued, "his hands. The creation of the Cruz destroys me." His fingers dug into his palm, opening one of the cuts and drawing a bit of blood. Using the blood as paint and his finger as a brush, he drew on the wooden table, his full attention still on Malik. "I am being pulled in different directions—diferentes caminos.
"Padre, por qué tus garras no lo terminan todo?"
Malik wasn't certain what was more unsettling: the fact that this poor excuse for a living being had lost every speck of sanity in his brain, or that he was drawing a symbol stitched on every banner in Masyaf's fortress.
Maria frowned in her sleep and swatted a lazy hand at her side. There was a faint tingling and prickling coming from the back of her head. Caught in the poisonous gases of the 'I'm-Just-Waking-Up-Leave-Me-Alone-For-Ten-Minutes' Disease, she mumbled and pressed herself further into the solid warmth behind her. No, 'warm' wasn't the right word to use.
It was more than that. It was the feeling of cleaning every inch of her body and soothing her pulled, worn, and aching muscles in a hot and steaming tub, and then collapsing in a bed adorned with fresh blankets. From the back of her mind, she recalled how Benjamin would have the Devil's time trying to even get her out of bed whenever she wanted to indulge herself with luxuries. Oh, the poor man. How she drove him to the point of dumping icy water on her.
She smiled and hummed as she felt something brush against her neck, then caress her jaw. She moaned when it tapped against her cheek, and then drummed itself against her chin. She pouted her lips when something touched them. She wrinkled her nose and—
Croak.
Maria opened one eye, then the other as she came face to face with a—
"It's been staring at you for the past three hours."
Her breath caught in her throat from the voice behind her. Unconsciously, her muscles readied themselves to send a punch or two. Just when she was going to let her fist fly, she closed her eyes and sighed, remembering who it was. Maria heard a chuckle and rolled her eyes beneath their lids.
She glanced at the hand resting on her jaw, smirking from the thumb running over her bottom lip. She cringed when she felt another prickle, this time near her scalp. She turned over to look at the man behind her, unbeknownst to the fact that due to the action, she crushed his hand with supreme effectiveness.
She blinked at him, and he blinked back with a knowing glint in his eyes. With her brow furrowing, she sat up and turned her head over her shoulder. She quirked an eyebrow at him when she saw the few strands of hair knotted around his fingers. She hesitantly ran her fingers back and over her scalp, watching him as he tilted his head to the side.
She didn't find even the beginnings of a snarl.
"How long did it take you?" she asked, knowing how badly tangled it was after she tore the clip from her hair.
"Most of the night," Altair shrugged, stretching his limbs out.
She snorted and gave him a dubious look. "I don't think it takes that long to comb through hair."
"I didn't want to wake you, Maria. If I did, I'd never hear the end of it."
She rolled her eyes then smirked. "You're bloody right you wouldn't have," she chuckled.
He grunted and stood, gathering his weapons and strapping his armor back into place. "It's much like wool," he said to her as he finished buckling his gauntlets.
Maria was still a heap in the blankets, pulling her boots on. "What is?" When she didn't receive an answer, she scoffed, "Are you telling me my hair's itchy and irritating?"
"I never said any such thing, Maria," he replied, his lips twitching in amusement. She didn't seem so amused. "It resembles wool," he mused to himself. Altair untied Hafa's reins from the tree and petted the horse's muzzle. She grumbled a sleepy whinny and pressed her mouth into his palm. "It's thick and warm."
She stared at his back as he adjusted the bridle and saddle, knowing her cheeks were probably flushed pink—damn that man, and damn him for not even looking at her. She clenched her fist and opened her mouth to speak—
Ribbit.
Maria cocked both eyebrows and glanced down at the little creature to her side. Her face softened and she smiled at the animal. "Why didn't you kill it?"
He spared a quick glance at it then turned his attention back to the horse waiting to be pampered. "It didn't do anything wrong." Hearing her move from the blankets, he glanced at her and saw her scoop the animal up in her hands. "If you're disgusted by it—"
"I like frogs," she whispered as she held its trembling body. She placed a kiss on its head, not knowing that Altair was watching her. She recoiled her head when the frog croaked again and wore a smug, human-like expression. It looked like it was puckering its lips out at her. She frowned then walked off to the stream she found the night before.
Kneeling, she eyed the creature one last time. She swore it was giving her suggestive looks. She snorted and shook herself free of the thought. "Disturbing," she muttered as she let the frog hop his merry way into the damp weeds around the stream. Splashing some water on her face, she trudged back to Altair, her arms crossed over her chest.
She'd always thought frogs resembled people in a way; they were complicated and misunderstood creatures. She made it back just in time to see him put the last of their blankets back in the saddlebags. She tilted her head to the side, sizing him up and down.
Altair was a lot like a frog. At first glance, he seemed like a person you wanted nothing to do with and stayed clear of. Even when knowing him, he was still a mystery.
Maria held back a laugh from thinking of the face he'd make if she told him that. He'd just complimented her, after all—at least, she thought having her hair called 'thick and warm' was a compliment. Then again, she could name plenty of things that were 'thick and warm' that weren't too pleasant. There was Benjamin's beard in November (why the sod insisted he let his facial hair grow out, she'd never understand), the fat rolls on several merchants, sticky chainmail during the hottest time of day in the summer, Bayo's breath after drills, and camel droppings (according to Damiel).
She took the loaf of bread and waterskin he offered without a word. She leaned against the tree, nibbling on her breakfast, still pondering over the bizarre and complicated thoughts her mind was capable of harvesting.
She shuddered and held back a gag. Yes, he was definitely similar to a frog.
But she doubted he'd be so forward as to pucker at her. He was too proud to do that. What he would do, though, would be to demonstrate his cunning and ability to persuade her to let him have a taste of the opposite gender, either with his hands, his words, his eyes—
God, not the eyes. She cursed him for having such long lashes—was that fair?—and for possessing such intensity in those hazel pools. She knew she was prone to losing herself in his gaze, and knew that he'd be more than obliged to be her guide as she traveled through his territory.
Oh yes, he'd definitely do that to get on her nerves. It sounded like something he'd do—the bastard always took pleasure in annoying her. Even thinking of him annoying her annoyed her.
She held out the rest of her bread to Hafa. The mare gobbled the food up and smacked her lips against Maria's palm. The woman smiled despite her relationship with the animal, and rubbed the star on her forehead. Hafa nickered and nuzzled her chest.
Maria pulled herself on Hafa's back. She could feel his eyes on her, and soon, he was behind her. She tried telling herself that no, he wasn't angling his face like that so her hair, now 'thick and warm' and flowing in a dark mass over her shoulders and back (she decided to reward him for his hard work), brushed against his cheek. But she knew better. Sighing, she spurred Hafa into a canter, eager to reach the much-detested caravan that day.
"She can be yours, you know," Altair murmured into Maria's ear. Maria looked back at him.
"Who, Hafa?" He nodded, and she couldn't help but to throw her head back and laugh. "Please, don't tell me you're serious—you must be jesting for suggesting such a thing! Have you seen the way this beast looks at me with mischief pouring from her very being? Or were you too distracted by something else?"
Any normal man would have been distracted if the woman of their life didn't give one complaint from having their hands rest on her hips, and Altair was by far a normal man. He frowned and shook his head. "She seems to have taken a liking to you, Maria."
Maria grunted and mussed the mare's mane. "Well, what do you think of that, girl? You fancy being mine?" Hafa bobbed her head and snorted. "You see, Altair? She's in obvious agreement with me, I'd say."
The Assassin sighed at Maria. She turned around so that he could see her triumphant face, but she ended up frowning. She didn't notice the bags under his eyes before or his slumped shoulders. Clicking her tongue, she pulled Hafa to a stop and hopped down from the saddle.
"In the front you get."
He didn't move in the saddle. He tilted his head to the side. "There is no need, Maria—"
"If you fall off the bloody horse," she lilted, "then I'm going to become annoyed with you, and I won't even stop to lug you back into the saddle, and I'll be left to venture into the dangerous caravans all by my annoyed self." She paused then added, "Not to mention, you'd probably drag me with you when you fall off, and I'm in no mood to be thrown to the ground again. You and devil-spawn," she motioned toward Hafa, "have already done a beautiful job with ejecting me from the saddle one too many times."
Altair knew that he could probably conjure up a counter or two to combat her words, but she didn't give him any time, as she pulled him forward in the saddle with strength not found in an everyday lady.
Maria looked pleased with her work and was in the process of hoisting herself up in the saddle, but she had another think coming. Altair, with a handsome smirk on his scarred lips, grabbed and pulled her leg up so that she lost her footing. She gasped as her free leg slipped from the stirrup, and she went tumbling to the ground with a graceless plop.
Maria squawked and dug her fingers into the ground as she kicked out at him. With his reflexes gaining the upper hand, he was quick to lock his hand around her boot, halting her from any other action. She huffed and tried to free her foot, but he wasn't about to let her have her way.
No, it was far too refreshing for him, what with that glare and pout having her light eyes blaze like that. His face, though rugged from a lack of sleep, remained calm beneath his hood as he patted and motioned to the spot behind him in the saddle. Maria clicked an irritable sound with her tongue and grinded her teeth together before yanking her boot from his grasp. Much to her dismay, he didn't go flying out of the saddle.
Typical.
She stood and dusted her bottom off, staring coals and heated irons at the ground. She refused to look at him—she could already imagine what stupid, smug expression he was wearing. Maria shook her head and tutted to herself while she clambered onto the saddle. She graced him with another ugly face, daring him to try another smart move. But again, he was far too witty to spoil her with his antics.
With a face reminiscing that of a tomato, she seethed, "You rump-fed, addlepated foot-licker," as she settled in the saddle.
He didn't even bother turning to look at her as he smoothly replied, "I needed to be sure you were awake while I slept."
She almost boiled over, but bit down the urge to clobber him one over the head. After all, his back was facing her. The plan was already halfway formulated in her head, but, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, he turned his head the slightest degree and gave her another smirk—one that stated he could foretell what underhanded plot she was conspiring against him.
She huffed again, her lips a tight line as she wasted no time in snapping the reins, repeating the action when Hafa whinnied a traitorous chuckle.
"You and the horse," Maria muttered, "you and the bloody, stinky, conniving horse."
Malik groaned as he fought down another wave of nausea. Night was falling, and it'd been hours since they'd tended to the boy. The extent of his injuries was gruesome; more cuts had been found when they turned the boy over on his stomach. It was disgusting to see even more punctures in his flesh, as if he was forced to sit on a chair made of tooth-sized spikes.
Malik had and seen his own share of injuries, what with his arm being amputated three years prior, but never had he thought that sustaining such wounds was even possible. Damiel was either tortured for information or punished for a wrongdoing, though Malik suspected the former. And Malik knew that even as Assassin's, torture was a necessity when dealing with traitors or captured Templar scouts.
But now, after hearing the nonsense and blubbers that spewed from that poor soul's lips, he was having second thoughts. Could physical pain amount to such mental damage? And what of the information that he was tortured for—did he confess or did he keep his mouth closed? And what did his tormentors even want with him?
Malik shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He cringed as more of the boy's sporadic cries rang out from the infirmary. Even in Altair's study, he could still hear them. He screamed for someone to help him, for his sire, and for that dragon-woman.
Maria.
He screeched and cried her name out as if his life depended on it. It terrified Malik to witness the vulnerability and fragility a person could be diminished to. To think that the boy would put so much faith and trust in one person to save him from his darkest moments was heartbreaking.
It was even more so as Malik thought and knew that was what Kadar felt about him. For three years, the one-armed Assassin wondered what thoughts were going through his late brother's mind in his final moments. Was he hoping that Allah would let him in His paradise? For big brother to save him from Death's kiss?
The boy reminded him too much of Kadar. It was too much for the man to handle all in one night, especially when after he, Asiya, and Hildegard finished cleaning and bandaging his torn body, Benjamin had volunteered to watch over the boy for the night.
Sometimes Malik thought that the world was laughing at him. And in a few days' time, Altair and that irksome woman would return, and he'd have to face yet another reminder of what happened that day in Solomon's Temple, though he'd forgiven Altair for his naïve arrogance.
Malik slumped in his chair, reclining his head and closing his eyes. He just wanted the day to end. He rubbed his eyes and stared out the grand window. It'd been hours since he'd last seen hide or tail of Hildegard. The woman immediately excused herself after tending to Damiel, whether to contemplate or to distract herself, he didn't know.
And he didn't care—not in his current state of mind.
Rising from his seat, he sighed as he quietly descended the staircases. His stomach growled as he made his way to the master dining quarter of the fortress, but he was in no mood to eat anything. He'd even let the novices scurry off with his kibbeh without a fuss, and that alone told the boys that there was indeed something amiss in Masyaf. And of course those three bumbling idiots couldn't keep their mouths closed. The entire town knew of the body dragged in from the Kingdom, and it was only a matter of time before his Brothers would start poking about the fortress in search of answers.
Malik exhaled once more and muttered beneath his breath. He was about to head back and retire for the night, but a peculiar scuffling sound and a dim lighting in the dining quarter caught the Assassin's attention.
He stopped and peered into the room, raising an eyebrow at what he saw. The chairs around the table had been moved, and a sheet was now draped across them and the table, creating a makeshift tent. In the tent was a single candle making out the blurry shape of the person beneath the sheet.
Malik padded over and stopped right before the huddled figure. He bent and lifted the sheet up, not the least bit surprised to see who was under it.
Hildegard, with her legs hugged tightly to her chest, peered up at him with dull interest before turning her attention back to the candle.
Malik blinked. "And is this the latest fashion? Hiding underneath a sheet and sulking in a corner?" Expecting one of her flamboyant responses, he was shocked when all she did was shrug. He sighed then motioned for her to move over before inviting himself in.
Her face had an eerie, blue tint to it, and he could only guess that whatever dinner she had, she saw it again shortly afterward.
He leaned back and crossed his legs. "Or is it the newest style to sulk alone?"
"Hmm," she hummed. She glanced at him then looked back at the candle. She sighed, her breath stirring the flame. There was an extended silence between them before Hildegard sighed again. "You don't think he'll… well, he'll… he'll live, right?"
Malik frowned and a corner of his mouth turned downward. No, he didn't like this solemnity from her at all. "We did everything that we could," he carefully said, mindful of the way she was looking at him as if he knew the future. Allah, why was everyone looking at him like that as of late?
She swallowed and rested her chin on her knees. "It makes you wonder what he was feeling when it happened to him."
Malik pursed his lips. "Hildegard—"
"—If he was afraid or willing to go through the pain," she mumbled. "He doesn't have anyone, you know. He's never mentioned any family members to me—maybe he did to Maria, but as far as I know, he's alone." She uttered a grave chuckle before continuing, "It's terrifying to know that you live in a world without any kin, isn't it?"
Malik closed his eyes. "The pain fades over time, but it'll always be there." He turned to look at her. "And you? Have you any family back in Europe?"
"My parents died when I was just a girl—"
"I'm sorry—"
She dismissed his condolences with a horizontal bob of her head. "I have a sister, though, and a—" She interrupted herself, then hissed out, "A brother." Before he could ask, she added, "I'm an aunt, too, and a sister in-law. I suppose I do have family, even if I'm not exactly close-knitted with them."
"A family is still a family," Malik murmured.
"What's it like? Being alone?"
He grunted. "Lonesome."
"I thought it would be," she sighed.
"It's… saddening, if you let yourself think about it for too long. At first, you need to mourn in peace and quiet. You keep pondering over the 'what if's and if you should have done something different. Then, you grow disgusted with yourself for shedding so many tears and being in such a mute state. You start to look for an escape and try to find comfort in company. Eventually, your loss is pushed to the very recesses of your mind.
"But the smallest reminder breaks through your shield like a spear through wet clay, and you find yourself reeling and being smothered by something you could not control. It finds your weakest point, and then does a magnificent job with twisting and ripping the wound further open. It never stops, even if you convince yourself that all the reminders aren't reminders at all."
Malik inhaled a quick breath when he felt her fingers clutch his left sleeve.
"But your reminder is always with you, isn't it?"
He turned his head to stare at the space where an arm should have been. He nodded. "Yes," he whispered. He could see her giving him a sympathetic look from the corner of his eye.
"I tried to rid myself of my reminders," Hildegard said in a soft voice. "I even changed my name," she sadly smiled.
"A person can't change just by altering their title."
She nodded, whispering, "I know, and I've learned that the hard way." She turned her head to him, and different shades of brown locked together. The gaze broke away to look above them as the sheet was pulled back with a swift tug.
A larger man stood staring down at them; a glare was sent to Malik, a soft look gifted to Hildegard, and a furious glance given to her hand on his sleeve.
"The others are looking for you," Aden addressed Hildegard. He offered his hand to her. He resembled a kicked pup when she stood and ignored the gesture. "You can continue your conversation with the cripple at a more convenient time."
Hildegard stepped over Malik and gave the Assassin an apologetic smile before following Aden out of the dining quarter. She didn't see the amused, knowing smirk Malik wore.
"I would appreciate it, Master Aden, if you did not refer to my friends in such a way," she hissed as they made their way through Masyaf's hallways.
"And I would appreciate it if you put more trust in my judgment, Lady Hildegard."
"Judgment," she spat. "And what do you know about judgment?"
His glare turned her blood ice cold. "I could ask you the same, Miss Dove."
Altair bounced up and down in the saddle, his head lolling to either side of his neck. Maria rested her chin on his shoulder. She was proud that she'd found the rockiest, bumpiest path for Hafa to take, but was disappointed that the man in front of her didn't even bat an eyelash from the sudden jerking and bouncing.
Maria dug her heels into Hafa's side and urged the horse to veer to the left. They were close now, and she wanted no mistakes. Even the horse could feel it. Hafa eagerly leapt over a jutting rock and trotted up a slope. If Maria remembered correctly, there were two cliffs leading to the gates of Damascus, and only one of them was navigable by horse, even if it was risky.
The other cliff, well. She'd rather not think about the hooves Hafa would lose trying to trample her way up just to please her riders.
The first sign was the smell. Maria sniffed the air and smelled a mixture of different spices and herbs. Not just that, but someone had dinner being prepared, and though she was all game when it came to thwarting Templar's, perhaps the caravan wasn't all they should loot.
If Hafa's snapping of the twigs and snorting every few seconds didn't alert anyone of their presence, then it'd be Maria's stomach complaining about a lack of food in her system.
The woman sighed and squeezed Altair's shoulder. She didn't expect his right hand to grab her shoulder and pull her so that she was leaning in front of him, and she certainly didn't expect his hidden blade to be pressed against her throat. She gasped, but her surprise quickly transformed into annoyance.
Muttering under her breath from his reflex, she hissed, "Save it for the caravan, won't you?"
He blinked, apparently realizing what he'd just done, and released her. She sat back down in the saddle and flicked her hair over her shoulder. Altair took one whiff of the air then nodded his head in confirmation. Not only did Maria grumble when he took the reins from her, but so did her stomach.
"It's lahmajoun," he explained. "They're cooking lahmajoun."
Maria, not caring about what the food was called but very engrossed with the fact that it was edible and that Altair knew what it was, nodded her head in mock interest. "Yes, well, raid caravan first, eat later."
"We have some dates and bread left—"
"Oh, dear Heavens, no, Altair," Maria tutted. "Dates and bread? Not with this delicious smell." She emphasized her point by inhaling and letting out a contented 'ahh'.
"We don't know where it's been, Maria, and wouldn't it be petty if you were to drop dead after slaying Templar's?"
She glared and was ready to chomp his ear off, but he quieted her with a wave of his hand. They were on top of the cliff and had a perfect vantage point of their surroundings. Disembarking Hafa, they crawled on their bellies to the edge of the cliff. Just below them were the caravans, carts and wagons full of savory spices. The caravans formed a semicircle around the group of men gathered by a fire.
Their speech wasn't coherent from where Altair and Maria were, but Maria could smell their food quite accurately. She stuttered another complaint from the corner of her mouth before looking over at the man beside her.
"Are we going to wait until they're asleep?" she prompted.
He nodded, crossed his arms then rested his head on his wrists. "Yes; we wait." Maria blew a disappointed sigh out before following suit and using her arms as a pillow.
It was a solid plan, if not humdrum, but she thought it was reasonable. When these oafs finally sated their hunger and collapsed in their tents, Altair would use his stealthy Assassin abilities and search through their cargo. And Maria—
And Maria, preferring to do things the old fashioned, honest way by fighting with pride, would be left on the cliff.
Just as this thought processed in her brain her stomach let off another whine. 'Oh, I don't bloody think so.'
Maria shimmied backward and sat on her knees. Altair shook his head and narrowed his eyes. Maria huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "If you think I'm going to sit here for an hour or two smelling that and then wait for your arse to finish poking about their goods, you're mistaken."
"You'll survive, Mar—"
"But luckily for you," she purred, "I have a better plan." She was already crawling back down the cliff when Altair reached over to her and grabbed her arm, forcing her to face him.
"Maria," he growled in warning, "if you go down there—"
"If a woman, seemingly so innocent in appearance and speech, ventures into the camp of men—who have probably not seen a woman for how long, now?—and uses her charm and allure, who's to say they'll even notice the Assassin searching through their belongings, hm?" She tilted her chin in triumph when he was rendered silent for a moment.
His grip on her arm tightened. "There's no telling what they'll do—"
"Oh, please—"
"They could take advantage of y—"
She snatched his chin in her hand and pulled his face close to hers. "And were you not the one who said," she moved his mouth accordingly, "'I'm completely confident in our abilities to handle them'?"
He blinked, stunned that she'd beaten him by his own tactics. One by one, his fingers uncoiled from her arm in defeat. She smiled and scrunched his cheeks together so that his lips jutted out.
Maybe he was one to pucker, after all.
He followed closely behind her as she crawled her way to the caravans.
Maria had full faith in her ability to play the part of the damsel in distress. That is, she had that confidence until she actually walked into the circle of men, smelling like the hindquarters of a mule. She gulped and tried to relax her shoulders into a feminine slant.
It was positively the most pride-tearing moment of her life. In Cyprus, she'd disguised herself as a consort, showing off more flesh than she'd prefer, but there hadn't been nearly as many eyes on her now. Even though she was fully clothed and capable (she'd taken the opportunity to check her boots and bindings for her emergency knives), she felt horribly exposed.
She wished she'd brought along her sword, but that was highly unladylike. She should have paid more attention to her mother's lessons in being a proper woman.
She approached the group of men with her head bent in an incline, peering at them through her lashes. They stood from their places and prowled over to her. She felt every particle of her body buzz in warning from their cautious postures. She was a sheep amongst wolves—only, she was a sheep with two good and dangerous weapons in her breast bindings.
And she intended to use them if need be.
Most of the guards stationed at the wagons came over to inspect her as well, leaving only a few of them for Altair to handle. The side of her face tingled, and she knew that Altair was keeping a close eye on her as he used the shadows to his advantage.
"Emra'a," they confirmed once they were close enough to make her out in the dim lighting.
Maria bowed her head and cleared her throat. "Hal tatakallamu alogah alenjleziah?"
They chuckled and glanced to one another. This time, Maria wished they didn't wear turbans, as she wanted to know just what these ill-intenders were thinking. "Na'am," one of them replied. He had the sleeves of his robes rolled to his elbows, revealing two hairy, thick arms. She glanced at his side, eying the sword strapped to his waist.
"Then would one of you fine gentlemen," she internally gagged, "be so kind as to point the way to Damascus?"
Another one, with his headscarf pulled down to reveal his face, rubbed his chin and gave her a dubious smirk. "Damascus? This late in the night?"
Maria nodded. "My horse ran off just an hour ago, and I'm in desperate need of shelter." It sounded like something Hafa would do, and she could only imagine the irked snort the mare would give if she was with her now. She batted her eyelashes at the man, hoping to coax him into believing her.
They circled around her, inspecting every part of her as if she was livestock for sale. "Shelter?" one of them murmured. "That could easily be arranged—for a price, of course." It didn't take an interpreter for a person to know what the man was implying, and Maria wasn't pleased in the least bit.
"I believe I can sum up enough money for you all," Maria blandly said in a dismissive tone. They didn't take it dismissively, though.
"Money? But surely a woman so jameela has more to offer than that?" They shared a knowing chuckle, as if Maria, since she was a woman, had no common sense whatsoever.
She glared at one of them as they ran their fingers through her hair. For a moment, she cursed Altair for tending to it and wished it was still a messy nest. She tensed and swiveled when a hand brushed against her shoulder. She smacked the hand away when it ventured too close to her bosom. The men laughed and threw their heads back in arrogant bliss.
Out of the corner of her eye, Maria could see Altair sorting through each of the carts, but she didn't dare glance his way. She instinctively took a step back when two pairs of hands reached out for her arms. She snarled at the men and hit their questing digits away from her person.
Altair's head snapped up from the wagon he was searching when a shriek filled the air. He ran and leapt over the dead guards' bodies and, without breaking stride, released a throwing knife. The man restraining Maria's arms cried out as the blade sank into his spine. He fell to the dirt in a bloody heap.
Maria withdrew the knife from her boot as Altair pounced on another man and embedded his hidden blade in his throat. Maria made her knife's new home in the side of another's neck. He gurgled and choked on his own blood as he collapsed. She tugged the knife free from his flesh and made to break free of the circle formed around her, but was halted in her progress.
She screamed as her hair was roughly pulled. She lunged behind her with the knife, but was brought to the ground with another swift yank. Dark splotches and stars danced across her vision, and she struggled to see the raised foot coming down on her face. Her mind was yelling at her to move, to roll out of the way, but her body wouldn't budge. She braced herself for the inevitable crunch.
Instead of hearing her skull snap and crumble, she heard a gasp, a grunt, and then a thud. She blinked and turned her head to the side, coming face to face with lifeless eyes.
More thuds sounded around her, each followed by the shink! of the hidden blade. It was only a minute before everything went quiet.
She could just make out the blurry figure crouched beside her. She blinked and stared straight into the sky, unconsciously noting that the sun was almost gone from the world. She groaned and closed her eyes when her head began to pound with strength she wished she had while being attacked.
"Ma…ia? Are… alr… answ… e…" His voice faded in and out of her ringing ears. She moaned and reached up with a hand. She patted his face with her fingertips, stopping her blind fumbling about when her fingers brushed against something wide and curved.
"Big nose," she mumbled. She heard him sigh then felt him try to scoop her up in his arms. She hissed and shooed his arms off her. "Give me a minute—go finish searching the bloody caravans." Maria didn't hear him rise to his feet or his fading footfalls, but instead heard him shift and shuffle about. Opening one eye, she managed to swallow a gasp as he hovered over her.
He straddled her hips and leaned his forehead against hers. His hands were already on either side of her face, his fingers on her temples and behind her neck.
'Don't open your eyes, otherwise it doesn't work.'
All she could see were the backs of her eyelids, but all she could hear was their breathing. He smelled like spices—specifically paprika and mint. She tried to focus on his scent rather than on the aching at the back of her head. God, she could already feel the bruises begin to form—curse that bastard for ripping her hair like that!
A low whistle caught her attention, and she heard the clip-clop of Hafa's hooves. Then, she felt the mare's unmistakable muzzle as it nipped her scalp. Maria smiled despite herself and opened her eyes to see Altair's penetrating gaze. A jolt of fear shot through her body. There was no denying the emotions shining in his eyes. She felt as if she was bare before him—that they were completely and utterly exposed to one another.
She'd only ever seen him look at her like that once before.
And there was no escape for her; he was free to scour each thought flickering in her soul. She saw curiosity, understanding, and then another sentiment that she knew was the most precious thing to him.
And it was also something that she'd be damned to admit to herself.
But luckily, she didn't have to, as Hafa snorted and blew at Altair from a lack of attention. The Assassin lifted his head and gave Hafa a reprimanding glower. The mare grumbled and stamped a hoof on the ground. Altair stood and offered a hand for Maria, and then helped her to her feet.
She grimaced as the roots of her hair tingled. She wobbled for a moment, but steadied herself by grabbing hold of Hafa. The horse nickered and lowered her head for the woman.
"Did you find anything?" Maria grunted once she was sure the mare wouldn't pull any fast moves.
Altair stared at Maria until she locked eyes with him. He wore that vulnerable expression for a few fleeting seconds before it disappeared altogether. "Yes," he answered. She bit her lip as she and Hafa followed him to the carts.
Maria spared a glance at the fire, sighing when she realized that the food the men had prepared was burnt. She'd be having dates and bread for dinner.
"The other teams that we sent here," Altair started as he began rummaging about a wagon, "reported not finding anything of suspicion."
"Were they not thorough enough?"
He nodded. "It seems so." He emptied out the bags and containers of spices on the ground, not caring if they spilled open. Maria watched as the wagon's contents diminished, revealing a small, hidden compartment in the bottom. Altair opened the hatch.
Inside was a stack of letters, as well as a pendant. Maria snatched the necklace and held it up to her face.
"Templar lackeys," she muttered, showing him the symbol. He was too busy going through the papers and only nodded in response. Woman and horse both looked over his shoulder at what intrigued him so.
Altair swiftly pocketed the letters and turned toward Maria. She shrieked and squawked at the man when he suddenly lifted her up and plopped her on Hafa's saddle. The horse wasn't thrilled either as she nibbled on her bit. No sooner was Altair in front of Maria, hands at the reins and snapping them against Hafa's neck.
Maria barely had enough time to cling to him for dear life as Hafa bolted. The woman cursed and held onto him as tightly as she could.
"For the love of my head and hair," she snarled into his ear, "would you slow the damn horse—"
He squeezed her hand in a death-grip around his waist. "We cannot falter in pace, Maria; Masyaf is in danger."
"What? What do you mean 'in danger'?"
"Mashhur," he bit out.
Malik paced back in forth in Masyaf's foyer, sighing every few minutes. Altair and Maria were to return that day and report their findings—if any—at the caravans. The one-armed Assassin paused and flipped through the pages of the worn, tattered book in his hand.
It was Altair's writings, he mused, describing his thoughts and experiences with the Apple. They were interesting thoughts, enough to distract a man from reality's painful bite. He bit the inside of his cheek as he examined small scraps of paper stitched to the binding.
A page had been ripped out, but by Altair or the boy, he didn't know.
Malik shrugged and blinked when the echoing of footsteps reached his ears. He looked up just in time to see the Master storm into the fortress.
Maria's arms creaked and groaned when she unraveled them from Altair's waist. He'd been riding like a madman for two days, not even bothering himself for a blink of sleep, and Maria didn't dare to sleep, either. She didn't want to cause him trouble if she tumbled off the saddle, and she especially didn't want to interrupt his breakneck speed by asking to be in front.
She just sat quietly in the saddle, for once not having her say in the matter at hand, and occasionally gave his hand reassuring squeezes.
He pulled Hafa to a screeching halt at Masyaf's stables. Maria sighed in relief and was too tired to utter a complaint when he leapt off the saddle and started at a brisk walk—
'Why's the oaf walking?' She rolled her eyes and slowly lowered herself from the saddle. 'First he wants to break Hafa's legs with an impossible speed, now he wants to strut his weight around? Ridiculous man.'
Maria was greeted by three familiar faces. She inclined her head in greeting to the novices as they unstrapped the saddlebags from Hafa. Maria swore she heard the mare sigh, and no sooner was the horse being led to a water trough that Maria herself was ushered to the fortress.
"You must be exhausted," Mustafa commented as he watched her slowly trudge her way up Masyaf's slopes.
She made a sound from the back of her throat and continued her pitiful hobble. "And now that man's having me walk up a bloody mountain," she grunted to herself. Mustafa offered her his arm, but she shook her head. What she needed was someone to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way.
With a lack of the right words to say to comfort her, Mustafa resorted to his usual responses: he chuckled. He saw the ghost of a smile touch her lips.
When Maria finally made it up to the fortress with an ever-faithful Mustafa staying by her side, she felt like some ninety-year old woman in need of a cane. Or even two canes. She successfully made it through the courtyard with every novice stopping their training to gawk at the woman who looked like she'd just rolled through the dirt, been through a sandstorm, just ran miles without stopping, and then decided to roll in some more dirt.
The first things Maria saw were Altair and Malik speaking in hushed tones at the base of the stairs that led to the study. The next were two furry faces. She smiled as Bayo and Belle came bounding toward her. She raised her hand, and they immediately sat at her feet. She pet and scratched them behind their ears, finding those few places that made their feet thump.
The two hounds sat quietly as Maria accepted the cup of water Mustafa handed her.
"Altair, there have been some occurrences while you were dispatched," Malik began, glancing at Maria.
Altair shook his head. "Malik, there's much that I need to tell you and even more action that we must—"
"It requires her full attention," Malik interrupted. Altair arched an eyebrow at this. Malik sighed and cleared his throat. Maria turned her head in his direction, but then her eyes flicked down toward what was in his hand. Almost at the same time, Altair noticed the book, as well.
"That's…" Altair's eyes widened in surprise from what he was seeing. Malik swallowed and could only watch as recognition, then confusion, and then finally, horror, flashed across Maria's face. Her jaw fell slack and she stared Malik down for an answer.
Again, it was that same look, as if he had all the answers and knew just what to do. Malik felt his stomach twist in a knot. Her cup of water slipped through her fingers and shattered on the floor, startling the two dogs. "He's in the infirmary—go," Malik strained. He averted his gaze as the woman, forgetting her fatigue and pain, belted out of the foyer, followed by Mustafa.
Altair made to stop her, but Malik shook his head. "Leave her be, Altair. She'll need your comfort later." Malik motioned to the stairwell, and both men made their way to the study.
"Malik, what—"
"Do you remember the boy Hildegard told us about at dinner that one time? The one who was brought into slavery?"
Altair frowned, then said, "Yes, I recall that—"
"Well," Malik sighed as he set the book on Altair's desk, "it appears that a scout team found this," he gestured toward the book, "on his person in the Kingdom. No, I don't know what he was doing out there or why he even had it to begin with, but…"
Altair placed a hand on his good shoulder.
Malik swiveled his head back and forth and set his mouth in a firm line. "He's in horrible condition, Altair—the worst I've ever seen."
"And Maria—"
"Is probably witnessing the damage as we speak." Malik sat down in a chair and rubbed his forehead. He looked worse than Altair did.
The Master of Assassin's wanted to leave that study far behind and be at her side. He wanted to leap to his feet and warn her before she saw the boy-do anything that would help with the pain she'd experience. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the soft groans come from the man in front of him. Altair sat beside him and squeezed Malik's arm, pushing thoughts of Maria aside for the moment. "I'm sorry that I wasn't here when it happened, Brother."
Malik scoffed and shook his head. "I'm not the one who will be needing the apologies and kind words, you idiot."
"And I'm afraid she's going to have to wait a while longer until I can be of assistance." He pulled out the letters found at the caravan from the pouches strapped to his waistband and set them on the desk. Malik picked his head up, leaned over, and browsed through them.
"We've been betrayed, Malik," Altair said loud enough for only them to hear.
Malik scoffed and furrowed his brow, not liking the fact that the week just became even more dreadful than it already was. "And by a novice," he muttered as he leafed through the pages. "Interesting. Interesting, but pitiful." An ominous, eerie grin slowly stretched across the former Rafik's face. "There's some good news in this, I believe, however unimpressive it may be. That's one less pair of grubby fingers stealing my kibbeh."
The two Assassin's took strange comfort in the sad, cold chuckle they shared.
Translations:
Spanish:
Padre, haz que termine, haz que todo se detenga. = Father, make it end, make it all stop.
Llevate lejos el dolor—duele, Padre! = Take the pain away—it hurts, Father!
Dios mio, haz que se detenga! Sus manos, me lastiman! Cúbreme ya con el beso de la muerta, Padre! = Dear God, make it stop! His hands, they hurt! Blanket me with the kiss of death already, Father!
… duele, Padre… Oh, Padre, duele demasiado. = … it hurts, Father… Oh, Father, it hurts so much.
enroscándose y azuzando = twisting and prodding
Mi sangre. = My blood.
necesito más dolor. Necesito muerte. = need more pain. Need death.
Ella está a salvo. = She is safe.
Estoy muerto, sí? = I am dead, yes?
Lindo = pretty
Los dientes del demonio muerden mi carne. = The Devil's teeth bite at my flesh.
Diferentes caminos = different paths
Padre, por qué tus garras no lo terminan todo? = Father, why won't your talons end it all?
Food:
Lahmajoun: a Middle-Eastern food, very similar to pizza, but also quite different and much healthier (it's full of spices, which is why I found it fitting for the caravans)
Arabic:
Emra'a = woman
Hal tatakallamu alogah alenjleziah? = Do you speak English?
Na'am = Yes
Jameela = beautiful
...I've come to realize that any Hildegard/Malik scene is very easy to write. And also makes me cry.