Apologies for updating so late. I know you're probably not interested in my excuses, but what the hey.
I've been busy with school, work, family problems, lack of interest in this story, artist's block, etc etc. I had to drown myself in Revelations videos just to have a bit of inspiratio come fluttering back to me, and that itself exhausted me. I'm not fond of this chapter, it's a bit laid back, but I think it sets a nice stage for the coming chapters. Anyways.
I appreciate the messages reminding me to update; they make me feel a bit better about Loving Hate. But I'm sorry if my updates are spaced apart. I can promise you another chapter with this story. Always. But I can't promise I'll have them up quickly. Fanfiction is about five percent of my life, so I don't really have time to work on chapters that much.
But nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this chapter! All original characters belong to Ubisoft, everyone else is mine.
Altair turned his head toward Rauf as the man continued to murmur to himself. Rauf would mutter something beneath his breath, examine the boy as if to confirm something, and then let out a relieved sigh. He shook his head back and forth, ran a hand through his hair, and then resumed his musing. Altair knew Rauf to have somewhere near fifty years to his age, but at that moment, he looked ten years lesser than he actually was. His eyes were bright with life and he was light on his feet as he scurried back and forth to the other sides of the bed.
"I can't believe it," Rauf whispered, a smile threatening to break his face in two. "He's finally returned to us, after all these years. Allah, he's come back."
The Master of Assassin's would have questioned Rauf's sanity if he wasn't occupied with the woman still in his arms. Maria trembled as she relied on him to keep her steady, and her face was still buried in his robes. He didn't raise his voice above a whisper as he did his best to comfort her. His hands, now covered in her vomit, ran up and down her back. He ignored the smell of it, reminding himself that he was to be blamed for her fragile state.
As soon as her quiet whimpers faded to nothing, he held her out from himself. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a sickly white with a tint of blue to it, and there was a gruesome scowl smeared across her features. Using a clean part of his robe, he dabbed that disgusting filth from her face. When her eyelids didn't so much as flutter from his touch, he concluded that she wasn't conscious. Whether she fainted again, he couldn't say.
But he couldn't allow himself to just leave her in this condition—soiled, soggy, and miserable. One quick glance at Rauf told him that he wasn't obliged to help him; nay, he was far too engrossed with his babblings. He shifted his hold on her so that she was cradled in his arms and was about to carry her out of the infirmary when the solution to his predicament came strolling through the doorway.
In the form of Hildegard and that monstrous man, Aden, no less.
"Now, Aden, I understand that you and Maria aren't exactly on the most… amicable terms, but I do put trust in your lustrous abilities that you will be able to—" Hildegard paused midsentence and mid-step as she locked eyes on the sight in front of her. And what a sight it was. Had Aden not been paying attention, he would have rammed right into her.
"Oh, for the love of Saint Mary," Hildegard groaned, "don't tell me she puked again." But of course she knew that her question was foolish; Altair seemed healthy as could be—it certainly wasn't his barf scattered all over himself, Maria, and the floor. "I just cleaned her up this morning!"
Altair sighed and glanced back and forth between Hildegard and Maria. "Apologies, Hildegard, but—"
"No, don't tell me," Hildegard piped as she held up her hand, "men just don't know how to deal with such things, I know this already." Throwing her hands in the air when Altair frowned and took a step closer to her, she snarled, "Don't even think about asking me to—no, don't look at me like that—find someone else."
He was relentless.
Hildegard was persistent.
Aden was dumbfounded.
Scoffing, Hildegard crossed her arms and grumbled, "Fine, but I expect a form of praise for this—like a larger room and maybe my own private bath. That would be very much appreciated. And don't expect me to tidy you up, too. At least you aren't unconscious." Altair held Maria out for Hildegard, but the woman turned her head to her companion. "Master Aden, be a dear and carry this lump of luggage for me, won't you?"
He nodded without a single word coming from his lips and obeyed Hildegard as he took Maria from Altair's arms and swung her over his shoulder like a sack. The Assassin's face ignited in fury as Aden marched away, as stiff as a scolded dog with their tail between their legs, with Hildegard in tow, and he would have bopped him on the head again if Rauf didn't step forward and motion for him.
"Altair," he started, touching the man's shoulder and nodding toward the bed. Rauf's entire being seem to glow as he blinked like a man surrounded by mountains of baklava. Even when he saw Ivory discarded on the floor without any second thought, his joviality didn't falter for a second. "Altair, do you have any idea who this is?"
Altair turned his head to where Rauf gestured and nodded. "Yes, he's part of Benjamin's and Hildegard's faction, The Rose, and also a dear friend to Maria. What of it?"
Rauf shook his head and clicked his tongue, striding back over to the bedside. "No, Altair, that's not all there is to it, I'm afraid. Yalla! I should have investigated as soon as our scouts brought the boy back in from the Kingdom. Being in that smithy for so long separated a man from current events," he mused with a sad twinkle in his eye. He blinked, his face returning to childish wonder as he threw his hand into the air.
With a trembling hand, he brushed the stray locks of dirty hair from Damiel's forehead, then peeled back an eyelid. "He has her eyes," Rauf smiled. He turned back to Altair, as if remembering that the other man was still in the room with him, and touched his shoulder. "Come. I can explain it better to you in another place—one that is fitting for the words I am going to trust you with."
The walk down to Memory Hall was silent, save for the two Assassins' footfalls upon the stone steps. Rauf, several paces ahead of Altair, bounded with a happy skip in his stride, occasionally shaking his head in wonder and rubbing his palms together. The Master of Assassin's watched him with a raised brow, concerned as to how much sanity remained in his old friend.
Rauf suddenly stopped once they reached the Hall. He sighed and took his time strolling through the room, throwing glances this way and that toward several of the plaques. "You can feel how different the atmosphere is down here," he whispered to himself, even with Altair walking abreast to him. "There's a certain heaviness to it, but not something that chokes you, no. Sometimes I wonder if it is just my age or experience—maybe both—but whenever I step foot in this place, I know they're watching us." He didn't need a response from his Master to know that the other man thought the same.
"And by Allah," Rauf murmured as he inclined his head in front of a plaque, "sometimes I feel as if it has such an effect on me because I knew them." He motioned toward the plaque as Altair stood beside him. "Over a decade has past since he died, and for over a decade I lost hope that I'd never see or hear of his kin again. He was a good man—a damn good man, even if he contained a wicked deviation to his actions—and brought a glimmer of happiness to one man's," he glanced at Altair, "life."
"Jenaro Karkafian," Altair read aloud from the plaque. His brow creased in recognition of the name. "Are you—"
"He had a wondrous method to revealing the beauty of Man and Nature—so wondrous that he was deemed a threat." The corners of Rauf's mouth twisted downward in a grimace. "Complications arose, ideas sprouted. And you and I both know that when sheep begin to stray, their shepherds call the dogs without a moment's hesitation."
Altair's hand curled in a fist. "And what was Al Mualim's punishment for his open mind?"
"Ironic how our Creed states the foundations of freedom," Rauf snorted, "and yet Jenaro was forced to leave Masyaf, along with his friends and Brothers, behind. Oh, but of course, to anyone blind to Al Mualim's conspiracy—which was almost everyone—it seemed like a grand opportunity for the Assassin's to spread our influence to other lands.
"Needless to say, The Karkafian wasn't seen in Masyaf ever again after being sent to Spain. And, fortunately for the honest, loyal Hashshashin, Al Mualim's plan resulted in a well-fortified fortress nestled in the mountains of Andorra.
"But if only he stayed," Rauf sighed, "then perhaps he would have succeeded in unearthing Al Mualim's plots of betrayal. No, I know he would have been victorious, what with Barakah, Catherine, and Siran aligned with him—" Rauf stopped, clamping his mouth shut as if he was a child who'd been caught red-handed, and stared at the floor in horror.
The Master's head swiveled in his direction, his eyes narrowing as he hissed, "Who?"
Rauf's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air as he formed incomprehensible sounds. He blinked rapidly and turned his head away from the other man, stuttering, "I-I've already said too much. Allah, I've said far, far too much."
About to press the matter further and demand answers, Altair was interrupted by a shy grunt. Both men whirled around, coming face to face with a timid Rakin, shuffling his feet as he toed the floor with a nervous foot.
"Master," the novice murmured, keeping his eyes downcast. "Master, Malik requests your presence immediately. According to him, there is a, ah," he paused, remembering the exact words, "an urgent matter, involving Hildegard, the boulder-man, and a bowl of soup, that requires your attention." He tucked his chin into his neck, shuffling his feet further as his cheeks reddened from the two pairs of eyes on him.
"The… 'boulder-man'?" Altair questioned, an incredulous look stretched over his face.
When Rakin squeaked from being addressed, Rauf stepped in to save the poor boy from fainting just by mere acknowledgment. "It's the title Malik has chosen for Aden—the man who bombarded your woman in the marketplace, remember? Apparently, the novices approve of this and refer to him as such." When the Master raised both eyebrows at him, Rauf shrugged, explaining, "Well, I told you that gossip is flowing through the barracks faster than we're running out of ores. Speaking of which—"
Altair held a hand up, silencing Rauf, and nodded to Rakin before stepping past the novice and climbing the stairs back to the main level.
It was when he actually set foot in the foyer that he cursed under his breath. Rakin most likely heard his and Rauf's conversation, and the entire city would be simmering with murmurs of the boy pulled in from the Kingdom.
Tears had never held a remarkable portion of Hildegard's life. Yes, there were the times as a girl where she'd trip over her own feet or stub a toe, but she had her parents or siblings to run to for comfort. Always was there a shoulder for her to bury her face in, and just the knowledge of having the concern of several people was enough to keep tears from her brown eyes.
Even the thought of her brother, that foolish man who gripped the Cross with a steel clutch, did not have her eyes water in feminine pouts.
And even as Aden's fist connected with her face, she did not cry. She did not shout, she did not whimper. She only accepted it, bringing a gentle hand to her throbbing cheek and rubbing the bruised skin with tender strokes.
And not once did she show a red nose, puffed eyes, or a trembling lip.
Her disregard to the situation had the Assassin's in the foyer stop in their tracks, confused as to why the woman wasn't calling for help or hurling insults, or fists, at her attacker.
But there was no need to berate a guilty dog. And Hildegard knew this.
Hildegard sighed, the bowl of soup still intact and warm in her hand. Holding her hand in front of her face, she stared at the red droplets. The blood on her fingertips seemed to intrigue her instead of infuriate her. Wiping her thumb over the cut and not even leaving a smear in its wake, she gave Aden a disappointed frown.
He stood there, shaking like a newborn colt, his hands curled in loose fists, staring at her as if he expected her to lash out at him.
But Aden didn't know the first thing about control. And Hildegard did.
She shook her head, her lips curled in a contented smile, her face still beautiful even with blood trickling down her cheek. She held the soup out to him. "As I said, Master Aden, since Maria has been tended to and is resting, you should eat your dinner. It'd be a shame if it chilled by the time you ate it."
His arms shook as he snatched the bowl away from her, glaring at the soup as if it was poison. His eyes wandered to Hildegard's as he waited for her confirmation. He was only graced by an encouraging nod before he turned and left the foyer.
He walked like a puppet on strings.
Hildegard sighed and glanced at the small crowd before her. Several of the Assassin's shifted uncomfortably while others bobbed their heads up and down in awe. Among the men, she saw her, that feeble and delicate girl, gawking in horror from seeing her big brother, her knight in shining armor, reduced to a skittish pup.
Rolling her eyes as the group dispersed, she turned just in time to see Malik. The usual sparkle of mischief in his dark eyes was gone, and in its stead was just that: darkness. She mirrored his blank expression, her stoic posture remaining complete as he shook his head, turning on his heel so quickly that he nearly crashed into the man approaching him.
With his back to her, she couldn't see the warning he gave to Altair.
And through the Master's eyes, he did not see the woman who just put a man in his place. He saw the familiar chipper smile and proud chin that only Hildegard wore.
She sauntered over to him, sighing dramatically as she didn't seem to care that blood was drying on her face. "Maria's been bathed and cleaned—though, mind you, it was none too pleasant for me. Next time she decides to up-chuck, don't expect Hildegard to come breaking through the door in rescue again."
He studied her face, noticing the smear of red. "What happened?"
"Oh," she drawled while examining her fingers, "nothing that significant, I assure you. I've just found a more effective way to handle Aden other than bopping him on the head. Really, you should consider what might become of your hands from too many punches! Broken knuckles, swelled fingers, callouses—it can't be good for your health, I must say!
"And as Master of these dashing men, appearance is most crucial, is it not?"
Altair folded his arms over his chest, staring down at the woman. "You should be able to tell me, shouldn't you?"
His remark caught her off guard as she tilted her head to the side, her eyes flashing in temporary fear. Saving her cracking masquerade, she grinned and batted her lashes. "Perhaps," she shrugged, taking a small step away from him, "but perhaps not. Only time will tell though, no?"
He nodded. "And tell it will." He kept his eyes on her until his glare had her take another step away. Without saying a word, she raised her chin and shot him an ugly look before stalking out of the foyer, her steps heavy and deliberate.
His lips twisted in a satisfied smirk as he watched her leave. Hildegard might have been able to bring Aden down a few pegs and knock him from his high horse, but that woman didn't have the capacity to loop her collar around an eagle in flight. There was only one woman who could, if she wished to, break what little humanity he'd managed to scrounge together over the past three years.
And that woman was not Hildegard.
While he still wanted to corner and, if necessary, wrangle more information out of Rauf—just who were Catherine and Barakah, and why did those names sound so familiar?—he knew that he should stop by the infirmary and see with his own eyes how she was fairing. With Hildegard in such a wonky mood, there was no telling what garbage she'd announce just to have an eye or two glance her way.
Their last words swarmed in his head; the scene played out too graphically and accurately. Her distant eyes, the way she forced herself away from him, the remorse etched into every tense, untrusting muscle in her body. He wanted to forget it, forget the words she said to him—
But before he knew it, his feet were taking him to the infirmary on their own accord.
Nabil and Mustafa stared at Rakin, each wearing different expressions. Mustafa's eyes were bright with wonder and boyish amusement, and his mouth was relaxed in a calm smile, a chuckle making itself known on occasion.
Nabil, however, wasn't as entertained as Mustafa was. His lips pressed together in a pert line, he clicked his tongue and shook his head at Rakin's fairytale. He grumbled to himself, tutting and fussing over each sentence his friend spoke.
At last, with Rakin's cheeks as pink as Mustafa's furnace-burnt ones, the breathless boy gulped down air as he finished what he'd heard in Memory Hall. His audience blinked at him as they absorbed the information.
"Rubbish," Nabil dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Sons of legends don't just wander in from the Kingdom, Rakin. You must have misheard."
"He didn't wander in," Mustafa corrected with a chuckle. "He was dragged in, remember?"
"The royal carriage probably picked him up and escorted him on leopard-print and soft cushions," Nabil grunted. "Why should we get our boots in a knot just because of some man's son? If you ask me, he's dead and worthless meat. He's probably drained the fortress of its medicinal herbs by now, no?"
Mustafa frowned at him as they walked down the corridors of Masyaf. "How can you judge a man—"
"—Little boy—"
"Without allowing him a chance to demonstrate himself? That's a bit rash, even for you, Nabil, don't you think?"
"He's always rash and brash," Rakin whimpered while hugging himself. "He likes to make himself seem bigger by chewing on the helpless."
"No," Nabil snapped, "that isn't true at all! Listen to yourself, Rakin. I never knew you had the talents of a poor liar. Fantasizing about the son of a man who founded an Assassin fortress! Oh, spare me, I think my ribs are cracking from my laughter."
They continued on, Mustafa's patience thinning by each remark Nabil made to Rakin. He thought his normally humble demeanor would snap at any second, but thankfully, a sniffling sound made him stop in his steps.
He looked around the hall, his friends too busy bickering with each other to notice him lagging behind, and scurried to the opposite end of the hall. He tilted his head to the side when a girl, maybe a year or so younger than him, had her head buried in her knees as she cried in a corner.
Mustafa rubbed the back of his neck, curious as to whether he should leave her be to wallow in her own misery and sort things out by herself, or to stay and comfort the girl.
Hearing Rakin screech and whimper from down the hall made his mind up quicker than he would have thought possible. And besides, Mustafa was never a person to pass a blind eye over a distressed individual.
Especially a distressed damsel.
He cleared his throat, a smile about to stretch on his lips and heroic words forming in his mind. But any suave, charismatic anecdote he planned on reciting died in his throat as the girl's head snapped up. She stared at him as if he was Medusa instead of Mustafa.
He feared for a moment that he accidentally turned her into stone, even—what would Nabil say to that? Rakin would, without a doubt, have a field day and start with the 'I told you so'sto no end.
Tension was thick between them as they blinked and stared at each other, she in bewildered fear and he in bewildered confusion. Malik's kibbeh, she seemed to sink further into her corner as the seconds wore on.
Until Mustafa did what he was known for doing in tight situations; he chuckled.
Apparently, she mistook the gleeful sound as a hiss since she held her knees to her chest even tighter. The poor thing didn't even have long hair to hide behind—odd that a woman had such short, unruly hair. He dismissed the thought with a shrug, which in turn earned him another cower.
At a loss, Mustafa sighed and slouched his shoulders. He pulled out a small cloth from one of the few pouches on his waistband and held it out to her. He felt as if he was in front of a tense, cowering fighting dog licking its wounds. When she only glared at the cloth as if it would jump out and eat her, he exhaled again and placed the handkerchief on her knees.
Not knowing how else to help the frail little thing, he shrugged and walked away, a chuckle the last thing Zaina heard before he rounded the corner.
One step forward, two steps back. Half a step forward, one step back. Three steps closer, four retreating.
Five steps—reverse.
Altair clenched his jaw in frustration. Why couldn't he bring himself closer to that damn bed? She was right there, cleaned and buried in a heap of blankets and cushions, looking oblivious and as peaceful as a newborn child. And as innocent as one.
Innocence. He frowned from the word. She'd slayed ruffians, combatted Saracens, fought in wars. Just what was so innocent about Maria Thorpe that prevented him from coming six feet closer to that bed?
He tried again, only ending up one step further from where he started. Pursing his lips in frustration, he ran his hands through his hair. Was it because she killed not for the praise of another, but for her own peace of mind?
Maybe. Then he was the same, and he was by far anything but innocent. No, there were too many shades of red on his hands to be considered innocent. All of the men and women that were no more, torn from their families and friends, gone because of him. At least he could find solace in the fact that no children were taken from the cruel world by his blade.
And he could deduce from the way his legs refused to move, how his hands shook and how he could feel the sickening flow of crimson on his palms that he did not deserve to cross that short distance to her.
No, these hands did not have the right to mar the innocence of this woman.
And so the days wore by, turning into a futile week. Masyaf seemed to huddle in its mountain; the novices scurried to and fro the fortress with a bit more anxiety in their feet; the elders scoured the library for a lack of anything better to do; the eagles contented themselves by staying in their nests and away from the thick miasma settling on the Master's slopes.
The Master himself reflected Masyaf's troubled condition. Boots tracked mud in from the soggy and soaked town, scattering dirt and God knew what else over the fortress. The study looked anything but impressive; the streaks of dirt over the floor added even more dread to Altair's thoughts.
Mashhur would not speak. Where the novice found the strength to keep his mouth closed even with hot rods pressed to his skin, Altair would never know. Perhaps the boy was promised Paradise as a gift for aiding the Templars, and perhaps the boy was foolish enough to believe such false words.
There was no doubt that Mashhur knew the Templars' plans—his boisterous letters were proof enough that the boy knew something. And that something was what the Master wanted to know.
It would have to wait until the following morn. They'd finished with the boy's interrogation earlier in the day, and Altair was in no mood to even consider the thought of returning to the dungeons. The smell of Mashhur's feces and bloodied body was enough to turn any man in the opposite direction.
But that was not the case with Maria Thorpe. Anger welled up inside of her after every step she took brought her closer to that damned rat. If she hadn't been careful when timing her visit, she knew that she'd be receiving curious and suspicious glares from several of the Assassin's that frequented the halls.
She stood in front of his cell, sucking in a breath of air to aid in her composure. She told herself that her reasons for even making the effort to visit this poor excuse of a human being were far different than Altair's. Where he sought to protect an entire Order, she did this for one person's sake.
Damiel.
She couldn't sit by his bedside any longer without knowing answers. And if Mashhur was aligned with the Templars, the worm had to know at least a lick of what happened to Damiel and why it happened.
The snake was right there, his shoulders slumped and head hung in a victorious defeat. Blood was so heavily caked on his wrists that the cuffs were stained. His clothes were in tatters, barely hanging onto his skinny frame. She gnashed her teeth together, disgusted by both what the Assassin's were capable of doing—particularly her Assassin—and why this boy deserved such animosity.
She held no regard for the fact that Mashhur's putrid stench wafted into her nose, or that she was compromising Masyaf by slamming the cell door open and storming inside. The traitor's eyes peeled open and glared at her as if she was Satan incarnated. He didn't even bother lifting his head.
"Has the Assassin's sharmuta decided to lavish her… attentions on me?" he coughed with a smirk. Blood dribbled from between his lips before dripping to the red floor.
Maria latched her fingers around his throat with one hand, while the other lifted his chin so that he could see the full force of her hatred in her grey pools of rage. "The only attentions you'll be receiving from me are questions," she hissed. "Are you responsible for the state the boy is in that the scouts brought in from the Kingdom?"
He offered a weak laugh, his eyes dancing with amusement. "The others have asked, the others have not received answer—" He screeched as Maria dug her thumb in his windpipe. Her nails cut into his chin, making the boy whimper from the stinging pain.
"You're already coated with blood, do you think I would hesitate to spill a little more from you?"
"Tal has tizee," he grounded out, his teeth bared and his eyes two volatile slits.
"Did you know that a man does not need all of his teeth to speak?" She moved her hand so that it kept his mouth open while she tapped his canines with her fingers. When he tried to gulp and scream in fear, she tightened her hold. "Now answer me, or so help me, God, I will carve out your tonsils and make you eat them, you piece of shit. What were your connections to the boy?"
Her fingers uncurled the slightest degree, allowing him enough air to speak. When he chose silence, she gripped one of his canines and began pulling on it. "You have how many years to you, now?" she whispered. "Seventeen, eighteen? You won't be receiving any replacement teeth if I pull them out. Not that your body doesn't know that you don't even deserve mercy."
"You," he snarled, "have no idea what our plans are. You speak as if you have a firm hold on reality, but I can see it in your eyes. So why don't you succumb to it? Cower behind your darling Assassin, suckle on the breast of false hope. You delay the inevitable by doing otherwise."
"What's inevitable? When the Templars claim Pieces of Eden?"
He uttered a choked chuckle and shook his head. "Does it bother you? That you're losing? That if you didn't choose to fall prey to petty, ambitious thoughts you'd be winning? But he knows this already—"
"Who knows what?"
Mashhur smirked. "Clarence knows where your true place is, Maria. He knows you wouldn't try anything, or else you'll witness your blood die."
Her eyes narrowed as she applied more pressure to his jaw. "Hiding behind riddles has only one reward, and we both know that you'd loathe having more pain brought onto you."
"This pain is temporary," he bit back, struggling against the cuffs as her hand threatened to break his jaw. "But the pain between your thighs won't be when Clarence holds you down, you bitch."
"Clarence has no hold over me—nothing to keep me from planting my sword in his chest. But he has hold over you, doesn't he? What promises did he make? Women? Wine? Fortune? You think he'd stay true to his word once he's done with you?"
"A clever attempt, woman, but nothing will sway my allegiance."
Maria shook her head, listening to the boy wheeze and gasp as her nail dug into his gums. "And how clever would Clarence be to storm the Assassin fortress to reclaim his little spy? Or would it be easier to let the boy die, knowing that he would have pitiful faith in him to be his savior and rescue him from the Eagle's talons while withholding silence? I'll let you ponder the choices to see which is wiser."
With one final jerk of her arm, Maria released him and opened the cell door to make her leave.
"But tell me something." Mashhur's words made her stop and turn her head to the side. Eager to have the final laugh, Mashhur sneered, "Does the Assassin enjoy how it stretches around him, how good the tightness feels around it?"
Maria's jaw shifted as she glowered at the boy. "Not as much as you'll enjoy having your limbs stretched out." She resumed her pace, but not without adding, "Kus umek, kelb."
She didn't even see the one-armed Assassin become one with a shadow as she past him.
But then results came.
Masyaf picked itself up, the three chatty novices spreading word of a small victory that occurred in the dungeons. From the marketplace to the barracks, Masyaf's people's feet lightened and their shoulders straightened. They had their reasons, surely—the Master had finally strangled confessions out of Mashhur—but the reason for rejoice was quite different for others in the little fortress on the cliff.
"You know, Sarah," Benjamin cleared his throat, eying the woman in front of him, "the game of chess has many rules, but the number one rule is that it requires two people." He sighed when she still didn't pay him any mind. Nay, she was too busy stroking Damiel's cheek. Somehow, she had scooted her chair over to his bedside—how he didn't hear the chair legs scraping against the floor, Benjamin didn't know—and had devoted the past five minutes to examining him and checking his bandages.
She idly hummed while brushing Damiel's curls out of his face. She and Benjamin had finally taken a knife to the boy's hair, as well as soap and water. His skin still resembled the moon on a cloudy, grey night, but there was the faintest touch of pink to his cheeks that gave her hope. And, damn Mashhur, she would be a fool and suckle the teat of despair.
Maria lifted her head when Benjamin cleared his throat again. She offered a sheepish shrug as he raised an eyebrow at her. "Pardon, Benjamin; what were you saying?" Her hand remained on Damiel's cheek, even when Benjamin motioned back to the chessboard. "Oh," she chuckled, moving one of her pieces.
"Well, that's better," Benjamin grunted. "If I have to wait ten minutes for you to make a move, I might as well ask Bayo to play instead." He scratched the stubble on his chin, a reminder that if he didn't want to look like a grizzly bear, he'd have to shave soon. "You seem well," he started, happy that she was paying attention to the board. "Well, as far as I can tell. You're holding your food down, at least."
"Hn," she snorted. "It's nice having a full stomach, Benny."
"I'm sure it is, I'm sure it—blast, why do I always fall for that one? First Olivia, now you." Benjamin's eyebrows almost hid his eyes as he frowned, watching Maria snag one of his pieces. "Perhaps it's a female concept."
"No," Maria laughed as she took another piece, "it's called strategy, Benjamin."
"And was dozing off and coddling over Damiel part of this strategy, may I ask?"
"Hush up, old man," she smirked, pulling another one of his pawns from the board.
Benjamin watched with a pout as his pieces slowly piled on her side of the table. "Old, you say? Why, Maria, that almost tickles it's so hurtful. I'll have you know that I can probably best you in the training ring."
"Mm, I'll believe that when I see it. I'm not sure, Benny, there's more grey to you than I remember."
"A lack of sunlight, it must be." She swiped his bishop right from under his nose. "We've had so much rain the past week that I'm not surprised at all. These bones ache from lack of light."
"Mine are the same," she nodded. "I can tell when it's going to rain before a cloud even floats where I can see it."
"I'm sure that's the only way you know when it's going to downpour." Benjamin chuckled to himself when Maria gave him a look that wasn't as amused as his was. He slapped his knee, shaking his head and laughing between breaths. "Oh, come now! I meant it in good humor, Sarah, no need to take offense!"
"If you were a woman, Benjamin, then maybe you'd understand." She rolled her eyes and cleaned the board of his pieces. He scowled and crossed his arms. "And maybe you'd understand my tactics, as well," she added with a smile.
"Bloody girl," he murmured, shifting in his seat unhappily. "Tricking this old sod when you know his age."
"Don't pull that with me, Benjamin Mills. You just said that it was the lack of light."
"And speaking of which," Benjamin said as he stood from his seat, "you've been slacking in your teaching, haven't you? I haven't seen Bayo or Belle in that courtyard for a good few days, my dear. I suspect that your hounds need the exercise, and with the sun out, it's the perfect opportunity." He left without waiting for a reply to find the said dogs.
Maria sighed, leaning back in her chair, fiddling with a pawn between her fingers. She smiled, losing herself in a reverie. The first time she'd ever played chess was in her uncle's estate in Canterbury. England was experiencing one of its brutal winters again, and for a little girl not allowed to go outside due to how freezing it was, pestering someone to occupy her time came naturally.
She remembered how her uncle, finally thinking of a way to keep the complaining children in his house occupied, scooped her up into his arms and sat her on his lap. His wife, Maria's beautiful Emily, sat opposite him with Jonathan Thorpe snuggly wrapped in her arms. Between the two adults was a table with a board of black and white squares.
Oh, how Maria missed those days free of complications and worry. Just being with Uncle Xavier and Aunt Emily made her forget, even if it was temporary, of what prejudices she had to face at her father's manor. She hated the ladylike dresses, the tight doublets, and the concealing makeup.
But most of all she hated the beatings. The thought of her father tying her hands above herself, her stomach pressed against the wall, and that blade kissing its way down her back made her blood boil in anger. The scar was still there—still as ugly as it was the day she received it. And all for refusing to follow the norm for women.
She banished the thought from her head. Her aunt and uncle had always been a beacon of light in her dreary childhood. There was always some form of trouble for her and John to find themselves in—be it coating the cats with honey, seeing who could climb the highest in trees and then jumping down, teasing and nagging David—
And oh, David. When through with his chores and other responsibilities, he'd never missed an opportunity to spend his time with his brother and cousin. Always had his nose in a book, too. More than once, Maria and John found themselves snoozing from boredom next to him on the lounge.
But not that night for chess. David was there, sitting in a chair and quietly observing how his parents taught his younger brother and cousin the art of chess. Xavier would laugh at how the children continuously asked questions and how Maria pouted each time one of her pieces left the board. And Emily would tousle John's hair and encourage him to continue playing whenever Maria eliminated one of his pieces.
Emily would sing, too, Maria remembered. The air would be filled with David's chuckles, Xavier's laughing and explaining, and then Emily's melody. Remembrance, she believed the song was called.
So lost in her daze that she didn't realize she was humming that familiar tune, or that Damiel had his head turned toward her, his eyes open as he studied her.
He blinked, his face blank as he watched her fingers run over that pawn and listened as she hummed. She hadn't the skill of a bard; her voice would waver each time she reached certain notes high in scale. But it was peaceful and lovely all the same, the low notes she hummed reaching down into his core.
It was familiar and pleasant. She was familiar and pleasant. Looking at her now, he couldn't find any trace of battle maiden or rebellious woman inside of her. The hand that still remained on his cheek had callouses and faint scars, though. She was rebellious, wasn't she? It sounded right to him, just as this song did.
"Pretty," he murmured, his eyes still resting on her. "Muy bonita." And with those words, the singing stopped. Steel-blue met chocolate brown, one pair wide and disbelieving, the other calm and content.
Damiel closed his eyes. "Pretty," he mumbled as he nuzzled her hand. "Donde..?"
In the blink of an eye, she was kneeling by the bed, her thumb brushing his cheek. Her mouth felt dry as his eyes bore into hers again. She'd been wondering what she'd say to him since she first saw him. Apologies and explanations swarmed in her mind, and some of them sounded endearing even to her, but different words tumbled out of her mouth.
"You're safe, you little numbskull, you're safe."
A hint of a smile touched his chapped lips as he whispered, "Gracias." Then, with his eyes crinkling at the corners, he whispered again, "Gracias." His features hardened as he stared into her eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration. She held her breath as he reached out with a weak hand. He touched her face, trailing his fingers over her cheek and down her jaw until his middle and forefinger traced ragged skin just behind her ear lobe.
His eyes narrowed, and she could see the effort shining in them. He sighed, clenching his eyes shut as his fingers traced and traced that scar.
"Maria," he nodded, a grin stretching on his lips. "Maria. Gracias. Shenorhekal em."
Her hand curled around the one still by her ear. Her shoulders slackened as she let out a breath of air. "Thank God, you stupid boy, thank God." He squeezed her hand, another smile lighting his face up. Both of them turned their heads as Benjamin walked in with Bayo and Belle trotting at his heels.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but—" He gasped as Damiel smiled at him, his eyes once again darkening in concentration. The two dogs leapt toward the bed. Maria's glare at them and her raised hand had them sit their behinds down right at the edge of Damiel's cot. They wagged their tails anxiously, whimpering and nudging the boy with their noses.
"Benny," Damiel announced, like a child uttering their first words. Damiel beamed, proud of himself for remembering, and repeated the name. Benjamin looked close to tears.
"Damiel, my boy," he breathed as he stepped closer and placed a hand on the boy's head. "Oh, Maria, what did you do?"
She shrugged, holding the boy's hand in both of hers. "I don't know."
The clouds of uncertainty vanished from Damiel's eyes. He looked back and forth between his friends and cleared his throat. "How long have I—what happened to—" He gasped and frantically looked side to side, groaning as his body protested from the movements. "Where is Riva?"
Benjamin urged the boy back to the bed when he tried sitting up. "Relax, Damiel, you aren't going anywhere for quite a while. You've been unconscious for some time now."
"Donde, donde! Where's Riva? What happened to her? Why isn't she here?" His lip trembled as he searched Benjamin's and Maria's eyes for answers. His skittering eyes clouded over with that touch of insanity again, and his face seemed to contort as if a nightmare was racing through his mind.
"We don't know—"
"Don't know?" he bawled, glaring at Maria as if she committed a sin. "But she—"
"Calm down, young man," Benjamin warned, keeping his hand firm on the boy's shoulder. "Fretting over it won't do you any good. Besides, you need rest."
"He's right," Maria added when Damiel struggled under his grip. She brushed a few locks of hair from his forehead. He immediately settled down from the tender touch. "You need to rest, Damiel. Benjamin and I aren't going anywhere; we're staying right here until you recover. Understood?"
He sighed, his head falling back into the soft cushions behind him. He managed to nod his head before his eyes drooped closed in exhaustion.
"At least we know there's some Damiel left in him," Maria mused with a sad smile. "I thought that he'd… that he'd…" She curled her lips into her mouth and let Benjamin wrap an arm around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, "I thought we lost him, Benny. I thought that he was gone."
He nodded and rubbed her back. "I know, my dear, I know. I felt the same. But perhaps you shouldn't have told him that you'd stay by his side."
Maria pulled away from him and tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you're wanted down in the study," he remarked with a shrug. "Apparently, your Assassin and his… well, they're planning something in there, and someone should represent the Rose. Hildegard's been too spirited lately—I'll have to confront her about that—and Olivia's busy tending to Zaina. The poor girl's had the life scared out of her from her brother."
"Aden?" Maria gawked. "Aden hurt his darling little sister? Preposterous."
Benjamin shook his head. "The man's been reduced to a pile of hummus, and I have reason to believe that that's what's fueling Hildegard's bouncy mood."
"And you can't represent the Rose because..?"
Benjamin sighed and crossed his arms. "Don't give me that look, young lady. It's high time you start taking responsibility—"
"I am taking responsibility, Benny. I think I've been handling myself well the past couple of weeks."
He quirked an eyebrow. "Hurling on the Grandmaster? Does that sound acceptable to you?"
She grumbled and scrunched her nose at him.
"But as for me, I'll watch over Damiel and keep everyone else in sound minds. Now, off you go, Maria," he chortled as he took Maria's former seat, Bayo and Belle wagging their tails obliviously at her. She snarled at the dogs, shooting Benjamin a deadly glower, and then stomped out of the infirmary.
Maria climbed the stairwells to the Master's study. She chewed in her mind over what Benjamin said to her, wishing that she spat some defiant retorts at him before agreeing to be the Rose's representative. God's slippers, she should have sent Bayo and Belle to represent them.
She snickered from the thought and quickly wiped her face clean of any mischief as she entered the study. Altair and Malik hardly spared a glance at her as they fussed over several pieces of parchment on the table.
"Today is a victorious day for Masyaf," Malik said as Maria sidled up beside the two men. "We've gained some information from that traitor, at long last."
She nodded and briefly skimmed over the papers. She frowned from what she read. "And what do these bills and names of merchants have to do with what Mashhur said?"
"Malik exaggerated," Altair offered. She stole a glimpse of him, stern and worried lines marring his face, before he could make eye contact.
"Exaggeration and optimism are two completely different things," Malik smirked from his place.
Altair rolled his eyes before continuing, "It appears that Damascus isn't fully purged of Templars."
"Not the bloody caravans again," Maria groaned, giving Altair a challenging glare. If he planned on dragging her with him back to those caravans, she'd sooner drown in the wastepit.
"No, this is far more serious than a few caravans. Mashhur revealed Templar activity in Damascus. Merchants from across the Mediterranean have traveled to Damas under invitation from the merchants Bashshar and Ahmed Ibn-Dhakir."
"It could very well be just a harmless convention," Malik supplied. "But why so sudden? And why gather at Damascus when the Templar, Clarence, is making the Palace his new home, sweet home?"
Maria bit her bottom lip, the three names familiar to her. "Clarence we know of," she nodded, "but the other two—the merchants—I've briefly heard of from an inn near Damascus. So, say that this is a Templar plot. What's to gain from all these men coming together?"
"Unity, coin, power, an alliance against us," Altair said as he leafed through the papers. "Their plan isn't solid, as merchants tend to keep their valuables close, preferring to hide their good names and families from any form of corruption, but even if a few side with the Templars, the Assassins will be at a disadvantage."
"And your plan?" she asked. "Are you to kill all the merchants? Even if you manage to slay Clarence, his ideas will still live on. He's probably been in Damascus for a week at least and has already held meetings with these men."
"Which is why this is a delicate matter," Malik smiled, his hand behind his back. "Killing Clarence will only result in chaos and outbreaks of confusion. You're right, Maria, we need to handle this differently than the usual assassination."
Maria crossed her arms and bit the inside of her cheek. "Are you suggesting we disguise ourselves and preach to the merchants that aligning with the Templars would have Satan at their doorstep?" When both men exchanged bashful looks, she closed her eyes and blew out of her mouth. "Oh, you're bloody jesting with me—tell me I'm wrong."
"Well," Malik began, waiting for Altair to offer support. "That's part of the plan, but not all of it."
"If we infiltrate our way into Bashshar's and Ahmed's circle, we may be able to learn more information dealing with the Templars—where they are, how much influence they have. We may not be able to eliminate Clarence from the picture, but there is the possibility of erasing his comrades."
"Just who, exactly, is we, Assassin?" Maria demanded. Altair opened his mouth to speak, but Malik beat him to it.
"Does it surprise you that I've elected the both of you to handle this?" Malik announced, trying hard to keep the smile off his lips. "I've found that you two are quite successful as partners."
She wasn't sure who to despise more at the moment: Malik, trying to hide his mirth, or Altair looking completely smug with the selection. She glared at both of them, feeling the hair on her neck rise, and growled, "Well-thought plan, Malik, but you seem to be forgetting something. Women aren't allowed the opportunity to be traders, and I don't think you'd want to risk me disguising myself as a man."
"That is true," Malik smiled, "but I never said you were going to be another merchant."
"Then what—" Maria stopped as her eyes shot open wide. She gaped at Altair, her nails threatening to break through the skin on her palms. "Oh, no, I am not going to act the part of your helpless, adoring, goody-two-shoed wife."
"We were settling on 'supporting wife'," Malik shrugged.
Maria blew out of her nose and said in a steady voice, "I suggest that you choose Hildegard instead. She's better equipped at acting like a lady better than I am, anyway. Besides, she's much better at feigning adoration."
"Hildegard has light hair," Altair countered, shaking his head, "there'd be no way to mask her as an Arab."
"And you think it'd be possible to mask me as an Arab?"
Altair nodded. "I've heard you fake an accent before, Maria, and it's passible."
She grabbed his arm and rolled both of their sleeves up. "And how do you suppose hiding the differences in our skin tone?"
"A tan should easily fix that," Malik added. She turned and stared Death into him. "And not all Arabs are dark."
"I don't tan," she bit out between clenched teeth, "I burn."
Malik waved his hand. "Then it is decided. You two will leave for Damas in two days. I've already asked our tailors to find suitable clothing for both of you, since you will be playing the roles of the wealthy. And I've also taken the liberty, Maria, to request Hildegard better your appearance for this mission."
Maria's face turned read and her mouth hung open wide. "My appearance?"
Malik nodded absently, then turned to Altair. "While you are gone, I will make sure that Mashhur's interrogation continues, and if there is anything new learned—"
"Send the letters to the Rafik," Altair finished. "I cannot promise how often I will be able to pay the Bureau a visit, but I will try to frequent them as much as possible. If you can, send a few novices in disguise to Damascus as well—let them ride for the city tonight. I believe the less contact I have with our Brothers while in disguise, the better."
Maria whirled out of the study, not interested in hearing the two men converse further. She marched down the stairs, fuming and wanting to hit something.
And that's exactly what she did when she was out of sight of those Assassins. She slammed her boot against the wall, ignoring the throbbing in her foot, and carried on through the fortress. There were murmurs from several novices regarding the Human Volcano, and she did her best to ignore their whispers.
She only burnt a few of them to a crisp.
Somehow, seeing Hildegard standing in front of her quarters, wearing a smile big enough for five families, made her temper triple.
"Get. Out. Of. My. Way."
Hildegard laughed and raised a hand in mock offense. "Oh, dear me, dear me! Why so upset, Maria? Oh, wait, don't tell me. Did Bayo drool in your food again? No? Is it your monthly bleeding? Oh, poor dear. I happen to have a remedy to dull the pain, though—"
"You know exactly what the situation is, you traitor," Maria snarled. Hildegard smiled.
"Could it be that you've been chosen to escort that handsome Assassin—the one with the treasure trail, remember?—to Damascus? Oh, how I envy you, Maria! Women would die and flop at your feet just to have that opportunity! Why, I believe I saw some ready to jump from the fortress just a few moments ago," she drawled.
"This is clearly harassment, Hildegard—"
"But enough of this idle chit-chat!" Hildegard's face twisted in a suspicious, mischievous little grin. "Come, Maria!" Yanking her by the arm, Hildegard raced through the fortress, taking the turns at a dangerous speed, and soon arrived at the Grandmaster's bath.
"But this is—" Maria panted between breaths.
"Oh, silly dear, don't you know better than to keep your mouth open like that? You'll catch flies and start drooling," Hildegard chuckled as she stripped Maria of her clothes and dumped her in the already-prepared bath. "And stop looking like a wild animal, Maria. He's given me permission to use his bath, no need to fret your pretty face about that."
"Oh, I'll give you a pretty face—" Maria sucked in a breath before Hildegard dunked her head under the water. Finally, she resurfaced and spat at the blonde woman. "I swear to God, Hildegard—"
"Now, Maria," Hildegard sighed as she smothered her friend's head with creams and oils, "is there really a point in all this bickering? Be true to yourself, would you? You know that there's no changing his mind, so why bother with the pouts and huffs?"
"That doesn't change the fact that I'm having plots conspiring against me. This is all planned out, believe me when I say it! And I have very good reason to believe that you have a hand in this, Hildegard."
Hildegard guffawed and dunked Maria's head back under water. "Now, dear, you have your rights to suspect as much as you wish," Hildegard lilted as Maria's head popped back up, "but if you don't have any proof, well, that's all you'll ever be able to do! Just suspect and keep assuming, but I should warn you that to assume makes an arse not only out of you, but out of me, as well."
Maria groaned, knowing that Hildegard was right. Dealing with those two Assassins was already an attempt in vain, but dealing with Hildegard? She knew she lost before the battle even began.
And it was all becoming too much.
Hildegard relentlessly pampered Maria, scrubbing her down with never-before-seen ardor. Then came the pumice stone scraping and rubbing away all the callouses on her hands and feet.
Maria didn't try to be enthusiastic about any of Hildegard's treatments; the other woman had enough enthusiasm to fill Masyaf and the neighboring cities.
Maria collapsed in bed that night, her hands and feet raw from that damn pumice stone. She would have liked to scrape away at Hildegard's face—or better yet, Altair's and Malik's face—with that blasted rock. Her dreams satisfied that fantasy, though.
But then came the tan. Having refused to lie bare anywhere in Masyaf's walls, Maria agreed, albeit reluctantly, to Hildegard's alternative solution. Lying in the sands surrounding the mountain, Maria sighed, contented that she was far away from the prying eyes of juvenile boys and the desirous gazes of the older Assassin's.
Especially that man's gaze.
Maria, with her eyes closed, listened to Hildegard babble from beside herself. She hummed in response to Hildegard's prattles, just enjoying the warmth from the grainy sand underneath herself and from the sun bearing down on her.
"So, how is it, Maria? Do you feel the tan yet?"
"I feel like a scrambled egg," Maria hissed. Hildegard flicked a wrist and clicked her tongue in amusement.
"I didn't want to agree to it," Hildegard confessed after a long moment of silence. "But Malik has a way of getting what he wants from people. Unfortunately, I do not have an immunity to his persuasions."
Maria cracked open a suspicious eye. "Oh? And what persuasions are these?" She chuckled when Hildegard swatted sand at her.
"Don't give me that, Maria—you should really consider removing your mind from the hay. Can't be good for your health, I presume."
Maria grunted and curled her fingers around a clump of sand. "You've always been talented at shielding yourself from men, Hildegard. You don't have a reason to worry."
"Hmm," she mused, "I suppose you're right. Then I must worry about your immunity, Maria, since there isn't anything better to occupy myself with! Oh my, oh my! How long is this mission going to take you, anyway?"
Maria huffed and puckered her lips in thought. "They never said. Maybe a month, maybe two months."
Hildegard bobbed her head up and down, delighted by the news. "Splendid, splendid! Absolutely sublime! Two months is perfect, Maria. You should feel ecstatic! Just think of the progress you two would make with that much time—and better yet!—while being husband and wife! And you know what husbands and wives do together."
Maria scowled and scooted away from Hildegard. "And I'm the one in the hay, am I? Hildegard, you're absolutely repulsive, did you know that?"
"Repulsive? Oh, I have no problem with that. Repelling? I think not!" She inched back over to Maria and smiled down at the woman. "And I'm not in the hay, Maria. My mind is in the sheets, twisting and turning and dancing—"
Maria rolled her eyes. "I'm impressed by your preferences. Utterly speechless."
"Why, are the kisses being planted up your neck? Tender man-kisses on jaws and necks tend to make a woman forget the usage of her tongue, dearie."
Maria closed her eyes, thankful that Hildegard was too busy blabbing on and on to notice her blush.
"Oh, but brutish man-kisses! Oh, those are the worst. There's a fine line between brutish and dominating, Maria, don't ever forget that. Brutish is holding a woman down and forcing himself on her. Dominating is nipping and caressing a woman, giving her the choice to either resist or submit, and of course she submits if he's dominating. Maria, we need to have serious feminine talks one of these days. Oh! I can feel myself wrinkling from not having anyone to talk to about intimacy."
"I leave tomorrow, though—"
"Yes, that's right! Tomorrow, off you go, into Damascus with your handsome husband, having the opportunity to do—oh, I shouldn't say—when Hildegard isn't there to chaperone and monitor your hormone levels. As the saying goes: when the cat is away, the mice will play!"
"Just promise me something," Maria said before Hildegard had a chance to continue chatting.
"As long as you promise me something."
"Deal. Promise me you'll watch and be there for Damiel."
Hildegard nodded, holding her head high. "Of course, dear, of course! That's hardly even a promise to make; I was going to do that whether or not you asked it of me! Since you'll be dispatched, I need someone to talk to, you know. Damiel is an ideal candidate. But now for your favor."
"Ask it, then."
"Promise me you'll let me know every detail of those lonely, cold nights in Damascus with your heat-radiating husband not a foot away from you, his eyes gleaming with masculine desire as his body—specifically the region between his legs—senses the presence of a female—that female being specifically you—and decides to finally lay claim to what is rightfully his."
Translations:
Arabic:
Sharmuta: whore/slut/prostitute
Tal has tizee: Kiss my ass.
Kus umek, kelb: Your mother's vagina, dog.
Spanish:
Muy bonita: very pretty
Donde: where?
Gracias: Thank you
Armenian:
Shenorhekal em: Thank you