Guess who's back? :D ME! -cough- because Assassin Aisha kicked my butt back into gear -cough- ANYWAY. Sorry for the delay for this chapter. Writer's block, life, problems, Dorito Crash Course still owning me... T_T I WILL BEAT YOU, JAPAN!
Hem. Eheh. Please enjoy this chapter! And hey, you people like my writing? Well guess what? I happen to be the editor of a fabulous writer. Perhaps you know of her? Heard her name while passing through a hall of celebrities? Eavesdropped on the discussions of her latest magazine articles? No? WELL. I strongly urge all of you to check out Fate Likes Fools' stories, The Confidant, The Confessor, and her newly published story, Talons of a King. She's one of the few authors in the Assassin's Creed fanfiction world that I stalk with a complete set of shades and trench coat.
All original characters belong to Ubisoft, everyone else is mine.
It rocked through her body, rising and falling like the tides of the ocean. Swelling up, then dying back down in a promising, potential bubbling. A swallow to hold it down, but only resulting in more pressure pushing up. Another attempt to keep it from spilling over, to no avail. Each gulp to keep it down only brought forward another violent heave—wanting and needing to escape that fleshy prison.
And then it came out.
Maria clutched the table with a white-knuckled grip and doubled over the bowl. She spat and hurled into the bowl, not caring that it'd be forever ruined. Long strands of bile hung from her mouth before joining the rest of the vomit. She closed her eyes as another wave of nausea wracked her body, and soon, she was hacking more of her stomach's contents into the bowl.
A cry escaped from the back of her throat, and she wiped her forehead, now beaded with sweat. It sounded pathetic and pitiful to her ears. Her stomach still flopping around and threatening to empty itself again, she bit her lip and sank to the floor, not caring that she almost tipped the bowl off the table.
She hugged her legs to her chest and groaned into her knees. Saliva still trickled from the corner of her mouth, and before she even had the time to think of finding a new bowl, her clothes were soiled with her puke. Some sadistic, humorous part of her mind mused over the fact that she should be grateful that Altair hadn't allowed her any time to eat on their ride back to Masyaf.
But that part of her mind was only a whisper amongst the raging screams and wails of her more sensitive thoughts.
Her nails dug into her calves as she shook once more. She didn't care that she smelled like a homeless urchin or that more of that foul liquid was still spewing from her lips. She crossed her ankles and dug the heel of one of her boots into the toe of the other. The pain wasn't enough to distract her from what she saw as she threw open the doors to the infirmary just minutes ago.
A body, so frail and devoid of energy, lied limp in the small cot, its breathing so shallow that for a moment she thought him to be dead. Bandages, dotted and streaked with blood, wound around his fragile frame, almost covering him completely. Hair so overgrown and matted with God knew what trailed down to his shoulders, accentuating how hollow his cheeks were and how white his normally olive skin was.
Maria's shoulders heaved as she tried to muffle her cries in her knees. The soggy fabric of her trousers didn't comfort her in any way; if anything, they added just a bit more sorrow to her delicate state, even though it was her own fault that they were wet.
Her fault…
Her eyes screwed shut. It was all her fault…
From out of the depths of her bleary mind, she could hear the soft echoing of footsteps against the stone floor becoming louder and more urgent as they neared her. A hand fell on her shoulder and another tilted her chin up. She opened her eyes and blinked, trying to focus on the man kneeling in front of her. Splotches and blurred colors swam in front of her; it seemed as if she was floating in and out of the room. With everything seeming so far away and a headache promising to make itself known, she did what anyone in her situation would have done: she closed her eyes.
And then slumped forward into the warm embrace of the retired soldier in front of her.
Summoned from the post, Mashhur stood in front of the Master's desk, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited to be addressed.
Why he even bothered to be polite, he didn't know. He didn't appreciate the sudden summoning from his station at the post, and he certainly didn't appreciate it when his so-called colleagues merely shrugged and smiled like the fools they were when he complained about the reason for the disturbance.
Stock supplies.
Apparently, the other Assassin's at the post were far too busy with their own pressing matters to take a quick inventory on their supplies and report to the Master with anything they require. Thus, Mashhur was the lucky soul who had to bake underneath the glaring sun—even with his hood on, he still felt the beads of sweat dripping down his neck—travel up the ridiculous mountain known as Masyaf, and bore himself to invisible tears while he waited to be acknowledged. Were he with Tagvoryan and the Templar's in Armenia, he knew he'd be sipping the sweetest of wine from a gold-rimmed goblet with women wearing arousing silks draped across his lap.
But no, he was stuck in this prison.
And on top of that, he stubbed his toe on a book that was conveniently discarded by some brain-dead Assassin in the foyer's library. The pulsing in his big toe was mind-boggling, and he had to hold down the urge to rub the bruised flesh.
Not that any of these men would care about a stubbed toe.
Swallowing back another gulp of boredom, Mashhur watched as the Master and Malik sat at the study, picking at a bowl of falafel between them as they went over several letters and documents. The day had been uneventful as usual for the novice, what with the Master's calm, casual, and not to mention fruitless return from the caravan, and now the sight of these two goons bobbing their heads up and down in agreement, murmuring to each other and gesturing to the papers, was reason enough to jump off the cliffs of Masyaf just to end the prolonged torture.
He shuffled his feet for a lack of something better to do and glanced around him. The study was more crowded than usual, though he couldn't say he knew the average population in the Master's office. Assassin's were leafing through books and poking around the shelves, no doubt mesmerized by the texts. Mashhur rolled his eyes. These people were downright absurd! How many times would they have to reread those pointless books before they actually remembered what the pages meant? It disgusted Mashhur almost as much as Mustafa's chuckling repulsed him.
Said chuckling was heard from down in the foyer, though it didn't hold its usual jolly tone. Rather, it sounded distraught. Mashhur was pleased to know this and was even more delighted when that irritable sound died down. Rushed footsteps were heard in the foyer, and then they too trailed off.
Mashhur felt his patience running thin and was afraid that at any moment, he'd snap and tell each of these fools what they should do with themselves. From just one look at the boy, anyone could tell that his temper was close to flaring and that he was nowhere near comfortable, what with his pursed lips, expectant eyebrows, and creased brow. Finally, as if the Master was waiting for the last possible moment to acknowledge him, he motioned him forward.
"Apologies, Mashhur, for making you wait," Altair said. "Malik and I were discussing certain issues." He stacked the papers and handed them to Malik just when Mashhur's eyes wandered over them. The novice inclined his head, not seeing the look Malik shot him.
"I am sure your duties as Grandmaster keep you very busy, Master," Mashhur murmured. He straightened his head and waited for the other man to speak. He seemed to be calculating something, though with his eyes not visible beneath his hood, Mashhur couldn't know what.
Not that he cared.
Altair nodded in agreement and pulled out a blank sheet of parchment. "Indeed. It most certainly is an occupying position, Mashhur. I'm responsible for Masyaf's welfare, the training of my Brothers, and also the Brotherhood's protection." The novice blinked, but before he could reply, Altair pushed the parchment toward him on the desk and offered a quill.
"Now, then," the Master of Assassin's prompted, "as you know, Masyaf's inventory is running low on several items, and since the post is a good mile or two outside of Masyaf, you and the others do not exactly receive the same supplies as the fortress does."
Mashhur restrained the urge to roll his eyes. "We require more tea leaves, incense, and since Nibras isn't aware of the fact that he has a brain, we need two new hookahs."
Altair glanced at Malik. The one-armed man was busy eating a falafel to return the favor. He held out the quill for Mashhur again. "Write the requirements down, Mashhur. As you said, I'm kept very busy, and I'm likely to forget." He watched as Mashhur accepted the quill and hunched over the desk as he scribbled on the parchment.
How much the novice wanted to add to the Master's comment! A snide grin twisted on his lips as the quill ran across the paper. When he was done, Altair took the paper and examined it, as if he'd already forgotten. Mashhur exhaled and bit the inside of his cheek, impatiently waiting to be dismissed.
Altair looked back and forth between Mashhur's list and the other papers on his desk. Craning his neck, Mashhur tried to see what the Master was comparing without seeming too suspicious.
But he should have known better.
Malik closed his eyes and sighed, a small groan coming from his throat. Altair calmly set the papers down and looked Mashhur right in the eye. He tilted his head just enough so that his eyes could be seen beneath his hood.
The novice froze as the man stared death into him. Only his eyes betrayed his anger; his hazel were cold and gleaming with a raging fury, the rest of his face was calm.
Mashhur's palms became slick with sweat, and it had nothing to do with the heat. It was as if this man was searching through his life, trying to find something—a proof—to slay him with.
And he found exactly what he was looking for. The handwriting was the biggest lie ever told: the truth.
Mashhur took two involuntary steps backward, his entire frame trembling as the Master held up the papers that should have been delivered to Damascus weeks ago.
The traitor didn't even have time to shout before those foolish Assassin's rummaging through the library were upon him.
"There," Benjamin sighed, "that should make her more comfortable." He tucked the blankets around Maria. With Hildegard's help, they stripped her of her ruined garments and dressed her in something more relaxing: the blue dress Asiya had bullied her into wearing for dinner weeks ago.
Hildegard nodded and brushed a stray strand of hair from Maria's forehead. "We should have warned her, Benjamin." Glancing at the cot across from Maria's, Hildegard frowned and sat on the edge of Maria's bed. "What a way to be welcomed back from a mission," Hildegard mused. "Seeing the person whose current mauled state is your fault."
Benjamin followed Hildegard's gaze and crossed his arms. Damiel still had a sickly tint to his face, being the only skin visible. The boy still had the occasional bouts of whimpering and crying, though Benjamin wasn't surprised at all. He could only imagine what horrors were tearing at him in his nightmares, and he didn't even want to imagine, as selfish as it was. The veteran shook his head and placed a reassuring hand on Hildegard's shoulder.
"Now, there's no need to add to the sorrow, Hildegard. Our situation is already quite depressing, and we don't need any more horrifying thoughts and accusations." He squeezed her shoulder and sat beside her, letting her lean against him. "He's a strong boy, Hildegard. He'll pull through," he murmured into her hair, more as reassurance for himself. "He'll pull through."
Taking her hand, the veteran led her out of the infirmary. Even though he and Hildegard were the ones closest to Damiel and Maria, the rest of the Rose deserved comfort just as well. Benjamin sighed as he thought of how many times Zaina must have fainted.
Mustafa watched as they left while shifting in his chair and sitting in pretzel-style. He peered over at Maria, chuckling as she made small sounds in her sleep. It was a good thing he'd gone and fetched Benjamin when the first signs of her tantrum happened; he surely didn't want to have cleaned up all that puke and spittle.
The novice scooted his chair closer to the other bed. He looked the frail life over. Shrugging, Mustafa folded his hands on his lap and scrutinized him up and down. He was about his age, maybe a year or two his junior. The novice had just reached twenty summers in January, and spring was nearing its end.
He poked Damiel in the cheek; there was no response from the boy. Frowning, Mustafa pulled the sheets down enough to expose an arm. He witnessed the atrocious condition he'd been in when the scout team scraped him from the Kingdom, and he'd been horrified and even put to shame to see the pus and scabs forming over the many cuts and gashes on this stranger's body.
He knew that he'd never be able to withhold such injuries and still be breathing.
But now, as he discovered that every part of Damiel's body—including fingers, toes, and yes, that area of flesh sacred to every man—was wrapped in bandages, save for his head, he had new feelings to consider.
He looked like a mummy.
Mustafa covered his mouth and held back a chuckle. To make it even worse, with Damiel's hair so overgrown, he looked feminine. He was a girly mummy. He should have felt guilt for his joyful discovery, but then he considered what Benjamin had just said minutes ago. There was no need for him to darken the atmosphere further.
This time, he didn't repress his chuckle. He decided right then and there that he'd like to meet this boy—properly. Mustafa rationalized that he was an interesting fellow and that there was nothing for him to lose by introducing himself.
Only time would tell, though.
Readjusting the blankets, he stood from the chair. Offering another shrug, he scuttled out of the infirmary, his business done.
No doubt the kibbeh would be easier to steal since Malik was not in his right spirits.
"We offered you a life—"
"—and purpose—"
"—and family—"
"—And the chance to leave an Assassin's mark on this world," Altair finished with a grave underlying tone in his voice. He stared Mashhur down with a faint dark line along his brow, watching how the boy's face continued to drain of color as he was forced against the wall by guards. Screams and cries of desperation had filled the entire fortress as the traitor was dragged down into Masyaf's merciless belly.
The cries only made Malik even more aware of how weary he was. He stood on Altair's left with several other high ranking Brothers on his right. The Master waited until Mashhur was chained to the wall.
He writhed and tried to free himself of the arms holding him, but they were too strong for his flimsy muscles. Even with his hands cuffed to the wall, he still struggled, not caring that the harsh metal dug into his wrists.
"And you repay us by treachery." Altair stared at the letters in his hand, disgusted by what they said. "Not only do you threaten every person in Masyaf—Assassin or civilian—but this," his eyes darkened with vehemence as he clutched the papers tighter, almost tearing them in half, "adds insult to injury."
He took a step closer to Mashhur, his anger only intensifying as he saw the boy cower and try to become one with the wall. "I will let it be known," he quietly growled, "that we will not hesitate to inflict pain upon you if you fail to answer our questions. Your cries for mercy will be ignored, your pleas for freedom neglected, and your reasons for your betrayal disregarded."
Mashhur swallowed and balled his hands into fists. The Eagle of Masyaf stared down at him, his imposing frame making him seem insignificant. Mashhur could feel the bitter taste of resentment on his tongue, and before he could think otherwise, he snarled, "My screams would only mimic the sounds that bitch made on Acre's tower while you contented yourself with a cheap sharmuta."
He expected to be beaten for his words—to have his hands chopped off, his lips whipped—but the only reaction Altair made was to flare his nostrils and narrow his eyes. Mashhur wouldn't have the satisfaction of digging beneath his skin. "Why, do you take offense at what the papers say about you and your little whore?" he pressed. "Or does it excite you that she's even mentioned?"
In the blink of the eye, Altair had closed the distance between them and had his hand at Mashhur's throat, constricting his body of air. He dug his thumb in the flesh just below where his jaw and neck met. The boy gurgled, gasped, and flailed his legs as the pain intensified. "The only thing that excites me, Mashhur," he hissed into the boy's ear, "is that this traitor," Mashhur thought the bones in his neck would snap, "will be dealt with accordingly and answer all of our questions."
Altair jerked his arm forward, bopping the back of Mahhur's head against the wall, before unlatching his hand from his throat. Mashhur gagged and clenched his teeth together, too preoccupied with breathing to even shout. He slumped against the chains as stars danced across his vision, and he blinked his eyes to rid them. His head was lifted up by another strong jerk of Altair's arm, and he came face to face with him again.
Mashhur wanted to scream just by seeing the desire to hurt and kill in the man's eyes. It was a look he'd never seen before from any of the Assassin's in the fortress, and he whimpered as a warm liquid ran down his legs.
The urine didn't even have Altair's nose turn up. It seemed as if the man expected this from the beginning, which terrified Mashhur. It was as if this killer had already studied him and knew his next choice of action even before his own body did. More helpless sounds spewed from his blubbering mouth as his body shook from the fact that he couldn't even rely on his own person.
He was his. His body belonged to him. He controlled his own thoughts, actions—no one could take that away from him. He knew that by instinct, but the way the Assassin stared him down had him question himself. There wasn't any hint of humanity behind his craven, steel gaze.
No, the Master of the Hashshashin was anything but human.
He was a monster, a demon, a fiend, a devil. All in one.
And Mashhur would learn just how merciless this creature of Shêtân was.
It hadn't gone as Altair anticipated it would, but yet it did. For one, Mashhur's screams echoed off of the dungeon walls, and the boy was very reluctant to tell them anything about the letters.
Too reluctant to the point where absolutely nothing was learned. The boy was six fingernails short. The only things gained were weariness, frustration, and those awful croaks from the boy.
And to top it all off, there was Malik's sickening intervention, though he could hardly be blamed.
Altair quietly fumed in his study, his elbows resting on the table and his hands folded under his chin. He sat in deep contemplation, his face twitching every so often to reflect his thoughts. The anger bubbling in his chest from those words on those damned letters coiled and twisted in his body. How dare that sniveling, conniving, weakling boy refer to his Maria like that! He'd rather have the boy be six fingers short.
The insults directed toward himself meant very little. He wasn't concerned with what that traitor thought him to be; Mashhur's time in the dungeons would change every judgment ever made upon him. It was the obscenities directed toward his battle maiden that troubled him. Mashhur was a Templar, and his letters boasted of their vast knowledge on their enemies.
The followers of the Cross were either downright obnoxious and arrogant with their knowledge, or they actually had the upper hand in this war for equality. Altair didn't know, and that angered him to no end. He never liked the feeling of not knowing; it was vulnerability and a hole in his armor of knowledge and statistics.
He kept the visage of a killer without a conscious—even a killer without any thoughts for a fellow person—but it took every ounce of his willpower to restrain the urge to choke the truth out of the boy.
Or cut the truth out of him, or stab, or—
He exhaled and closed his eyes.
Then there had been Malik. Oh, dear, troublesome Malik.
Malik had been the one to end the interrogation for the day, putting his hand on his shoulder and murmuring that the boy had enough and was slipping from reality. It was Malik that had dismissed the other Assassin's and had pulled Altair out of the dungeons, leaving Mashhur to hang against his chains, blood trickling from his fingers and flowing down his arms.
And it was Malik that now had an entirely new view on the art of torture, though Altair was never an artist with torment and would never wish to be.
He had a word with his most trusted advisor when they were well out of earshot of Mashhur in the dungeon's keep—or, rather, he'd only frowned and opened his mouth to speak before Malik completely cut him off and hung his head in submission.
"Visit the infirmary and then tell me what we are doing is right."
It had left Altair baffled for two reasons. One: Masyaf was in danger, specifically grave, concerning danger, and Malik wanted him to pay a polite visit to the mangled boy? And two: who was he, a believer in the fact that there was no right, to judge such a thing?
Sometimes he wished he was still the man clouded with such over-confidence and superiority. It was so much easier to have a higher understanding in life back then. At least, that's what he always thought. Maybe he'd been deceiving himself all this time?
And who was there to blame for his weakness in understanding. Perhaps it wasn't even a weakness. Maybe he was just stubborn to accept the truth for what it was. Either way, he was still looking for someone to peg the blame on. Was it Malik? No, his episode of remorse in the dungeon was too recent to have him ponder his past.
Was it Maria?
He already stuck the guilt-pin on her for having a different perspective on himself. She was one of the reactants that yielded his new being. It was strange; he still looked the same on the outside, but he had never felt the grief of the beginnings of wisdom on the inside.
And he knew with age that that grief would only reproduce and grow. It was like a bottomless weed.
He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. Maria. He hadn't seen her since that morning, and he'd be lying to himself if he didn't worry. Gossip was spreading like wildfire with all the curious novices scurrying about the fortress, and according to the latest gossip he'd picked up while striding past those three familiar boys, Maria had a small sickly spell and was still in the infirmary.
He pushed himself up from his seat. The odds that she'd wake up with pleasant smiles were not in his favor. She'd be a starving bear when she woke up—that was in his favor—and startle the entire regime of novices to bring her something to eat. He could already hear the rumors of "How the Master Does Not Feed His Woman" that would surely follow.
The novices scurried off with a bowl of kibbeh, cackling and giggling to themselves as they escaped with their prize. Little did they know that in the darkness of the corridor lurked an ever vigilant and festering Malik. He watched the little buggers with squinty eyes and a curled lip.
If his stomach wasn't flopping around, he knew he'd pursue the boys and take back what rightfully belonged to him. He hadn't had kibbeh in two days—two days!—and he was beginning to forget how it tasted. The only things he'd eaten were pita bread, labaneh, and hummus, and even then, he'd only had light meals. His stomach just wasn't in the mood to hold anything down.
He sighed and tilted his head to the side, murmuring in satisfaction when he heard the bones in his neck pop. He rolled his shoulders and emerged from the shadows, intent on making his way to the study. No doubt Altair was probably up to his ears with anxiety, and Malik owed the man an explanation and maybe even an apology.
He stopped just as he was about to turn the corner. Two voices, one male and the other female, had him slink back into his trustworthy shadow. He frowned when he recognized the voices, but then he lifted his eyes skyward. Of course.
"I don't think you understand our situation completely, Miss—"
"And I don't think that you understand the difference between me and your sister, Aden."
Hildegard crossed her arms and jutted her hip out, her eyebrow raised in agitation from the colossal man before her. His face hardened and he waited for her to explain. And explain she did. "I don't need you looking over my shoulder at everything I'm doing. For God's sake, I'm a grown woman and I'm capable of thinking on my own! I'm not your sister needing to be coddled and have my hand held every hour of the day. So if you would be so kind, I'd appreciate it if you let go of me." She glared at the hand curled around her arm.
His grip tightened as he snorted and shook his head. "How I look after my sibling is none of your concern, Hildegard. We're in trying times; the Templar's are out there and a step or so ahead of us, plotting on how to dispatch of us, and Damiel's rendered useless and unable to tell us what exactly happened to him due to his injuries. I don't think we need anything else added to that list. So if you would be so kind, I'd appreciate it if you didn't go cajoling about, speaking to the men in this fortress as if you've known them your entire life!"
She threw her head back and scoffed. "I will speak to whomever I wish to as I see fit. How dare you even ponder the idea of taking away my liberties! And don't start acting like you care for Damiel, Aden. We both know you hate that boy just because of the fact that he isn't an Arab trying to woo your precious little sister." She made to swat his hand away, but he pulled her closer so that she was arched against him and forced to look up into his eyes.
"Yes, I hate the fact that I know essentially nothing about Damiel! He keeps his background hidden as if the truth would maim him! And if he had nothing to hide, why would he bother hiding it? And this is beside the point." He glared down at her. "Nothing changes the fact that we're potentially compromised here. We're relying on another faction to provide for us, and soon favors will be asked of us, and when that passes by, soon these men will try to take advantage of us."
She remained unaffected by his penetrating eyes. "Is this a lack of faith in your abilities, Master Aden, or in mine? Need I remind you that I'm more than capable of looking after myself?"
"You don't know—"
"I don't know what? What men think of when they see a beautiful woman without a man by her side? What desires they harbor from being away from their female counterparts? After more than eight years of prostitution, you think I don't know the look of lust from men? Tell me, Aden, what don't I know?"
Malik blinked from this piece of information.
"You don't know if they are sincere in their actions or not. Do you want to put your trust into wolves wearing sheep's skins? Would you appreciate the feeling of betrayal when they finally expose their true natures to you, Hildegard? Or are you waiting for a repeat of your past to occur so that you'll be reduced to prostitution again?"
"So it is a lack of confidence on your behalf," she smirked. "All this talk about 'trust' and 'betrayal'! It makes me wonder if you're confusing my life with yours, Aden. Didn't your father put his trust in your mother to be a faithful wife, only to find her in bed with another man?" His eyes darkened, and she only continued. "Isn't that why she died? And isn't that why your father was killed by her lover—his best friend?"
His breathing was labored and he had his lips curled in his mouth, pressed together in a frightening, pale line.
"Oh, but you remember it clearly, don't you?" she lilted. "You were there when your om and her habibi shed their clothes and collapsed together in a tangle of limbs in the cushions, remember? You were huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, your cries of helplessness deaf to theirs of pleasure. You tried to pull them apart, Aden. But he hit you, didn't he? You tried to protect her, Aden, but it didn't do any good. He gave you a black eye and hurt your ribs, didn't he?
"Don't you remember? You heard Zaina, who was just a few weeks old, crying from the other room when your father tore into the house. He found them, Aden. And he strangled your mother with his own hands. And you ran. You didn't even look back when you left that room. You gathered Zaina in your arms and you left that house far behind and never looked back."
She placed her hand on his cheek. "Poor baby," she cooed. "He has his hands full of things to take care of. He doesn't need to add Hildegard to that list." She stood on her toes and gave a quick peck to his lips before slipping away from him. His fingers unlatched from her arm as if they were greased with butter.
Patting his cheek one more time, she whispered, "But don't worry. Hildegard is a big girl now." Her light footsteps echoed off the stone floor as she walked out of the Residence Hall, leaving more than that trembling man behind.
Malik closed his eyes when he heard sobs coming from the corridor.
Ignoring the worried and curious glances from the kitchen staff, Altair continued setting the pie-like patties on the plates. They were hot to the touch, as he'd just taken them out of the oven, but they smelled even better than the Templars'. Though cooking was a rare thing for him to do—indeed, the women were bustling to and fro from seeing the Master prepare a meal that actually required the oven—he prided himself with preparing decent, satisfying courses.
He supposed that since there was only one dish, it didn't amount to a full course dinner. Either way, he was pleased with the outcome of his efforts.
The cooks were doubly so.
He blamed gossip for having him remember how pesky novices would sneak their way into the kitchen and attempt to steal a loaf of bread, only to have the staff swat at them with spoons and towels. The worst kitchen attacks always ended in the women resorting to use the tongs.
Oh, he required the tongs when he was a boy. Yes, he recalled how he, Malik, and Abbas would always be chased out of the kitchens with a few angry ladies hot on their heels. Of course, if Abbas wasn't allergic to every other spice and didn't sneeze every time he breathed (and the times in between breathing), they'd never have gotten caught in the first place.
The tabbouleh incident was one of a kind. How he remembered finding bits and pieces of salad in his clothes, hair, and even bed for weeks! Bards could rave of his adventures in the kitchen as a boy and keep their audiences occupied for hours.
He set the plates on the tray, as well as two goblets and a fresh pitcher of ayran. The staff had already left, probably to eat their own dinners. The sun was just starting to set. He couldn't recall the last time he had such an early supper.
Humming quietly to himself, he stepped out of the kitchen and made his way to the infirmary. The fortress was quiet and the last meal bell of the day rang out, confirming his assumptions. The courtyard was more than likely a mess of Assassin's hustling and bustling to fill their empty, growling stomachs.
He was glad that he wouldn't be caught in the tides of hungry novices. He smirked.
Sure enough, he could hear the echoing of footsteps hurrying inside and clambering toward the dining quarters. His humming helped a bit to dull the sound—
He stopped in his tracks right outside the infirmary door, jostling the ayran in the pitcher. He knew that tune. Heard it somewhere before—more than once, even. He creased his brow as he stared at the door, lost in thought. He tried to hum it again, but the rhythm wasn't coming to his head. Allah, where did he hear it before?
He always felt warm whenever he heard it. Embraced. Protected. Safe. Loved.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. Now was not the time to go exploring the past. Shaking himself free of the thought, he opened the door and let himself into the infirmary, first seeing Maria curled up in a bed at the far end of the room, and then shifting his gaze to the other occupant.
Slowly, he approached them and placed the tray down on a small table. He held his breath as he moved toward the bandaged body. He felt… wrong. He kept his distance from the boy, not even daring to touch him. There was something familiar about how the boy slept: a lax form, calm face and breathing, but the small hint of alertness and vigilance.
It was how he and his Brothers slept.
Frowning at the boy, he sat on the side of Maria's bed and averted his gaze to her. The blankets were snugly tucked around herself, almost making a cocoon, with her knees brought to her stomach and her hands folded beneath her chin. He felt himself smiling as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Then he noticed how tired she looked—how completely drained and exhausted she must have been, physically and emotionally. There were bags under her eyes, and her skin was a pasty white. He sighed, knowing that he was to blame.
He glanced to his side and smirked. Sticking out from the covers were toes that had the occasional twitch. He slid his hand and grabbed them, pulling her foot out from the covers. He tickled the bottom of her foot, watching how she groaned and then finally jerked her leg back under the blankets.
But he wasn't about to give up.
With her ankle in his hand, he dragged her foot back out and lightly ran his fingertips over it. She whined and shifted in the bed, turning this way and that. Just as her eyes groggily peeked open to seek out the one who dared disturb her from her slumber, he withdrew his hand and folded them on his lap.
Even with her eyes barely open, he could still see that fiery glint in her eyes, and knew that she was looking for a target to burn to a crisp.
And he was going to be just that target. Fortunately for him, she only narrowed her eyes at him before any damage could be done.
Maria frowned at him, ready to accuse him of ruining her peaceful sleep (for she knew that he was responsible for every wrongdoing ever done to her—whatever the reason may be and how bizarre it was). However, a quick whiff had her stern expression fall. She sniffed again, turning her head this way and that to find the source of the smell.
Spying the tray with the lahmajoun, her eyes brightened in delight and a small smile formed on her lips. But she quickly gave Altair a suspicious look, as if he was trying to fool her with something. Raising an impatient eyebrow when he simply sat there, she glanced at the tray and then back at him.
When he still sat there like a lump, she huffed and crossed her arms, her lower lip jutting into a pout. He eyed that lip with interest before standing and bringing the tray to the nightstand. He handed her plate to her and pulled up a chair.
She knew his eyes were on her from how her skin was tingling. She ignored his nosy stare and busied herself with her food. He didn't bring any utensils, and she certainly wasn't about to just bite into it. That'd be completely barbaric.
Her confused face was what he was searching for. Her irritated look amused him as he folded his lahmajoun into a wrap. Nodding her head, she followed suit.
"How are you feeling?"
She looked up from her lahmajoun and blinked at the man. Her mouth was stuffed with food, and if his face wasn't so full of concern, she would have suspected he was up to something.
"I heard you weren't feeling well," he clarified, watching her swallow and take a gulp of ayran.
"I was a bit woozy, but…" She looked up from her plate, noticing that Altair blocked Damiel from her field of vision. And knowing Altair, he did that on purpose. But she couldn't be angry with that. She took another bite. "I'm getting there."
He never liked that phrase. I'm getting there. Where is 'there', and what are you getting to be 'there'? Was it for the worse or better? And by what means are you 'getting there'?
He didn't know that he'd stopped eating and was boring holes into his plate. But Maria did, and when she reached out and squeezed his hand, he jumped from surprise.
Altair wasn't sure what was more startling: the fact that he'd let his guard down and allowed himself to be vulnerable, or the fact that he felt perfectly safe while doing so in Maria's presence.
Her voice was quiet but laced with sympathy. "What about you? Are you feeling well?"
A 'yes' was on the tip of his tongue, but that look she gave him had him gulp it back down. Their eyes locked together, and she offered another reassuring grin. He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing as he let his fatigue show. Yes, it was comforting to let his steel armor down when with Maria.
With his plate back on the nightstand, he held her hand in his lap and unconsciously brushed his thumbs over her palm. "I've been much better," he murmured.
"Tell me about it." She placed her other hand on top of his.
He inclined his head and stared at the floor as he relayed what happened between the time when she blacked out to the present. She listened to everything he had to say, nodding her head here and there and encouraging him to continue. She didn't realize that he looked bedraggled and in more need of sleep than herself. How this man could lead this Brotherhood was beyond her. If she was the one in charge, she'd never be able to get herself out of bed.
But then again, being Master probably had its perks.
"He betrayed all of us," he growled, "right from under our noses. Who's to say that there aren't more spies in Masyaf? I fear that our Nest is no longer safe. Who can I trust, knowing that any one of my Brothers may very well be a Templar in disguise?" He sighed again and closed his eyes. "I'm a fool to have let this all happen."
"No, you're not," she countered. "Look at me, Altair." He sluggishly brought his head up and peeled his eyes open. "The foolish thing would have been to take no action at all and to believe the letters to be lies. But you're willing to open yourself up to the sting the truth brings, and that is not foolish. Painful, but not foolish.
"And I don't think Masyaf's home to any more traitors. Hildegard seems to have wooed every one of your Assassin's into liking her, and I don't think a Templar has the bollocks to do that."
"She certainly has her ways into worming her way into everyone's life," he mused. He frowned and carefully chose his wording. "Is it foolish to be hopeful?"
She juggled the question around in her head for a few minutes before replying. "No, I wouldn't say it's foolish. Naïve, maybe, but not foolish. No, not even naïve. Innocent, I suppose you could say? I don't think it's anything to be ashamed about, either." She glanced over his shoulder and gulped down a lump from the back of her throat. "I've been hopeful for over a month now," she whispered, "and my prayers were answered."
He turned his head to the side. "Do you blame yourself for it?"
"Of course I do," she rasped out. "Who else is there to blame? I was there, I'm the one who told him to climb that stupid tower, I could have prevented this," she motioned toward Damiel's weak body, "from happening." She bit her lip and continued, "I could have prevented many things from happening, Altair."
"To err is human. Do you feel regret for being human?"
"I feel regret for making human mistakes, yes."
He looked back to her and squeezed her hands. "Even gods make mistakes, Maria."
She snorted. "I thought you said you didn't believe in any deities?"
"I don't," he agreed. "I'm not a follower of their religion, but…"
"The Apple," she murmured. "You've been looking into the Apple, haven't you?"
"Not recently, no. But there have been images. Something happened many years ago, Maria. A disaster, some form of pandemonium shook the ground and destroyed many lives."
She shrugged and blew out of her mouth. "I don't see the point in worrying on what happened so long ago."
"Studying the past helps us understand the present and future, Maria."
"But obsessing over it doesn't do you any good, either."
"I can't help but to think that they're trying to warn us."
"Who's 'they'?"
"I don't know."
Maria laughed and rolled her eyes. She rearranged her hands so that his were sandwiched between hers. "You know, when I was younger, my parents used to say that God knew everything that we were doing and could see every black deed in our souls. Of course," she chuckled as she rearranged their hands again, "those threats became more and more common and insistent as I continued to rebel against society's norm for women. Oh, if I had a coin for every time they said it, I'd be rich.
"I used to believe it, too—that He could see into me. I prayed every night, trying to explain to Him my reasons for wanting to be my own person." She fiddled with their hands again. "I don't know when I stopped believing. Maybe I still believe it, and maybe I just don't care what He thinks of me. If he's all knowing, then he should understand why I don't want to be cut from the same cloth as every other woman."
"You talk with your hands," Altair whispered, watching her place her hand on top of his, then switch the arrangement.
"Yes, I do," she smiled, "doesn't everyone?" He held her hand when she tried to assort them again. She huffed from his intervention. "And so what will you do now?"
"I plan on continuing Mashhur's interrogation tomorrow. I'll resort to more severe torture, though I doubt it'll be good for my health, after seeing…" His voice trailed off as he glanced behind him. Maria had closed her eyes and was biting the inside of her cheek. "I need to keep Masyaf safe, Maria, by whatever means necessary."
"And those Templar's had to keep their Order safe by whatever meant necessary. And look what happened. The proof is on that bed right over there."
"Maria," he cupped her face in his hands. "There is a very, very clear difference between my actions and those of whoever did this to your friend. I stain my conscious with permanent sin to continue the fight for mankind's survival and not for personal glory of satisfaction. You know this. You know me, Maria."
"Do I?" She opened her eyes. "Would you do to that boy what they did to Damiel, Altair? Would you sew his skin with silver thread? Would you have him sit on the Chair? Would you brand him with coals? Would you—"
"—Maria—"
"—use a needle to carve designs in his penis? Would you brand the Templar insignia on his nipple to show dominance? Would you—"
"—Maria—"
"—stretch his limbs out with the Rack? Would—"
"Maria, stop." He brought her face closer to his so that their foreheads rested against each other's. He brushed her cheeks and temples with his thumbs, his eyes melting her own under his unbreakable gaze. "It is my duty as Masyaf's leader to see to her wellbeing. It rests upon my shoulders, and my shoulders alone, to verify that the Brotherhood survives."
"Are you seeking my pity?"
"No, I'm not. I can tell you this: I'd sustain everything you just listed if it meant keeping my Creed and Brothers alive. I would welcome each cycle of torture with a smile on my face if it was protecting my sworn purpose in this life. And I believe your friend withstood everything that happened to him because he believed. He knew what he was doing in his heart."
"Don't speak as if you know him, Assassin."
"I'm entitled to my own opinion, Maria, and I'll be damned if even voicing that is a wrongdoing."
"It seems that even breathing is considered a wrongdoing."
"So it seems."
"You avoided my question. I'd appreciate it if you addressed it."
"Haven't I said enough?"
"No, you haven't." She swatted his hands from her and stood from the bed, ignoring the sudden wave of nausea from the sudden movement. She stared down at him with Hell in her eyes. "And I'm tired of having everything I ask be avoided like it's some goddamn curse." She turned to leave, but he stood and snatched her wrist. She was tugged backward and spun into him. His arms immediately locked around her waist, holding her to himself and keeping her from escaping.
She fiercely tried to push him away, but he ignored her pounding fists against his chest and held her that much tighter. He knew that if she was really set on leaving, she would have bitten his nose off and scratched his eyes out.
"Listen to me," he darkly hissed into her ear. He waited until her thrashings ceased before looking her straight in the eye. Once he was sure that she actually was listening, he continued. "I would, Maria, I would."
She inhaled and tensed in his arms, the wrath swirling in her irises intensifying to a horrific navy blue. "Would you rip his heart from his body, show it to him, and then put it back? Answer me," she snapped when he went completely rigid.
His mouth became dry as he relentlessly met her scrutiny. The question was too inhuman, so abysmal for him to answer. He couldn't answer—
"You're a monster," she mumbled. He let her pull away from him as his face drained of color. His eyes were two large, disbelieving hazel orbs from what she'd just said. She took a step back, and he unconsciously reached out for her, causing her to back away further.
"Maria." So forlorn and empty was his voice that it frightened her. Her head swiveled back and forth as she continued to back away toward the door. She bit her lip when his face fell further.
Maria wordlessly shrieked as she bumped into something warm and alive, her eyes tearing away from Altair to the man behind her.
"Ahh, there you are! I've been looking everywhere for you! Fortunately for me, the novices have finally remembered that even though I'm retired, I'm still alive. Gossip is coming through my door hourly, now. Sometimes I wish I had my privacy back." Rauf smiled wide enough for four people and stepped further into the room.
"While you were away, Maria, I took it upon myself to mend your broken equipment. Here," he unsheathed the sword and showed it to Maria. "The other one is still under repair, but I suspect that in another week, it should be as good as new." He smiled as she took the blade from him and mechanically looked the sword over. Ivory seemed to be just as Rauf said: as good as new. There wasn't a single flaw to her.
Rauf glanced back and forth between the Master and the woman, completely oblivious to the tension between the two. Maria chanced a glimpse at the man, and to her horror, he seemed completely calm and in tact. She felt her chest tighten painfully from her observation. Not a hint of sweat on his brow, confident shoulders, straight back, and clear eyes.
Maria sheathed Ivory and clutched the weapon to her chest.
"We can continue our work in the smithy as soon as you're feeling up to it," Rauf beamed, smiling a toothy grin. "There is much to be done. Those stupid boys in the training ring broke more swords, and it's up to us to fix them up—the swords, not the boys, though I'd love to have a wallop or two at them."
Maria listlessly nodded as she stared at the floor. If Altair noticed her, he didn't even approach her. Rauf turned to him next.
"And ah, Altair! Nabil told me earlier that you were collecting lists of supplies we need. I made one of some of the ores that could be purchased, now to find it, hmm…" He searched throughout his robe, turning pockets inside and out and then moving onto the pouches strapped at his belt.
Maria balanced herself on the balls of her feet, swaying unsteadily side to side. She could feel the room spinning before herself, and Rauf's voice boomed through her head.
"Ahh, here it is!" He produced the crumpled, wrinkled, stained, smelly, folded, creased, rumpled, and crinkled sheet of paper from his largest pocket and held it out to the Master. "Everything is written down right there, and I would be most grateful if we saw to the purchases as soon as possible." He continued to babble, even as Altair brushed past him.
Maria's eyes crossed as she stumbled over her own feet. The whole room tilted to the side as she lost her footing.
Something was supporting her. She whimpered as arms held her by the waist and propped her against something solid. She blinked the stars from her eyes, trying to focus on the face she was looking up into.
His eyes blinked back at hers as he kept her on her feet.
"I—I…" She struggled to form the words, her lips flapping uselessly together. He shushed her and rubbed her back, cradling her closer to him. She whimpered again as the room rocked back and forth like a ship amongst cruel tides.
He murmured comforting words into her ear while stroking her hair.
Maria was anything but comforted. She could feel it coming—and oh, was it coming. That nauseating feeling of… of…
"And then, on the second day that you were gone, there was an outbreak of chickens in the marketplace. At first sight, it seemed like a coincidence, but ah, ah, ah," Rauf tutted. "Those boys were up to it again! They need leashes and harnesses, I tell you. And chokers, too. No harm in chokers, I always say, especially when it comes to immature novices."
"I…I—I…" Her eyes crossed again.
"Quiet, habibti," he breathed against her lobe.
"And then, on the fourth day that you were gone, Tamam rampaged throughout the entire fortress that he could not find his down slippers! First, he accused me of stealing them, but evidence of my innocence was found when Rakin walked in on us wearing them! Serves that trainer right!"
"Al..Alt—" He squeezed her waist in reassurance. Oh, she wished he didn't do that! The only thing it reassured was—
"I…I'm…" She tried to hide in his robes.
He tilted her chin so that she was looking at him. "Hush, Maria, you're alr—"
"I think… I think…" she stammered, blinking away the splotches from her vision. "I think I'm—no, I know I'm going to be—"
"And then, on the final day that you were gone—who is that?"
He nodded his head in understanding, though he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "It's alright, Maria—"
"I'm going to be sick," she whispered. He frowned and blinked at this, not comprehending what she meant. But her actions spoke louder than her words.
She heaved forward as it came out, soaking part of his face and robes, and splattered to the ground. He was too shocked, surprise, and startled to do anything. He only stood there as she continued to hurl on him.
He was covered in it. He was soaking wet with it. It dripped off of him, only to drip onto her, and it dripped off of her only to drip onto him. She clutched his robes and hid her face in them. She felt humiliated beyond words and sick to her stomach. Literally.
Altair cringed and shook his hand free of the puke before embracing her again. Chunks of lahmajoun stuck to his robes, but he'd deal with that later. He tucked her head to his chest with his chin. If she cared that the barf on his face was now matting her hair down, she didn't say one word. And if he cared that she was still spewing that horrid ick out of her mouth—Hell, he was already drenched in it anyway.
Rauf shuffled closer to the boy in the bed, his mouth falling wide open as he brushed aside the boy's hair from his face. "Ooumma," he breathed out, not believing his eyes for an instant. He blinked his eyes to make sure it wasn't a dream, and then turned around to confront the other two in the room about his discovery.
He certainly wasn't expecting to see the Master and his woman decorated with puke. It was quite a sight for Rauf—just how much time had past, anyway?—but one that he quickly brushed aside. He turned back to the boy and shook his head in disbelief.
"Allah, strike me down now if what I'm seeing isn't real," he mumbled. "I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd be face to face with his son."
Well, that certainly was fun to write! :D
Translations:
Shêtân: Arabic for Satan/Devil
sharmuta: Arabic for whore/prostitute
om: Arabic for 'mother'
habibi/habibti: Arabic for sweetheart/darling/love/honey (habibti is feminine)
Labaneh: a Middle Eastern food made of yogurt, mint, red pepper or paprika (your choice), olive oil, nuts (optional)
Hummus: ground up chick peas made into a paste :D Delicioso!
Lahmahjoun: also delicious and mentioned in previous chapter
Falafel: I think this will explain it better than I ever could: http : / / w w w . y o u t u b e . c o m / w a t c h ? v = k S E a m I x C r 7 s & f e a t u r e = related
Tabbouleh: Again, this will explain it better than I ever could: h t t p : / / w w w . y o u t u b e . c o m / w a t c h ? v = 1 F a N z r t u 0 K M & f e a t u r e = related
Yes, I did allude to these two links in this chapter. Kudos to those who find it!